Ana Tsankova
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Ana Tsankova has received numerous awards in the Dobromir Tonev national poetry competition. In 2021, one of her poems won third place in ‘Slaveykova Nagrada’ poetry competition.ГЛАСЪТ НА АВТОРА
Поезията е:
Начин за овладяване на болката, прозорец, който отварям, когато не ми достига въздух.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Моята поезия се ражда внезапно и непотърсено, сякаш понякога думите сами искат да бъдат написани, точно преди душата ми да прелее. Не мисля, че умира. Просто понякога се стаява и чака подходящото време, за да живее.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Да, изкуството е огледало на времето, в което живеем. А дали ще пишеш само за своите отражения или ще надникнеш в чуждите болки и образи е въпрос на себеусещане, дори лично израстване.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Искам да остане ехо.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
Ненаписаните истории са като опити за летене, просто трябва да помниш, че крилата ти са цели.
И затова отговарям, никъде не отиват. Чакат небето си.
*
And then what
your palms go numb
and your heart
and your eyes stop seeing
all kinds of little things
like the white dove in the park that you named Seymour
because there was something very lonely about its whiteness
and it’s not sadness
but a giant time machine
two angels tugging at the corners of the smile
between them on a lonely swing
a swinging
and beating
heart
yours
*
“Blessed are the hearts that can bend, for they can never be broken.” A. Camus
I cut the day
into easily digestible bites
I subdue the body
I dress it in suitable clothes
I kiss the dog on the nose
I listen to energetic music
I breathe
I breathe
deep breathing calms the pulse
my heart wants to leave
I push it back into the body
I dress it in appropriate thoughts
I kiss the pain on the nose
I listen to the pulsing of the blood
I breathe
I breathe
deep breathing calms the nerves
wraps them in a soft blue blanket
stops the music of memories
and bends the heart into a suitable
easily digestible form
for dying
*
It is always salt
and my days resemble untouched
dying birds
song dissolving in their eyes
wings fading
noise aching like a slap from a friend
and somewhere I hear
children laughing
drawing suns
in chalk on the asphalt
I don’t remember the past
I wear it like skin
the streets don’t pound beneath my feet
like they used to
it is always salt
and nights descend like the dark green
velvet curtains in my parents’ bedroom
no one calls me from beneath the window
the cloak of a darkness shrouds all memories
the harbors of palms are a figment of imagination
although I hear
night birds singing
as they drown in the sea of dreams
suns go out and paint eyes
no one ever sees the pain
and the invisible stars
above our pounding bodies
scream
all is salt
you are the wound
Gibla
No one managed to teach
Cobain and Virchow
to make crème caramel
to work from nine to five
to worry over the bread on their table
over their souls
to watch the news at eight
to emigrate
to pick strawberries in endless fields
to wipe behinds
no one managed
the world is a wonderful place
for failed judges
ropes break too late
poison lives beneath other’s eyelids
at times rivers become homes
and streets become meaning
slowly unfasten the stone
between my ribs
the need to be me
is a sandstorm
the end begins with me
it’s good that no one managed
to teach me
their own freedom
*
We are the lost generation
it was winter when we were born
we used to build snowmen
our boots filled up with snow
we had rotary dial phones and film cameras
we recorded music on cassettes
they bought us clothes from the stalls
we summoned and the queen of spades
we filled in friends’ slam books
we dreamed of a bright future
while our parents prepared jars of preserves
and pear compote
we started working just for a while, money is short
I’ll study later
I’ll study
I’ll get into university
I’ll become a teacher a doctor an astronaut
a librarian
I’ll start a business
and mom and dad will take a break
their eyes will smile
and they’ll sing the songs
they only sing with friends
when they’re happy and warm
and the table is big enough to fit and feed them all
but we
we are the lost generation
our boots filled up with snow
we were born into the winter of the world
and we still believe
that if there is light
they will find us
*
Tell me a story
that doesn’t hurt
I am now writing
seating in front of the open window
of the ninth floor
the darkness of the room is soft
like loving fingers
I’m slowly getting used
to the word mine
to the scar mine
to the pain mine
easy
very easy
just like the advent of autumn
when
I’ll look into the mirror
And I will hold my gaze
This autumn I’ll pet
Nonexistent cats
I’ll cry in secret
I will touch like a blindman
the streets of the unknown
I’ll listen to music
and while the city
sleeps in my feet
I’ll try to forget myself
tell me a story
without me
*
The mornings when I wake up
and think that this is the day
that I die
are inevitable
I feel the end on my skin
like a parchment
like an old letter forgotten in an abandoned house
I know that I’ve learned nothing in this life of economics
the prices of meat and electricity
I can’t stop breathing in memories
I can’t clear my lungs of the desire
for quiet mornings when I make toast
take out a jar of strawberry jam listen to jazz
love and breathe
breathe
the scent of the future is so unreal
and my skin, like an old letter
remembers the passion of the ink which nourished it
something is happening beyond my understanding of life
the mornings when I wake up
and know that I am gone
ever more
ever more
on trolleybus line two
a homeless man looked at me with disdain
*
I’ve read someplace
that I exist because
we exist together
oh how much I wish
that we could walk in the evening mist
in silence
then tell you all about
how I read poetry until I pass out
because it has always been my salvation
when I get lost
to tell you how terribly afraid I am of the world
and of its cold hands
of how I think I will never love again
with such abandon
but let’s walk in the mist
October smells of tea and chestnuts
I embrace the world and wonder
do memories bite
when you touch them
my sneakers come undone I stride on barefoot
my hair falls into the abyss
the mist is of snow
make me in snow and breathe me in
I never managed to return
but don’t we
exist together
today I am older than yesterday
we got a day deader
separately
Поезията е:
Начин за овладяване на болката, прозорец, който отварям, когато не ми достига въздух.
СВЪРЗАНИ АВТОРИ
Tsankova