Anastasia Stoeva
Full bio>
Her articles, reviews, poems and short stories have appeared in periodicals such as Ninth Letter, Interpret, Cineuropa, Zippy Frames, Literaturen vestnik, Eye For Film and others. She has attended masterclasses in film criticism and festival journalism and served on the youth jury of FIPRESCI at the Warsaw Film Festival (2024).ГЛАСЪТ НА АВТОРА
Поезията е:
…за всички.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Понякога се ражда на ъгъла на едно определено кръстовище. Ражда се в транспорта, по улиците, в парковете, до кофите за боклук. Пораства с всяко следващо четене. Така и не съзрява – голям гамен е. Умира, когато ми омръзне от старите стихотворения и си родя нови.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
В известен смисъл изкуството винаги е политическо – било то с нещата, които казва, или с тези, които премълчава. А ако започна да изброявам кои проблеми ме гнетят, няма да ми стигне мястото.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Може би звуците на природата. Само не и апокалиптично мълчание.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
В сънищата.
Ace of spades
in Sofia we have no windmills.
I throw my spear at a bus
‘occasional transport’
I beat the Roman columns
beneath the boulevard
with my halberd,
with my mace I thrash
the broken pavements,
cut off the rat’s ear
with a single blow,
like an impressionist.
I catapult myself into the dome
of the cathedral,
I lay waste to the pavings
with my spade,
my bayonet shatters
the panel block balconies,
I slice up the bus stop
with my rapier,
I swoop with my lance
straight through
the ministry gates,
with my sabre I behead
the statues of Slaveykov,
I drive my sword
into the mausoleum’s eye.
on the corner I see
fearsome giants
and say to myself
I’m not mad, not
me
I’m
not
Translated by Tom Phillips
With a love’s length
I dream of
a balconied fling;
you know the one,
as in the movies
when I go out for a smoke
on the balcony
and on the balcony
right across
smokes a hottie.
our eyes meet
and a spark jumps over
our glowing cigarettes.
I see her again:
our hands touch
when we throw out
the garbage outside,
we both strain to drop
the beer bottles
in the glass container,
the pizza boxes
over in the paper one.
I dream of a balconied fling,
but across from me lives
a middle-aged dude
who walks around naked
in the summer
and keeps an old bicycle
on his balcony
wrapped in plastic
so it wouldn’t rust
as fast he does.
who knows,
perhaps when he’s out
for a smoke he too dreams
of meeting the love of his life
instead of me.
Translated by Dimiter Kenarov
Uno Reverse
out of four doors
open the wrong one
and hiding behind it
is your most hated colour
of spinach,
of the thing in the sink
stuck in the throat
of the drain for two weeks.
you
what will you do,
how will you take a breath
through the smell of mould?
no, you,
you are the mould
that hugs my wall
and the landlady nags me about.
you’ve not cleared the snow
from the terrace in time, she said,
and it’s not at all because
last summer the builders landed
like a swarm of mosquitoes on the hot gutter
and repaired the roof
with a coat of cement badly poured.
no, you are
the mosquito
that buzzes in the ear
of an innocent.
it enters their dreams
in the form of a song
gathered into a chorus
repeating over and over.
youarethemosquito
that buzzes,
aninnocentitenterstheirdreams
in
the form
of
a song.
no, you
are the song that rumbles through the bar
and stops us hearing each other speak,
music, no, noise rather
like a prickly rush-hour boulevard,
intrusive as the clink of small change
and its indelible smell
no, you
are the coin
that always lands on heads
and spits gold splinters
in the face of chance.
no, you
are chance.
you feed on disappointments,
you swell up like a sperm whale,
you sift the sea and crunch
the shells of hermit crabs
no, you
are the sea which
is always cold,
so to take a dip in it,
acidic, plaited with jellyfish,
you hawk up seaweed like an old smoker
no, you
are a dog-end, out of place,
stubbed out on the bark of a tree.
and the trees are hurting, you know,
and the trees are hurting
and it shows
no, you
are the charcoal,
a fruitless birch
with old scars
of suffocating grief.
are you breathing?
say, are you breathing still?
no, you.
you breathe.
you breathe instead of me.
Translated by Tom Phillips
Поезията е:
…за всички.
СВЪРЗАНИ АВТОРИ
Stoeva