Zornitsa Ivanova
Zornitsa Ivanova was born in 1996 in Varna. She graduated in Media and Communication Studies from the University of Münster in Germany and holds a master’s degree in Business Communication from New Bulgarian University. She currently lives and works in Sofia.
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Her poems and stories have been published in ‘Literary Newspaper’, ‘Y’ Magazine, Textile Magazine, etc.
Her debut book, ‘Chronicles of Similarities‘, was published in 2021 by Ars Publishing. She is currently working on her second book.
THE AUTHOR’S VOICE
Поезията е:
Покана за споделеност.
Какъв е животът на твоята поезия (как се ражда, как порасва, как съзрява, как умира)?
Животът на поезията е кръг. Няма начало и край. В раждането на поезията проблясва смъртта, но не като унищожение, а като шанс за регенерация.
Изкуството свързано ли е с политиката и проблемите на нашето време? Кои проблеми те гнетят?
Проблемите на деня винаги намират отзвук в изкуството, без значение дали авторът го осъзнава, или не. Ние сме продукт на проблемите си, имаме много повече прилики с околните, отколкото осъзнаваме. Общата болка се разкрива с поезията, и макар понякога да не може да ни излекува, тя все пак умее да ни насочи към светлината около нас. Иска ми се изкуството да е път към сплотяване на обществото и сближаване с човешкото ни начало. Разединението и отчуждението са корени на всеки един съвременен проблем.
Какво искаш да остане след думите?
Утеха в тишината.
Къде отиват ненаписаните истории?
Не всяка история трябва да бъде написана или разказана. Понякога красотата е в тихото наблюдение. Не тъжа по ненаписаните истории, но съм благодарна за тези, до които мога да се докосна.
*** Afternoons in the countryside
Afternoons in the countryside,
unsettling in their shadows
The cat in the yard
stretches its paws,
scratches the knees of the urban child,
breaks through his caution,
traces thin lines on the skin.
Thrill, pain, and healing,
like the first nettle burn
on the tender palm,
like a bee sting,
like salt on swollen skin.
Like becoming one with the world.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Everyone is
Everyone is
a novice swimmer
in the river of their own fear.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** In fact, it is not hard
In fact, it is not hard to replace yourself,
turn your eyes inward with your thumb,
to look in the hollows.
Painlessly, you will forget what was,
once you see the instructions, the barcode
of consciousness, once
you remove your hand from the lever.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** There are days
There are days of strength in my earthly existence,
I carry the weight on my shoulders
without my breath faltering.
There are days when
the body slides like a tower of cards,
a stranger’s touch raises it up and then brings it down.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Saturdays spin
Saturdays spin their courtship dance ,
undressing in anticipation of spring,
buying the yellowest of tulips.
Days flirt with their own future clones,
filling their vases
and promising sunshine.
How much spring has remained
in the folds of the skin?
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Quick, quick
Quick, quick,
while I pick the quinces in your garden
and splash tap water
in your eyes.
While the watermelon drips down the edge of your lips
and the heat is a trickle on your forehead,
quick, quick
– and just then – we fall in love.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** I want to be
I want to be the soft piece on the band-aid
over the scratch
on your knee,
a barrier between you and the world
which tries to touch you.
I want to be waterproof material,
to remain pressed there
even after recovery.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Peel the layers
Peel the layers of the heart,
like tangerines in a winter now forgotten.
Leave the peels lying
all over my room. Let it smell
of absence.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Summer
Summer.
The call for lasting impressions
on the temporary memory we mistook for possession.
In this seasonal interjection,
we are not an event, but a brief light.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** The aging fear
The aging fear the pupils of the old,
see their own dust
flowing into the common family garden,
which they reluctantly mention.
Sons do not listen to their mothers’ making up stories
in their final afternoons.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** The stories
The stories
we made up
to hide our similarities.
Too few, but so meaningful.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Instructions for taming
Instructions for taming a memory.
If that song
still won’t let you sleep,
buy it on vinyl from an antiques shop,
listen to it,
dance to it,
listen to it
until the needle scratches,
until the back relaxes,
vertebra
by
vertebra,
your gaze will drop from the skin,
make it your own,
note
by
note,
create it one last time
before you go to sleep.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Asleep under
Asleep under their mothers’ tears.
There, removed from any promise of decency,
outside the flow of calendars,
beyond the possibility of procreation,
unless there’s been a mistake
in the circle of obscure meetings
and morning pills.
Asleep
under their mothers’ tears,
those whose bodies survived.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
*** Those beautiful words
Those beautiful words that spread
like lavender oil and penetrate
somewhere deep down in the inner ocean,
take root between the heart and the ribs,
turn the body into a garden,
and there, in its very midst,
a forgotten fruit.
Translated by Elitsa Chotrova
What is poetry?
A call for sharing.
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