Tuesday, March 29, 2011

At home, alone

Tonight it’s your shoulder,
your back, having escaped
from the blanket’s protection,
offering a hint
of your perfume, unidentifiable
and undeniably you,
begging to be kissed, daring me
not to wake you,
that’s keeping me awake.
Who knew irony could be
so beautiful

I guess it’s just
another part of you to ponder
while I’m sitting
up in bed, alone, this time
finding that my thoughts have mimicked
my actions, not wanting to move
away from you, fighting the morning,
so tonight they will stay,
on your shoulder blade,

Sunday, March 27, 2011


Professor Whistler circled the podium slowly.

"The problem," he said, "with Claro's work, and a problem that many argue the artist never overcame was his inability to describe certain situations."

Whistler paused. "In fact, there is a type of situation in particular-- the adoration, bordering on worship, of a beautiful woman by the... should we say soulful? Deep--feeling? In any case artistic gentleman.

"Claro approaches this scenario again and again and again in his body of works. It seems to be a fascination for him. Other, less charitable critics" -- here Whistler raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself with his thumb, getting a laugh from the class-- "less charitable critics would call this an obsession.

"The man seemed intent on putting to paper in exacting detail this feeling that he evidently experienced so profoundly. He wanted the common man to read his description of this feeling and not only to understand it, but to begin to feel this within himself."

Whistler was rubbing the sides of his mouth, where his mustache did not quite succeed in joining with his beard. We did not move. We watched him; we did not want to interrupt what he was thinking now, what he would share with us.

He spoke slowly. "Now... a man like Claro, should he succeed in a task like this, should he describe so perfectly that adoration of the earthly divine... many believe he would have been content to leave it at that. That fact that he continued attempting this description, in one story after another, implies to many critics that Claro never was content that he'd done his job of putting this feeling to paper-- that he died with his body of work incomplete."

Whistler shrugged. "Artists," he said, and we all laughed.

Saturday, March 12, 2011



В голямото пристанище
на големия град
големите кораби идват
и си отиват.
Големите кораби
със смели моряци
и смел капитан
във устата с димяща лула -
стар морски вълк,
обходил всичките земни морета.
Момчето гледа
големите кораби
и вижда в мечтите си
себе си там -
то е смел капитан
във устата с димяща лула -
стар морски вълк...
Момчето се усмихва щастливо...
И казва:
- Да тръгваме, татко. Мама
ни чака у дома.
- Да, време е - казва баща му
и хваща дръжките
на инвалидната количка...
The boy

In the big port
of the big city
the big ships come
and go.
The big ships
with bold sailors
and a brave captain
with a smoke pipe in his mouth -
old sea wolf,
traveled all the earth's seas.
The boy looks
at the big ships
and sees in his dreams
himself there -
he is a brave captain
with smoke pipe in his mouth -
old sea wolf ...
The boy smiling happily ...
And he says:
"Let's go, Dad. Mother is waiting
for us at home."
"Yes, it's time" - says his father
and grasps the handles
of the wheel-chair...

Wednesday, March 2, 2011


Старецът спря, за да си поеме дъх. Беше тръгнал рано сутринта, когато голямото червено око на Огнения бог стоеше ниско над хоризонта и хвърляше първите си лъчи топлина върху Земята, която едва се беше събудила от сън.
Сега Окото се беше навело ниско над главата му, а наблизо нямаше и следа от дървета, където да скрие измореното си тяло и да забави настъпването на мъчителната жажда, която с всяка крачка ставаше все по-силна и по-силна.
Безкрайна равнина се простираше пред очите му, с тук-там ниски полуизсъхнали храсти, а големият скалист масив с пещерите и гората около него беше останал далече назад, там, където беше преминал целият му живот и където никога вече нямаше да се върне.
Старецът направи една крачка и отново спря. Силите му го бяха напуснали. Бавно и с някакво чувство на внезапно облекчение той се свлече на земята. Сега лежеше по очи върху нагорещената пръст и умираше.
Но докато животът го напускаше мъчително, чу познат глас и гласът каза:
- Изгони го, безполезен е вече, нищо не може да прави, само стои до огъня, а храната не стига… Нито за нас, нито за сина ни. Изгони го!
Гласът идваше отдалече, от миналото, от онези години, когато старецът беше млад. Гласът на жена му:
- Изгони го! Изгони го!
И тогава, в онова далечно време, той отиде при стария си баща, който дремеше немощен до огъня в пещерата, и му каза:
- Върви си!
И баща му си тръгна, без да каже нито една дума.
Не го видяха повече…
- Изгони го! – чу отново умиращият, но гласът този път беше друг, на друга жена.
И идваше от дъното на пещерата, едва доловим; жената не говореше на него, говореше на сина му.
А на сутринта синът му се приближи до огъня, където старецът беше седял цялата нощ, за да грее болните си кости, и каза:
- Върви си!
Историята на баща му се повтори, но с него, в друго, по-ново време.
- Прости ми, прости ми, татко! Млад бях тогава… И глупав, много глупав… - прошепна старецът, лежейки на земята.
След това направи опит да се надигне и почти успя, но точно тогава окото на Огнения бог се спусна ниско над него, докосна го с горещи пръсти и…
…огънят внезапно угасна…


The old man paused to catch his breath. He had started early in the morning when the great red eye of the Fire God stood low over the horizon and casting its first rays of heat on Earth, which only had just awakened from sleep.
Now the Eye was bent low over his head, but there was no trace of nearby trees where he could hide his tired body and delay the onset of painful thirst that with every step was becoming stronger and stronger.
An endless plain stretched before his eyes, with here and there lower half-dry shrubs, and the large rocky massif with the caves and the forest around it was left far behind, there, where he had passed his whole life but where he was never to return.
The old man made a step and stopped again. His strength had left him. Slowly and with a feeling of sudden relief, he dropped to the ground. Now he laid face down on the hot soil and was dying.
But while life was leaving him painfully, he heard a familiar voice and the voice said:
- Kick him out, he is no longer useful, nothing he can do, just standing around the fire - and the food is not enough ... There is neither for us nor for our son. Kick him out!..
The voice came from afar, from the past, from those years when the old man was young.
The voice of his wife:
- Kick him out! Kick him out!
And then, in that distant time, he went to his old father, who was dozing infirm close by the fire in the cave and said:
- Go!
And his father walked away without saying a word.
They saw him no more ...
- Kick him out! - the dying man heard again but this time the voice was different, of another woman. And it was coming from the bottom of the cave, hardly perceptible, the woman did not speak to him, she spoke to his son.
And in the morning his son approached the fire, where the old man had sat all night to warm his ill bones, and said:
- Go!
The story of his father repeats, but with him in another more recent time.
- Forgive me, forgive me, Dad! I was young then ... and stupid, very stupid ... - murmured the old man lying on the ground.
After that he tried to rise and almost succeeded, but then the eye of the Fire God descended low over him, touched him with hot fingers, and ...
... the fire suddenly went out ...
... eternity ...