Violeta Kuneva
Violeta Kuneva was born and lives in Sofia. She graduated in law from Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski. In 2019, her debut poetry collection, ‘It’s Mostly Fine’ (Janet 45 Publishing House) was published. The book brought Violeta the 2019 Ivan Nikolov Debut Poetry Award along with the 2020 Southern Spring Debut Literary Award.
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Her second poetry collection, Persephone’s Dog’ (Janet 45 Publishing House), won the Peroto literary award in the poetry category in 2023. and was nominated for the Ivan Nikolov and Hristo Fotev competitions.
Violeta Kuneva has published on Bulgarian and foreign websites, in magazines and anthologies, and has participated in national and international literary festivals. Her poems have been translated into English, Spanish, Croatian, and Turkish.
ГЛАСЪТ НА АВТОРА
Поезията е:
онова непознаваемо ядро в стихотворенията, които искам да чета отново и отново, без да мога да отворя друга книга, понякога с дни, и които разпознавам като безспорно доказателство, че Бог съществува.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Ражда се когато и както тя си поиска, независимо от неуспешните ми опити да провокирам вдъхновението. Понякога със силен глас изисква да є обърна внимание, друг път само с деликатно повдигане на вежди, което бих могла да пропусна, ако не съм внимателна. Трябват фини настройки, които твърде често са несъвместими с изискванията на ежедневието. Но ако хвана момента, стихотворенията порастват бързо сами и обикновено не претърпяват особени промени. На следващия ден, след като емоцията се уталожи, някои от тях отиват в папката с полузавършени текстове, където ги забравям. Това е нещо като гробище за стихотворения. А съзряването си като пишещ човек, ако изобщо може да се говори за съзряване, виждам в това, че все по-рядко мисля, че нещо си заслужава да се каже. Може пък това да е смъртта на поезията, кой знае.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Изкуството е дишаща материя, всичко прониква в него – политиката и времето също, разбира се. Те се промъкват незабелязано дори и при автори, които заявяват, че се вълнуват само от личното или пък от някакво абстрактно универсално. От друга страна, в преднамерено политическите стихотворения например рядко вирее духът на поезията, те често звучат по-скоро като публицистика. Затова, като човек, който активно се интересува от политика, ме вълнува повече изкуството, което улавя духа на времето, но без да си го поставя за цел, това е майсторството според мен. В талантливото изкуство, и без да се споменават изрично, присъстват имплицитно например тревожността, кризата на паметта, подмяната – все неща, характерни за нашето време, които едва ли гнетят само мен. Ужасяват ме също раздялата с доскорошната ни заблуда, че вече няма да има войни, прииждащият фашизъм и неспособността ни да се противопоставим ефективно, макар че знаем какво предстои.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Тишина. (Предполагам, че и други ще отговорят така, но поемам риска.)
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
Отиват при друг автор или направо в реалността – за да я променят по свой образ и подобие.
EITHER THE TRUTH, OR
some memories are like dictators’ mummies
they require constant care –
awakening treatment with chemicals
limiting tourist visits
you keep them in wardrobes –
these mausoleums of the cult to the transitory –
where they decay
and age spots win the battle against makeup
in the end, you bury them anyway
but you keep on telling yourself:
for the dead the whole truth
otherwise they wake up
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
JULY
For a whole week now, daylight has been getting shorter.
I keep pouring food
into summer’s bowl,
but I look away
and pretend not to see
how the cup of light
(though always full)
is shrinking
shrinking
shrinking
salt buries tables and beds –
leaving barely visible scratches
on our innocent smiles
the cover of summer
slips off of us like the tide
while still protecting us
I want to tell you
to tell you that
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** I went
I went to the gallery several times
because of the dog painting
finally I reached out secretly and stroked it
neither it nor the world seemed to have noticed
the touch on the warm, oily fur
the next day the dog had run away
a gap remained in its spot
big enough for you to enter
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
A POSTCARD FROM HELL
Hello!
I’ve settled in nicely.
Living at number ten again,
on the second floor again.
I’ve found a decent job,
nine to five.
Summers here are cool,
winters — mild.
You won’t believe it,
but that hell of a cook
from our little restaurant at the corner
has opened a place nearby.
Everything is fine.
It’s just that miracles don’t happen.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
ON THE RESPONSIBILITY OF HAVING A BEAUTIFUL GARDEN
every spring for the gardener
begins with the poison
cautiously pouring it down mole-hills
placing it at rose roots
spraying leaves
it is an important rite
a sacrifice
to the god of beauty
it is a great responsibility
to serve
two gods
mutters the gardener
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
OF COURSE THE UNIVERSE IS EXPANDING
every place visited
adds a new paragraph to the book of escapes
that we seek
when sleep becomes unbearable
sometimes words or passersby
push the boundaries of fear
like a car broken amid the street
like a raging beast fear
sinks its horns into the walls of the universe
and tears them apart
before they can heal
light penetrates the holes
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Dear viewers
Dear viewers,
rest assured
that in this performance,
not a single actor
has been harmed.
They are all currently drinking champagne
behind the scenes,
and tomorrow they will appear in the theater
as if newborn.
The blood on stage is yours.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** after the flood
after the flood
I walk down the streets
among wet people dogs birds and houses
with smudged makeup
but I am dry
even though I was under the same sky
and I don’t have an umbrella up my sleeve
nor a roof
What’s happened?
Where did I hide?
If only I had a drop
on my body, shamelessly
alive
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** you know
you know
how the wound attracts the knife
how it stirs up the pain and gives birth to
colours and songs
that’s why you don’t heal it
you wait
amidst the silence and snow
for it to find it
to lie down in it
and for the flower of the wound
to bloom
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** all summer long
mosquitoes roam
across the surface of the lake
in their wet kingdom a where
neither flying
nor walking on water
are miracles
they will recognize the messiah
in the one able
to sink
CREATION
the greenery reclaims its territory
on abandoned walls
roads graveyards
perhaps after the big bang
when we destroy ourselves
there will be life again
and the greens will name us
gods
*** How it must have been
How it must have been,
when I was only the sky
before Him *
Horia Badescu
how it must have been
when I created this world
and invented the names of my parents
the shape of the earth and of death
the smells I would hate
the softness of beloved bodies
how I came up with Hime
when I was all alone
with no up or down
without Him
* Translation by Aksinia Mihaylova
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
PLESE PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER
has not left the window frame,
swaying like a river, leaving a pink trail.
It could be a problem with the pilots,
a Christmas prank, an accident,
a clumsy attempt to write “I love you.”
What should I think as I watch it
love is so beautiful, death is so beautiful.
Which of the two should I applaud?
What is poetry?
Poetry is that unfathomable core in poems that I want to read over and over again, unable to open another book for days at a time, which I recognize as irrefutable proof that God exists.
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Kuneva