Издателство
:. Издателство LiterNet  Електронни книги: Условия за публикуване
Медии
:. Електронно списание LiterNet  Електронно списание: Условия за публикуване
:. Електронно списание БЕЛ
:. Културни новини   Kултурни новини: условия за публикуване  Новини за култура: RSS абонамент!  Новини за култура във Facebook!  Новини за култура в Туитър
:. Книгомрежа  Анотации на нови книги: RSS абонамент!
Каталози
:. По дати : Октомври  Издателство & списание LiterNet - абонамент за нови публикации  Нови публикации на LiterNet във Facebook!  Нови публикации на LiterNet в Twitter!
:. Електронни книги
:. Раздели / Рубрики
:. Автори
:. Критика за авторите
Книжарници
:. Книжен пазар  Книжарница за стари книги Книжен пазар: нови книги  Стари и антикварни книги от Книжен пазар във Facebook Нови публикации на Книжен пазар в Twitter!
:. Книгосвят: сравни цени  Среавни цени с Книгосвят във Facebook!
:. Книги втора ръка  Книги за четене Варна
:. Bücher Amazon
:. Amazon Livres
Магазини и продукти
:. Fantasy & Science Fiction
:. Littérature sentimentale
Ресурси
:. Каталог за култура
:. Артзона
:. Образование по БЕЛ
За нас
:. Всичко за LiterNet
Настройки: Разшири Стесни | Уголеми Умали | Потъмни | Стандартни

BULGARIAN LULLABY

web

for Edvin

1.

the road back - flight of the salmon
resembling glistening scimitar
cutting deep into the forehead of the falling sun
droplets sensing distant premonitions
7 seas + oceans
lake(s) Monongahela(s) Allegheny(s) river(s)
sewer(s) brewer(s)
echoing with trembling nostrils
"it smells like... victory"

I remember the dispersing shadows of Sofia’s yards of chestnuts
I do recall Sofia’s hoodlums reciting
"it smells like... victory"

these "Hollow Men"
these hoodlums those hooligans
who knew the world (out of the palms of their perfection)
the music the poems from their dinky gardens
from their beer-ed angels’ minds
from the projects
beneath the misty gloom of future full of promises
...of nowhere to be gone
and nothing to be won

oh help me God
did I forget
the song
of yellow-cobbled stones

poor hoodlums (my kinda boys)
unable to unlock
the dreams the darkness
how can you resurrect a nightmare

the road back
the privilege for those who hit the road
hit the track (hit the road Jack)
and The Jack mumbling
in his whitish asylum-infested outfit
"at least I tried,
at least I tried..."

we’ve tried
so what
in the attempt the triumph lies
la... lies

but what about the load Jack
the road Jack
the Greenwich Village Kerouac Jack
leaned on the walls of 206 East 7th street
handsome fit
we leaned on the walls of East of Eden Wal-mart(s)
lonesome fat
sad
and the Chilean neighbor
"Leaning in the afternoon - casting my sad nets"
...
you have to write
when you are sad
yes dad

 

2.

when my grandfather came out of prison
(he had been translating Robert Burns inside
inside out - out of his mind -
in order to forget the tortures
there in the corner kneeling needles of sand
hours many hours and them in mockery so loud)
he told me
when you are forced to do
the things
Do Rhyme!
rain is preferable topic
+
do not choose your credo your ego
we gave you those
already...

So
where have you been my drops of rain
in someone’s dream in sweet refrain
of promised land for me and thee
of blessed bliss and joyful glee

or far away in a primordial doom
the hopes for us extinguished soon
beneath these trembling waves of might
of fading shades in a distorted light

my drops of rain I’ll bring you home
with tender love from time long gone
from cloudless skies - the kingdom of the dove
and nothing else but wind above

my drops of rain you have arrived
the time is now for memories to thrive
and conquer fields of lavender and pain
and prove that our fights were not in vain

off with the curtains of the past
my teardrops free my soul at last

my drops of rain
are
falling
now
we’ll
run
away
farewell
and
ciao
...
in time forgone
bygone
long gone

 

3.

when my father died
(we’ve seen one another a couple of times
The Old man an me, by the Black Sea
no marlins no merlins no marilyns)
they did not go to his funeral
(his literary friends - the midgets)
those friends that kissed his ass
because he was a hoodlum too
boo hoo
and did not give a flying ...uck
and followed his God given track

that’s why I’ll choose a verse for him
"heart was big
as the world aint square
with room for the devil
and his angels too
yes, sir...
(he) was a man
grinned his grin
done his chores
laid him down.
Sleep well".
Thank You, E. E.

and see ya in my memory

 

4.

I got a little angry and wrote a letter to my friends
- Vanzetti, Pepe, Natalie -
they still think they can teach and preach
from the pedestals of their pre/post/preposterous
totalitarian or vegetarian glory sorry
they are on the brink to pull the string
of our paternal bonds and call us
immigrants and vagabonds
they want to wet their greedy beaks
in our blood and our deeds
and hold a horsetail moral whip
in loose and alcoholic grip
and if we meet you’ll choose the spot
I’ll bring my simple butter-brot
we can agree or disagree
but she the twisted auntie Death
will come for all of us ahead
and if them little funny dudes
decide to play with our roots
to rattle prattle and to yell
where Heaven is and where is Hell
and tell us who is bigger who
and what we must and must not do
then
Orlov Most
is falling down
falling down
falling down
the final cut will read
(indeed)
perch on someone else’s fence
get out of here
and no offense

and now
to sit with crooked smile with crooks
with those who sold
my native soul
my native soil
and sip Smirnoff
Buzz off

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

poor Keats
what do I have to know
oh
truth is beauty
forget this not
forget-me-not

 

5.

what is it in that urge of ours
to name these rusty memories
these heartbreaking places
those fallen monuments
starting points of Columbus(es)
to call
these dry-winged insects
Icarus(es) of Might
there’s no way back
just the looming assertion
that all the paths lead
to the wet and smelly marshes
to the saturated tarnished heaps
of falling leaves and wasted lives

 

6.

we
intertwined in one another
away from one another
bleeding blades of autumn grass
brought from distant burning fields
whispering in withered colors
hauntingly silent,
facing the dew drops
whose glossy surface
will name our numbness
will spell our un-windiness
we
yesterday’s dreams
echoes forgotten their timid inception
helpless in our non-green
in our non-ivy
sad used to be-s
brittle blades of breath
broken fragile
under a sky
which openness
which vastness
for our tremors
will remain unseen

there is your scarf my dear
my little Prince or Princess

it’s your turn now

 

 

© Vasil Slavov
=============================
© E-magazine LiterNet, 04.12.2011, № 12 (145)