Iren Petrova
Iren Petrova is a Bulgarian poet and author. She graduated from Sofia University St Kliment Ohridski in online journalism and media, social pedagogy and theatre arts. As part of the university theatre company she took part in several international theatre festivals – in Tunisia, Morocco, Iran and Russia.
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In 2017 she won a special award for journalism from the Vasa Gancheva Foundation for her serious approach to issues around culture and theatre criticism, journalistic prose and poetry. She is the author of the books ‘Opening to Paris’, ‘Dear Lilith’, ‘Credendo Vides’ and ‘Women after Eve’. Her poems have been translated into English, French, Italian, Greece and Turkish.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Класическата музика в езика.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Поезията ми започна да се ражда спонтанно и без да я търся. Напротив, тя ме потърси и продължава да го прави, като че ли е жив организъм, който сам иска да се изрази чрез мен. Често ме намира в кухнята, докато готвя, или под душа, или на улицата. И се налага да є се подчиня, да оставя всичко, което правя, за да пиша, иначе ме напуска. Уча се на послушание чрез нея.
Расте с всяко ново стихотворение. Оставям го да отлежи и ако все още има дълбоки, плътни нишки и вкус на вечност, значи е добро и заслужава да посрещна читатели с него. Умира, когато не понесе оценката на времето.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Както Бродски казва: „Докато държавата си позволява да се намесва в литературните работи, литературата има право да се намесва в държавните“. Бих казала дори, че е задължение на поетите да се месят в политиката. Винаги са ме тревожели несправедливостта и беззаконието, които неминуемо намират място в поезията ми, уви.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Техният смисъл.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
В общото информационно поле. Който може – го чете.
CAIN AND ABEL
Cain, where is your brother Abel
do you still play hide and seek
in the field
I remember when you were little you left him
to come home alone
and you always ate up
the bigger part of the loaf
Cain, where is your brother Abel
I heard someone saw
a man lying down
and then the shriek of an owl
announced the death
Cain, whosе is the blood on your shirt
where did you bury your brother´s bones
don’t you know
you cannot kill without staining yourself
thy brother’s blood
cries unto God from the earth
by committing the first murder
and giving the idea to
legions of followers will you
have the courage to look
up to heaven with clear eyes
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Phillips
SALOME
she looks like a deer that’s drunk from sacred springs
to stamp the time with a bloody mark
her light steps not making any sound
she looks like a statue with a marble skin when
she sits and watches the course of events
she’s a crystal looking at herself in the moon mirror
looking for the reflection of her own shadow
she looks a like a candle that has never burned
she is here to unlock the doors and let death in
to ask for the one thing her mother’s not entitled to
with her fresh child’s flesh and stubbornness she demands
she comes in dressed in moonlight
in that great hour when the scriptures come true
she’s here to utter the words which God himself wished for
and signed up with another’s blood: I want John’s head.
give it to her
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov / Edited by Tom Edward Phillips
VICIOUS CIRCLE
“No citizen shall ever be wealthy enough to buy another, and none poor enough to be forced to sell himself.”
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
but when hunger fills the stomach
and the body aches with cold
when a single coin weighs more
than the tired hand of the beggar
and the legs are rooted
to a specific spot on the pavement
you don’t believe in words
and words are necessary only so far
as you asking for bread or a light
before someone else ejected from life
decides to take it from you
because there is a tax and a high one
for begging in central places
like St Nedelya Church
but why does nobody sit in front
of the parliament or presidency
words are obedient puppies
in the carefully chosen vocabulary of philosophers
politicians and orators
but they don’t serve the people – they want action
and they will have to do it themselves –
to break free of the leash
but the same people deprived of words
is merely a mass of flesh and rage
not knowing how or what to ask for
and this is the trap – foolish and poor
it believes in all or nothing
(and in this case they’re one and the same)
you’re a slave if you’re poor
you’re a slave when you’re bookless
you’re a slave when you sell yourself
and in this vicious circle of perpetual enslavement
you cannot find the way out
other than in obedience or death
the ruler knows:
all political convictions
give way to hunger
Translated by Tom Phillips
AND STILL WE BURN
darkness crept over the earth
and the moon rose proud as a queen
light the fire
it’s time to burn the old beliefs
to heal the trauma
borne for centuries, the guilt
still lies in the womb
who will heal it
light the fire
to lighten the darkness of the woman’s burden
to tell the flames
how much flesh has been burnt over time
and to gape at the wounds carved by men’s hands
light the fire
let’s step barefoot into the embers
kiss the earth on which we walk
bleeding for another’s cause
Translated by Tom Phillips
THIS ART OF POETRY
untie your bandages
if you want to write poetry
let yourself bleed
chase the children outside
forget about the oven
at least for today don’t think about utility bills
leave the rubbish by the front door
shut the cat in the bathroom
switch off the phone
forget the day of the week, month, year
lock yourself in the room
and go in deep, deep, deeply
it hurts but there it is
everything that the paper calls for
everything that you’re here for
if you can’t sacrifice yourself
to scratch open the sores of the world
poetry isn’t for you
Translated by Tom Phillips
What is poetry?
Classical music within language.
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