ALBENA TODOROVA
Albena Todorova lives and works in Sofia. Over the years, she has worked as a bartender, translator, teacher, and financier. Her poetry collections “Poems“ (2014) and “The Eleven Sisters of July“ (2021) received the Ivan Nikolov Encouragement Award. She hosts a Viber channel with poems called “Poetry on the Go.“ In 2025, her fifth book, “To Be Your Body“ (IK “Zhanet 45“), edited by Nadezhda Radulova, will be published.
ГЛАСЪТ НА АВТОРА
Поезията е:
Дъх.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Като бамбук е моята поезия – цъфти, когато всичко гние. Вирее в криза като бурен.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Свързано е, да. Гнети ме дълбочината на разделението между спорещите от всички страни на барикадите от въздух.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Тишина.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
При неродените деца.
May
May ends
In front of the restaurant
a beige car parked askew,
Nick Cave blasting inside
And may ends.
Infinite, as it should be
and holding June’s hand
with its midnights and its new enounters
And I’m a mess
For a few years or days I’ve been a mess
liquified like the chrysalis,
before it transforms.
Smashed like a Nicola Petrov listener
Two fingers of soup left in the frindge for weeks — that’s how I feel
Only time passes,
the thing that changes doesn’t touch me.
May ends.
The music hiccups and leaves.
Under the silver lid of clouds
in the dust of Sofia,
at the bottom of the pot
the end.
After the war
On the frontline turned field
exactly one hundred and seventy-eight years later,
calves
a pasture then, not a field
Brown, spotted and black.
One of them — black and white.
Standing side by side,
snouts bending toward the water
to drink.
And only the black and white one, frozen still, watches the train.
And I see it, but it doesn’t see me
It stands.
It doesn’t drink.
It remains.
To Maria Lipiskova
Ever since Maria died,
I dream of the land of the dead.
It’s always dark in there,
and I can fly.
That is where the differences end.
Like any foreign country,
it resembles and differs from home
through the unexpected.
There’s rivers without bridges
(sameness or difference)
There’s paths, leading nowhere
(sameness or difference)
There’s many stranges who are happy to see you
and those who are looking for you, to kill you
(sameness or difference)
Only I am the same
I rush to offer unsolicited help,
my throat scratches.
I stand on the shore of the unfinished poem
looking for a bridge.
All Souls' Day
Am I entering the world of the dead
when I dream of you?
Is that why you send me out alone
to look for a pharmacy or house viewing?
Your wallet weighs heavy in my hands.
You don’t let me eat your food,
not yet, not yet.
The question that wakes me up at night coughing,
is whether this dream will come true
when it’s my turn,
Dad.
What is poetry?
Breath.
СВЪРЗАНИ АВТОРИ
Todorova