Alexander Baitoshev
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He has had five solo exhibitions and has participated in numerous national and international exhibitions. He is the laureate of the 2012 special poetry award of Literaturen Vestnik, the 2015 Liber Academy Award, and the 2020 Nikolay Kanchev National Award for New Bulgarian Poetry for his book ‘The Sacred Forest’. He was nominated for the Ivan Nikolov Award in 2020 and 2025. Poems of his have been translated into English, Italian, and German. Author of the poetry collections: ‘Dust and Scratches’ (2012), ‘Dogs’ (2014), ‘Scarecrow ‘ (2018), ‘The Sacred Forest’ (2020), and ‘Anima’ (2024). He has illustrated books by poets Toma Markov, Miglena Nikolchina, Ivan Hristov, Györd Petry, Otto Tolnai, etc. He is a member of the Graphic Arts and Illustration Section of the Union of Bulgarian Artists. He has been working as an artist for ‘Literary Newspaper’ since 2015.ГЛАСЪТ НА АВТОРА
Поезията е:
Изкуство на оцеляването. Възможност да оживея сред пламъците, моето тайно скривалище, личното ми емигрантство.
Опасна територия.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Поезията ми се ражда от пукнатината и липсата в мен, от начина по който издържам на болка, от провалите и призраците, които населяват съзнанието ми, от танца на въжеиграч.
Расте подобно на самотно растение. С времето започва да прилича на фантомна, белязана ръка, грижа се за нея.
Не знам как умира, това е извън моя контрол. Мога да разказвам за смъртта, но неизбежното не е финал.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
При мен социалният аспект е много важен, гласовете на отритнатите и безгласните, проблемите на аутсайдера и странника, номада.
Гнети ме това, което се случва в света в момента, войните. Животът е свещен, човешкото във всеки от нас трябва да бъде запазено. В 21. век е немислимо да има войни от такъв мащаб. Би трябвало проблемите да се решават дипломатически. Убийството е немислимо.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Смисъл, връщане към човешкото.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
В призрачните, бинтовани куфари на миналото.
The Body of a Cry.
In every town
there is an enormous cry.
It sleeps in the bodies of madmen.
It hangs on the bare trees.
It rings in my mind.
There is noone to hear.
I crack with the silence
Of one of my body cells open
the cry will rebound.
The Black Hound
The black hound runs with its hook of a head,
it hooks onto the dark puddle and drinks,
it crosses the crooked lamps, climbs on my back,
scratches the crown of my head, I see its dice eyes,
faces the roof
and howls at the spotted stars,
climbs the curve of our tongues,
the black hound, remembers us all,
running, naked, metallic,
with short-circuit-souls and cable hands,
I don’t know when I will find
the first hound among us,
black hound, come.
A Short Poem about Love
I would like to give you something,
but I have nothing.
I only have an intakt shoelace left
Only if I give it to you
will I be free.
I know you don’t like shoelaces.
Imagine it’s something else.
Imagine it’s me.
The Doors
The doors are open—
do come in,
a place fit for you.
Your strange smiles
will show.
Stay
on the edges of life,
you will be well,
forgotten by all.
a place,
where no questions are posed.
The deserts and the streets,
the ruined apartments
and broken benches –
the temples of the world,
without you
are poor –
here you are alone
and the doors are open.
The Crazy One
She began to tell
how she died every day!
She answered all questions with a wave of her hand,
She explained
her premature enlightenment –
hidden between her flesh
Mother Teresa and Björk wrapped in one.
She mentioned her problems with God.
How God punished her.
How she punished herself.
She even asked me: what do you think?
Too late
Too early.
Too late.
We fail.
We are human.
There is a beast,
harnessed to the cart of my heart,
it wants to get out,
I let it,
a true friend.
We share the same space.
The Empty Spaces o the Labor Camp
We ask those who come:
Where are you going, do you think this is you?
Scattered, they work on the stones—
every single skeleton speechless.
Beds passed by,
mattresses stuffed with rotten rags,
the space remains crammed and everything hangs.
Here someone died,
they were never found,
evaporating, like cold,
scattered, like light.
There is no need to come.
Here everything hangs.
Her yhe best generation remained,
drinking from the ice,
the real sky.
Where are these former people?
They were the drivers, and then
Dust.
Doesn’t come off.
This dust will never come off.
Taken away
One leaves, another will remain
in this sanatorium.
There will be shirts enough for all
and we will share
the few possessions brought.
We will stock up on silence.
We will sprawl on couches and chairs
and maybe we will survive.
Someone will tell us about ourselves
as we wander along the halls.
We will look at our friends the walls,
then we will realize that we have not always managed
to survive, and then perhaps it was best,
best for all.
Departing
Sometimes we remain indifferent,
we know no one in our rooms.
We will slump in our chairs—
pieces of fat, unfinished works,
escaped prisoners, but
we wait for the Bedouins to come from the desert
supposedly to help us, to wrap our bodies
in skins, to put us on their horses.
Don’t look for us anymore—our message
does not matter –
it is an opportunity to be in the tents
untouched, inaccessible,
departing.
The Violet One
Last night he dreamed he killed a cat,
looking through violet cylinders –
his face is gray tar.
His clothes have not awakened,
they pull him to the ground,
they want him to lie down under the cement.
Everything pulls him down.
His gaze remains level.
Then his head
breaks through space
and his black face soaks up the air:
imaginary atrocities run after him.
The cat arches its back.
Поезията е:
Изкуство на оцеляването. Възможност да оживея сред пламъците, моето тайно скривалище, личното ми емигрантство.
Опасна територия.
