Stefan Goncharov
Stefan Goncharov was born in 1996 in Sofia. He graduated in Scandinavian studies and contemporary art from Sofia University where he defended his doctoral thesis on literary theory in 2024. Goncharov currently works as a literary assistant at the National Academy of Science’s Literary Institute.
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He published his first poetry collection in 2015 – Geon (Ars) – and his second came out in 2019 – Smurtta ne se chaka (Death doesn’t wait, Scribens). In 2022 he won the grand prize in the More national literary competition, thanks to which his third collection was published, Kostite na Vyatura (The Bones of the Wind, Znatsi). Goncharov has had a string of published poems in the Bulgarian literary press and is part of the editorial team at the magazine Nova Asotsialna Poeziya (New Asocial Poetry).
As well as poetry, he’s actively engaged in film criticism. He writes regularly for the online publication of the Bulgarian Film Society, filmsociety.bg, covering international film festivals including Berlin, Cannes, Karlovy Vary etc.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Аскеза.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Поезията не се ражда. Тя само умира. Отново и отново.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Докато има политика, ще има и изкуство. Но единственото, което ги свързва, е зевът, който ги разделя.
Не изпитвам гнет, само състрадание. Най-вече към хората в Украйна и Палестина. Въпреки че човек не бива да забравя и страданието на своя ближен. Неговата самота. Неговия страх.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Мълчание. Искам тишината да се превърне в мълчание.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
Не отиват никъде. Камъкът си тежи на мястото.
fama est
that bear
hanging from the streetlamp
outside the Easter kindergarten
opened its eyes
and said
“hang on”
when we went to enjoy it
with the neighbourhood kids
(these voices of salt
wrapped in ha-ho
hi-hi
the back paws of night)
we took in the view
and crept into a circle
determined to hear
the ending
Translated by Tom Phillips
at the border
they gathered us around the fire
with colleagues from the foothills
to watch the games
the tattooists were just drawing lots
to see who’d put on
the wolf’s head
rolling around at their feet
like a punctured ball
the layman
(that’s what the gypsies from the pit called him)
drew the short straw
and after a few minutes’ silence
leant into the night
and started to howl
the boxers lined up in a circle
with greased fists
and waited
nobody would
set foot here again
without an invitation
Translated by Tom Phillips
not that something
claimed
the voice under the covers
had become one with the sheets – calling
for help day and night
we gathered
the oafs from red – the little shop
in front of the collapsed block –
to listen to how it spoke
how it howled
abut the past of the dream
we didn’t think
it’d ever stop
but one day it wound down
and we saw the face
behind the absence – the empty fist
that stuck out from the pillow
most put out a hand
to shake it
but the fist tightly gripped the silence
and sank back down
Translated by Tom Phillips
a commotion
we had gathered
at the old man’s exit
when the pack went past
at the head of the hordes
their bodies
in a riddle of rain
dissolved the road
and what little of the day
wasn’t sinking in our eyes
the short one
(and he like a child
raised in the fog)
wagged its tail
and ran off
the rest of us decided to stay
on the threshold of night
while they counted the victims
at the foot of the empty sky
Translated by Tom Phillips
it didn’t go our way
shepherds ran headlong in the mirror
we put up in the corridor
then stopped
“they’ve tired themselves out”
someone observed behind the peephole
and everyone laughed
our voices sank
behind the glass curtain
and a bark broke up the meeting
outside the eye
turned in the keyhole
and the actors
went out on stage
Translated by Tom Phillips
the review
we intercepted him in the corridor
on the way to the camp
the private patted him
on the shoulder
and laughed
“a nail won’t kill you”
he didn’t reply
(his fingers hung around his neck
like a Christmas decoration)
just bowed
before turning again
with his face to the wall
“we’ve never had
such healthy Christmas trees”
and nor would we
ever again
Translated by Tom Phillips
let them
they gathered us in the locker room
and put out the lights
“they’ll light up the darkness”
whimpered the short one
and started to cry
(his mother
had sent him here)
the rest of us kept quiet
in our eyes – pins
in our legs – water
(they’d not even aired it out
after the previous group)
we would soon be hearing the signal
and going into our lockers
in one hand – a knife
in the other – a mirror
we wouldn’t come out
until they found us
but nobody
would be looking for us
Translated by Tom Phillips
What is poetry?
Аsceticism.
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Goncharov