Liliya Yovnova
Liliya Yovnova was born in Sofia in 1999. Her first independent poetry collection, Momentat predi poractvane (The moment before growing up) was published in 2018 and the second, Kurazh surtse (Courage, heart), in 2020.
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One of eight authors in the anthology ¾ Lyubov (¾ Love), as well as being part of many other printed and online publications. She continues to write even though she finds the definition ‘poet’ unnecessarily pretentious at the same time; she prefers to stick to ‘thing-seeker’.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Шестото, най-нежното, сетиво.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
По друг начин виждам живота ѝ – измервам го в моменти, които прекарва при мен и тези, в които никаква я няма. Появява се, прави няколко бури в чаша вода и после я няма с месеци; не я питам какви ги върши, когато не е наблизо.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Всеки, който смята, че борави с разума си, би трябвало да си дава сметка, че живеейки сред други човешки същества, съществувайки в някакъв социален контекст – то неизбежно си свързан с политиката. Гнети ме, че става все по-общоприето и поощрявано да си агресивен и да си простак – и измеренията на това са във всеки един социален, икономически и политически аспект, за който мога да си помисля.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
По-често си мисля какво искам да заличат – някакви парчета самота и горчивина, може би.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
При недосънуваните сънища и несбъднатите животи.
There isn’t a name for this
Imaging it this way –
someone throws dust in your eyes,
but you don’t cry
just to prove you’re more resilient,
more stubborn,
more faithful
than lies.
You stay, you wash off the dust,
you take your stand again
with a still more angry gaze,
you’re proving something (to whom?)
but again and again to exhaustion.
And so, a thousand days and nights
until you understand
that you can’t heal a bastard
by showering him with more trust.
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** Of course
Of course it doesn’t happen all at once,
Of course you wait until you lose your voice,
until you completely collapse in disappointment,
until you gradually blindly lose it
before
at last
you admit
defeat.
Naturally you think that it’s all about courage,
naturally defeat’s for the fearful,
and surely not for the proudest,
it suits them not one bit –
no way
does it
suit
us.
Of course it doesn’t happen all at once –
it doesn’t make sense,
it’s not possible,
how on earth
is that me.
Translated by Tom Phillips
If you say nothing
If you’re lonely,
but don’t tell anyone –
then will the loneliness decrease
or increase
If you’re a liar
but don’t tell anyone –
then will the lies disappear
or deepen
If you’re afraid,
but don’t tell anyone,
then will fear depart
or completely overrun you
And if suddenly, without expecting it,
if you turn out to be unexpectedly happy,
but don’t tell anyone,
will there be someone to celebrate with
If you say nothing to nobody
who will save you from yourself
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** You see
You see,
time went by,
several versions of you went by,
we rewrote not just one poem,
but it happened –
while the others learned to forgive,
you trained your heart not to give in –
and today precisely those who robbed you,
they will be the first to accuse you –
that the child in you is no longer there.
On the contrary,
I do it for her.
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** Astonishment
Astonishment,
you – my Achilles heel,
my still heavier earring
in an ear that no longer believes a thing –
how did you do it again?
From nothing – something,
how many times were you distracted
by various sleights of hand –
as if we no longer know –
sparks are experts
in the ‘come to see me’ part,
but behind themselves leave only
the bitter smell of ash
and almost never – fire.
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** The secret is a secret
The secret is a secret up to a point –
then you don’t know if you’re keeping it
or it’s keeping you,
and when they said
two are needed for such things,
nobody decided to mention –
that once the shared happiness of the secret ends –
the lonely weight of it continues
and then
from then on
it gets heavier.
Translated by Tom Phillips
*** I wanted out story
I wanted out story to remain a sky –
but it proved to be a cloud.
But let’s not cling to this rain,
become an ever more worn-out metaphor,
let’s at least give ourselves that – a little honesty.
Let’s calm ourselves with the thought that somewhere
on someone’s horizon a love will appear
which might do anything,
only not stay.
Translated by Tom Phillips
And what
It’s not the same –
that
which formed you,
which smoothed your hands
which your poems said,
which you trusted despite yourself,
which could calm your rages,
which opened your wings,
which selflessly helped,
which melted traumas away –
that which
truly truly truly
you believed
stop bearing expectation on your shoulders –
that miracle’s just not your thing anymore
and even today if you don’t want to hear it,
I’ll tell you
it will appear again
and know where to meet you
Translated by Tom Phillips
What is poetry?
The sixth, most tender sense.
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Yovnova