Hristo Muhtanov
Hristo Muhtanov was born on 10 September 1991. He grew up Lyackovets, graduated from high school in Veliko Tarnovo, and subsequently took a master’s degree at UNSS. He was commended in the Veselin Hanchev youth competition, in the Boyan Penev student competition as well as in the Dobromir Tonev poetry competition in Plovdiv.
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His first poetry collection Opiti za evolyutsiya (Attempts at evolution) came out in 2017 as an accompaniment to a prize in the Southern Spring competition for a literary debut. His second book, Triada (The triad) appeared at the end of 2019. In 2024 his third book was published, Polyusut na zhivota (The pole of life), which includes short prose poems. His texts have been translated and included in anthologies of Bulgarian poetry in German and Italian. His writing can be read in the online publications Krustoput, Kadur 25, Nova asotsialna poeziya, and has been published in Literaturen vestnik, in Evolutsiya newspaper etc.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
неуловима материя, която се опитва да обясни и осмисли съществуващото.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Тя израства от осезанията и мисълта ми към думите, към появата на текста. Съзрява при редакцията и появата на книжното тяло. Надявам се никога да не умре.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Изкуството може да бъде свързано с всичко, но не бива да му бъде вменявано нищо. Изборът дали да бъде политическо, или не, би следвало да е свободен и спрямо разбиранията на отделния автор.
Гнетят ме всекидневните неуредици, заплетените схеми, нелицеприятните герои, нещастията от личен и глобален характер, войните и смъртта на невинните.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Разбиране. Осмисляне. Промяна.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
Никога не се губят, просто се скриват някъде, за да освободят място за други, или се появяват отново, но преобразени.
*** sat on this hill
sat on this hill on the grass at sunset
and you with those glasses and clothes that seemed taken
from an american film, the whole park around us –
there was something foreign, as if
we weren’t in the centre of the capital, but somewhere
outside what’s happening; the people around
were completely at ease, lying back,
soaking up the last rays of sunlight;
we talked of eastern mystics and travel,
while the sun gradually sank behind the trees,
and the dusk – with its deep colour – swallowed the buildings behind us;
all of us are bathing in the sun, I thought to myself,
remembering the title of that album,
with my skin soaking up the feeling that we are
elsewhere someone else other
that in these minutes albeit final
we can be careless
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** do you wonder sometimes
do you wonder sometimes what’s become
of this classmate of yours
or that classmate of yours
or of one of your friends
from earliest childhood
do you wonder sometimes
when you glimpse an almost familiar face,
about that summer more than
twenty years ago –
the camp by the sea, the old station,
first attempts and last kisses
do you wonder
where they are now
how they’re getting on
whether they’re happy
if you scatter them across the table,
how hard will it be to find a way back to the start,
how many people will remain forever
only in the background of photographs
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** in summer nobody wants
in summer nobody wants to travel by train
the compartments are lonely but on the other hand – airy,
the students have returned to their birthplaces
or gone somewhere to work,
dazed the travellers look out through the windows
at the green fields beyond,
the sunset’s reflected in the dirty glass,
the summer’s too hot, everyone’s already saying,
you need to have either air-conditioning
or to live somewhere by the sea,
and the trains are old, they move slowly,
they crawl along the tracks girdling the homeland –
and that is still slow, still learning and working,
and recently – on fire;
the train traverses the summer,
the draught blows softly on the bare part of your leg,
the noise outside says: wherever you’re hurrying,
wait, ahead of you you’ve got so much time
and I get out at the next station
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** this month has no end
this month has no end,
no, believe me, this month
has no end
this week
will never finish
this day is a measureless song
this minute is the most actual
this second
is the tip of the needle
with which you transfix time,
you sew your initials in its cloth
after everything we’ve done
we have this endless moment,
this total defiance
of the laws of the universe –
a place that remains constant
regardless of hurricanes, wars,
eruptions, weapons,
light or dark, regardless of
hunger or surfeit,
painful happiness or
pulsating discontent
this is this endless moment:
breathe
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** I miss
I miss
those mornings when
I listen to music in bed
and look at the white of the ceiling –
time runs very slowly –
I’m in no hurry, I know
I have a completely free
schedule for the day
I can go out or not go out –
to catch a tram or not catch it –
to walk in the centre or
to stay at home
I miss
those mornings
when I can say to myself:
look after yourself
properly,
finally
the weather’s good
poetry’s
never left me
Translated by Tom Phillips
What is poetry?
An intangible substance striving to explain and interpret existence.
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Muhtanov