Rossen Karamfilov
"A daring Book." This is how Georgi Gospodinov briefly describes Rosen Karamfilov's latest poetry book "Cerebral Poetry", which appeared not long ago and grabbed us by the throat with the title, and then with the emotions hidden between the covers. His poems have been published in English, Turkish and Italian.
She speaks
I miss his eyes –
these two boundless lakes
which I glimpsed for a second
before we put the walls
back up between us.
And I desired nothing
other than to gaze down
into their depths,
and to convince myself
that I am still inside.
The angel
The angel kept watch over her eyelids –
he glowed the moment they lifted,
he shuddered the moment they closed.
The angel kept watch over her pupils –
he came the moment they lit up,
he went the moment they winked out.
The angel followed her every move,
The angel hymned her every mood.
He knew why she was happy.
He knew why she was sad.
He knew why she laughed.
He knew what she yearned for.
Once for no reason she whispered
in his ear: “Go away!”
She wasn’t sure. He actually left.
And here – the angel is now
trimming his own wings,
sitting on the ledge
of the open window …
He flies off.
He disappears.
Act
You’re drying your hair –
that same dark chestnut hair
you tempt me with.
My sorrow is endless
but you dissolve it.
Now you’re in the bathroom –
naked as its walls,
steam, steam, steam,
it’s hidden it all.
Come.
Stand me up.
Raise me.
Free me.
I’ll let you.
I’ll let you do everything …
The broken
The shards of glass
left after the breakage
cling shamelessly
to her whiteness,
glittering like splinters
in deep red contrast
to the breast which she makes
no kind of effort to hide
after her dress has fallen.
Here comes the look.
She pierces me with it.
And her eyes – indigo
reflections of the moon.
Before she appeared,
life was a burdensome yoke.
With her, she and I are two-in-one
and that’s not pathos,
not some kind of illusion,
not an empty bedtime story,
not an effort to impress,
not a successful attempt
to close her up in our two breasts.
What would I do if sometimes
just as in Yeats
beyond all self-deception
I sense that she’s not there?
Rose: beginning
rose pierced with tears
rose piercing tears
rose running away
rose that’s already fading
rose in a glass of vodka
rose in a glass of gin
rose in an empty glass
rose of fear
rose of doubt
rose of silence
rose of hesitation
rose of division
rose of the past
rose of joy
rose of grief
rose of anger
rose of love
rose for peace
rose for the earth
rose of beauty
rose penetrating
rose penetrated
rose forgotten
unforgotten rose
rose depressed
rose of the roses
rose of smoke
rose of the cosmos
rose of screams
rose transfixed
rose embraced
rose in a churchyard
rose in a cemetery
rose in the stomach
rose in the throat
rose in bed
rose for the others
slick of tar
on my hands
rose for the others
I cut it
forgive me.
from the book “Despite The Storms”
Translator: Tom Phillips