Evgeniya Dineva
Evgeniya Dineva is an author of prose and poetry in Bulgarian and English. She graduated in philology at the Center for Eastern Languages and Cultures at Sofia University, after which she went to India. She has a master’s degree in cultural diplomacy and geopolitics.
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Her texts have been published in Oxford Poetry Library, The Hong Kong Review, Ethel, etc. Her debut poetry collection “Animals Have No Fathers“ was shortlisted for the “Peroto“ literary awards. Evgeniya Dineva was awarded the Traduki writing scholarship for 2025. She is currently working on a collection of short stories.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Ако трябва да отговоря с една дума, бих казала : действие.
За прочитането на една поема трябват няколко минути (често пъти и по-малко). Тя обаче не свършва с последната дума от текста, или препинателния знак. Поезията е преживяване, което остава с нас и ни променя – понякога осезаемо, друг път – не съвсем, но във всеки случай е процес.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Опитвам се да не мисля за който и да било акт на изкуство в контекста на смъртта (разбира се – с уговорката, че смъртта се разбира като край). Затова ще спра до съзряването.
Текстът за мен се появява много често от конкретна дума, която чувам или прочитам. Например, наскоро някой каза, че „граница“ значи „болка“ и това ми беше достатъчно да започна да мисля в посока. Поезията започва да живее, когато някой друг я прочете и това пък е началото на един още по-вълнуващ етап.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
В “Why I Write” Оруел казва: „Мнението, че изкуството няма нищо общо с политиката само по себе си е политическо становище.“
Има теми, които ме вълнуват особено като една от тях е ролята на жените в изкуството и по-конкретно какво всъщност влагаме в понятието „жена-артист“ или „женско писане“.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Думите са само началото – на диалог, история или път.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
Може би се превръщат в музика, разговор, повод за пътешествие. Понякога историите се променят, остават само като спомен, може дори да се забравят. Но е важно да не остават потиснати или пренебрегнати.
The First Time I Drowned
Every time someone leaves,
or disappears far away,
I remember that place —
a small pond in the mountains
near the town I grew up in.
There, the sun sets,
the water is warm from the rays
that have sunk into it.
There, I remain six years old,
my mother is still alive.
I’m in the water,
and a single breath in later,
it fills my lungs.
My mother jumps in after me —
still in her clothes and holding her cigarette.
She pulls me out as I’m drowning.
And no one around us notices.
Translated by Danila Raycheva
Taxidermy
I pull out poppies by the roots
and their petals fall apart
like drops of acrylic on a white tablecloth.
I take the stem and dry it in the sun,
then I hide it between the pages of a book
where it can grow old.
I catch a butterfly and one of its wings breaks off,
the scales smearing on my palm.
Vets recommend cutting the healthy part
to match the wounded.
I rip out both and leave the body for the birds.
I throw a stone at a sparrow,
which thuds in the grass
like a tile from a roof.
I separate the soft tissue from the brittle rib cage.
I join the pieces —
build a skeleton for you to take
and reassemble in your home.
Don’t think that I collect death —
bones tell life.
And they’re the only thing I want to leave you.
Translated by Danila Raycheva
What I Didn’t Know
Our teeth start to fall out
when we’re six. That’s when
we tell lies the most.
My nephew has inherited from me
not only the crooked smile
but also the thrill of make-believe.
We started it all as a joke.
First, I said I didn’t know who hit Dimi.
Then he didn’t tell on me for sending him out
to buy cigarettes at eight in the evening.
I didn’t know satisfaction
until I saw it growing in his eyes
every time we hid something,
or until it blossomed on his face,
as his mother furrowed her brow and said,
“Alright, get it inside,”
about the dog that we supposedly found
abandoned in the park.
I didn’t know hesitation
until it began turning into concern
about how easily we’re handed things
we are not prepared to keep safe.
There’s no age for lies, although at six
children already know that animals breathe,
that unconditional things are few,
and yet they’re the ones we’re cruel to.
I didn’t know the fear of leaving
Pavel to play alone in the yard
until I heard the whimpering
and I couldn’t turn back time.
That’s when I learned that a pulse is just an echo of tissues and nerves,
and that the attempt at artificial respiration can’t last a lifetime.
That holding something too close to yourself
can drain the oxygen from its lungs.
If you want something to belong only to you,
you have to take it away from the entire sky.
Translated by Danila Raycheva
My Dog Sleeps on the Balcony
I asked why you didn’t sleep at night,
and you said that it’s none of my business.
Leaning over the railing,
the pause devoured everything between us,
and like in a hollow on the floor,
there crawled the realization
that you didn’t even want to be here.
The hollow leafed out under my feet
and I heard your fear —
that someone might jump;
that you might jump;
that your unborn child might jump.
And there I was, keeping you over this abyss,
waiting for an answer.
And while I was waiting, I decided to get a dog —
now it sleeps in odd places.
Translated by Danila Raycheva
The Sad Girls’ Club
The first time I fell asleep in the tub,
my mother started crying. She thought it was her fault.
Years later, I still don’t know
if my sister gave birth to a boy or a girl,
but sometimes my mother calls on Christmas,
or on my birthday.
I’m the one there’s no tableware left for.
The odd one out in the threesome.
I have a different toothbrush for the hotel room
in London, Bucharest, or Plovdiv,
and by the way, your wife called.
I don’t know if you told her about the fish you had as a child,
and how they buried themselves in the sand before they died.
I didn’t name my turtle God —
turtles live too long,
and I got evicted from my last apartment.
Of course I like Bertolucci,
so you can call me Eva, Theo, or Marlene.
None of this will matter tomorrow,
but I have to say it to you anyway.
Because what’s the point of being in the Sad Girls’ Club
if I never talk to you about it?
Translated by Danila Raycheva
The First Time
The blade pierces the rough peel,
tearing the thin membrane that holds the fruit whole.
The last man I went out with
put his hand on my knee and said
that every time he was with me felt like touching a plastic doll.
I’m cutting the orange —
its juice is branching across the board, the table,
staining it red.
Bleeding hurts only the first time,
and a bit now,
because it hasn’t happened for a year.
I’m plunging the blade again,
the thick liquid consumes the sweet scent.
My stiff fingers are sinking into the fleshy part,
and there is no more fear, shame, or unease.
Only San Gennaro’s blood in Naples foretells death.
Translated by Danila Raycheva
God Creates the Monsters First. Then Everything Else
*
Steal a feather from a crow and hide it in your wings.
Use it next time you fly.
*
To see a single crow is bad luck.
Two are for happiness.
Six mean death.
*
If you always fly backward, you’ll get lost.
*
You were nine when your father took you to the playground around the block to teach you how to shoot.
*
Ozulum is a kind of bird that has only one wing and flies backward.
*
Something hits your wing, and you plunge straight down.
*
The birds Ozulum don’t exist.
*
The first time you tried to fly, you mistook the ocean for the sky.
*
Some of the statements here are made up.
*
A crow shows Cain where to bury his brother.
*
Would you follow your father if you knew you might not come back?
Translated by Danila Raycheva
What is poetry?
If I had to answer with one word, I would say: action.
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Dineva