Denis Nuf
Denis Nuf was born in 1993 in Razgrad. He graduated in Bulgarian Philology from the St. Cyril and St. Methodius University of Veliko Tarnovo. His work is featured in various literary newspapers, almanacs, and e-magazines. In 2017, he was nominated in the Poetry section of the XL National Student Literary Competition “Bojan Penev“ in Shumen.
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Some of his works were included in the 2017 “Protuberances“ collection published by the Emilian Stanev Literary Discussion Club. In 2019, his debut poetry collection “Corridors“ (Koridori) was published by Scribens. In 2020, he won the “Formula 6“ award in the “Poetry“ category of the Veliko Tarnovo Municipality and the National Society for Literature and Art. Denis Nuf’s poems have been translated into German, Spanish, and French. In 2022, again under the Scribens imprint, his second poetry book, “Distraction by Naught“ (Razseivane ot Nishtoto) was published.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Гладът за смисъл.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Дълго се ражда, съзрява бавно, а за смъртта не иска да мисли (все още).
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Аз съм малък човек с малки мечти. Ако науча едно дете да чете и да изхвърля боклука си правилно, ще съм постигнал повече от всяко гръмко предизборно обещание.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Осъзнатата тишина на спокойствието.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
В паметта на изреченото.
Nostalgia
How soon it all was
back then in the heat of the summer
of our thirties, when
after each first kiss
our breaths came together under
the eternal shade of the fig trees
and we would search on and on,
for the last tiny shell that
would take us to bed
at the peaceful sunset.
How soon it all was –
we watched the waves from above and
their salt was sweet on your thighs.
We were eternal and happy.
Everything came together in our hands –
sand and hope and wind,
and those last cigarettes that
the new sunrise promised on the hammock.
How soon it all was.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
This Too shall Pass
Mornings of fruitless sadness,
when the father leaves
the house and sets off
to earn his wages,
but he boards another ship
and no-one ever again sees him.
Mothers dare not raise their heads,
staring blindly into the seam of the day while they wait
for their children to return for dinner,
to eat together, to share the sip
of every night when the father is away.
And so it goes, breath after breath passes,
so very slowly wine matures –
but fathers return home drunk,
proud that they have caught silence
by its golden tail.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
This Town
this town smells
of kebabs and antibiotics.
this town, where
cabbies hit the intoxicated
cats of common sense and
everyone laughs out loud.
this town where
honking and whistlies drown out
the ecclesiastical sorrow of the bells,
and someone’s laughter overpowers all else.
this town where
hopelessness sits
on benches chewing its tobacco and
spits it at the mangy sparrows.
this town where
even trees and grass
are wilted, their sadness a burden
to all.
in this town the earth
is too close, and the sky,
the sky is so far away.
yet there is no air,
no way to spread your arms.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** But all
But all of a sudden you’re used to
overflowing trash cans, to carrion,
you’re no longer scared of cramped spaces,
and in the dusty face
of boredom you shout:
“This city makes
the tastiest kebabs.”
The town no longer stinks,
and I’m drowning in laughter.
CATCHING UP WITH THE SUNSET
on the hill facing Trapezitsa
when the sun was sinking down
the ages of Tsarevets
you asked me what time it was
and why I didn’t know when
the sunset will resurrect.
and I was trying to swallow
the dry bread of your tongue which
last night under my heart
prayed to another name.
so quickly the cold sets in
when
the sun dies.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
WHY SEASONS DON'T CHANGE
I get confused with all the nonsense,
I diligently hide it from myself.
I cover it with autumn leaves and wait
for the winter of enlightenment to come.
Did I experience this summer
or, as in spring,
days boiled over the edge of
the useless pot
in which Dad popped corn
and Mom boiled milk?
I can stuff myself with images,
give some meaning
to all of the nothingness,
but meaninglessness creeps up again
and pats me on the shoulder like a parent.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
What is poetry?
The craving for meaning.
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