Angel Ivanov
Angel Ivanov was born in Gabrovo in 1988, where he graduated from the National Aprilov High School. He subsequently graduated in Journalism from Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski. He has been a screenwriter for various television formats and satirical shows on Bulgarian prime time television, such as Ku-Ku Reload (Prezarezhane), Masters of the Ether (Gospodari na Efira), The Nikolaos Tsitiridis Show, The Bobby Vaklinov Show, and others.
Full bio >
He has also worked as a copywriter, a security guard at a warehouse for hydro and thermal insulation in the Lyulin neighborhood, a cloakroom attendant at the National Palace of Culture, a receptionist at a mountain hut in the Stara Planina Mountains, and a construction worker. He currently works as a screenwriter and host on the YouTube channel of the Sofia Holy Metropolis.
His texts have been included in numerous print and online publications: Christianity and Culture magazine, Culture magazine, Manager magazine, The Ladder magazine, Webcafe, actualno.com, kinematograf.bg, etc. His first book, a collection of short stories entitled ‘Technical Check’ (published by Scalino), received the 2019 Southern Spring Award, Bulgaria’s most prestigious award for debut literature. His second book is forthcoming.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Тайнствен балкон над града, който някой наблюдава от красивия град долу. Може да има една певица на фадо на него. Това е клишираният отговор, а накъсо – не знам какво е, но ми харесва.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Поезията е моята извънбрачна връзка, която официализирах сравнително късно. Ражда се дръзко, пораства някак независимо от мен, съзрява нахална и умира невинна, като дете, извършило най-нормалната пакост на света.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Нашето време е времето на вечността. Поезията се занимава с вечността, така че в този смисъл – да. Гнетят ме повсеместната гордост, самомнение и самодоволство. Обикновено ги виждам в другите, което значи, че в немалка степен ги проектирам върху тях от себе си. За жалост.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Такова удовлетворение, че да искаш да свършиш с радост нещо битово и рутинно и то да е събитие – да полееш цветята, да измиеш чиниите, такива неща. И да си тананикаш през цялото време.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
При някой, който ще ги напише. В този смисъл смятам, че няма да има ненаписани истории.
THE THIEF
He watches her sleep.
How her relaxed face reveals a strange new beauty.
Her lips breathe out and tremble like a dog’s in a dream.
A trail of saliva wets the pillow.
(Later, he will hug that pillow for a long time when he is alone in bed.)
Then he watches her after her bath.
How she applies and rubs balm onto her bristling body
like another expedition on a tamed planet.
Then he watches her put on her makeup
and sculpt her daily public beauty.
(He is jealous of her for the whole corporate world of everyday life that lies ahead.)
Then he watches her through the window, pulling the curtain aside.
How she skilfully throws out the trash
(the bracelets on her arm sound like jingling pendants in a nursery)
and gets into the car toward the invisible and the unknown.
And on weekends, next to her, like a boy being taken to Sunday school,
watches as she boyishly spreads her legs in a love trammel
and her sandy thighs scream to be caressed.
(Her sides, flesh of the flesh of her thighs, scream to be kissed.)
She checks her makeup in the rearview mirror
and confirms her crime.
All the while, she pretends not to notice,
while watching the criminal and the victim with the periphery of her vision.
And with the province of her heart.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
* * * A tropical storm
A tropical storm caught up with me
at the other end of the world,
in the jungle of my loneliness.
It got dark in an instant, the sky poured down—
water snakes attacked me.
I thought to myself—I need a miracle to survive,
to build myself a shelter.
And then I took your smile for a supporting structure.
Your hair for a sail.
Your unconditional love for a rock
to hold this gentle shroud
against the gusts of despair.
I huddled there and I said to myself:
“How good it is to be home!”
How good it is in the intended ark of your heart,
which I sought at earth’s ends and beginnings,
and you revealed it at my door.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
* * * The world and I
The world and I have a secret.
She leans against the column:
small, beautiful, and fragile.
Like a statuette of sugar.
And at her feet—empires and emperors.
But she is unaware.
Hush, don’t tell her, world,
let her shoot
her routine, the smoky bar,
the hearts, my heart…
Without premeditation,
Based on the logic of her very existence.
Let me someday, the very last day,
when we both leave you,
tell her myself…
That she is small, beautiful, and fragile.
Like a statuette of sugar.
And at her feet — empires and emperors.
And I.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
THE THINGS THAT BROUGHT US TOGETHER
books we have to return
coffee cups in the sink
plans for our upcoming afternoons
visits to the gynecologist
albums where I have taped you
pages between which I’ve herbarized you
and tissues in which I have lived you
suppressed desires
long silences
and sighs of boredom
my guilt in you
and your love for me
and all the rests
the things that brought us together
and the same that brought us apart.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
SHIPWRECKED
Her hairs – lightning bolts.
Her eyes – a stormy ocean.
Her lips – quiet shores.
A HISTORY MUSEUM
A boy with black hair—a crow’s plumage,
trimmed into a bowl cut, flipped to dry;
with eyes as vibrant as shared love;
in shorts and a T-shirt—a child’s drawing of a child;
with crocs on the tiny feet…
A boy in a wheelchair.
Straining, mustering up, he will jump.
His eyes grow larger than life,
to the point where he is no longer just an Asian boy,
but the Universal Child.
I am the Child.
Experience the enacted interactive scenes:
horsemen attacking the enemy,
a fleet crushing the enemy offshores…
The great battle at the Salsu River,
When the ancient Koguryo crushed the Sui dynasty,
or the one during the Korean War,
when the North was defeated by an amphibious landing near Incheon.
Battles the nation is proud of.
The nation is a child in a wheelchair.
Here, his mother lifts him up so she can see the battle scenes more closely.
(Oh Lord there are so many mothers in this world, Oh Lord!)
And I retreat to the museum niche where the Suffering Man is displayed.
I am the Suffering Man now.
People take turns in this spot,
that’s what they told me at the Information desk,
when I wondered at the empty pedestal
and the sign with the title of the missing plot.
And now it’s my turn to suffer.
A child who’s proud but cannot walk.
No paralysis, amputation, nor death.
Just tiny dead feet in crocs—
blue, useless, somehow absurd.
This is the story I found in the Museum of Stories.
In the overwhelming Museum of the Present.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
* * * A grenade of love
A grenade of love
A piece of the heart of truth
A care of the Old Woman’s
The sweetness of sourness
The red of the colors of white
A model of Creation
A universe of seeds and childhood memories
The missing piece in bread and cheese
The icing on the cake
Is the rustic tomato.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
What is poetry?
A mysterious balcony hangs above the city, watched by someone from the beautiful town below.
RELATED AUTHORS
Ivanov