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Dear swollen-trunk maple, deemed
diseased by the saw-happy tree guy,
you who have stood silently, supposedly
slipping your ailment through your roots
to the neighboring trees, now fallen
full blast down, geometrically down,
right angle, then parallel at last, your flat-
sawn stump blotched with incriminating
evidence—you came and leafed
and are gone, and I who have grown old
in your lifetime, who intuited you rather
than knew you, felt you in my bones,
now feel the slightly thinner woods,
the hint of frailty. Scott the tree guy
has carried your eighteen-inch logs in his
red wheelbarrow and stacked them
for winter: a little Williams, a little Frost.
Oh tree, everywhere I look
I have to pledge reclamation, fill
the forest floor with ferns, mushrooms,
pine needles, and in the side corner
place the outhouse, practically unused
anymore, still in good shape, emitting
its rich human-waste smell, its wood
smell, its few spiders climbing
their trellises with their sticky feet.
Oh tree, so much has been discovered
to fill in the space where you were:
seven new species of Philippine
forest mice, a new genus of blind
Bulgarian beetle, four new species
of jewel beetles, six of New World
micromoths. I have filled my note cards,
I have left the vertical space open
for the Ur-tree, the canonical vision
that will take your place, even the stigmata,
your bulged and arthritic joints, the
whither of your leaving, the grand word
whither standing where you were.
Copyright © alycia Gleeson | Year Posted 2012
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2011, Yambol
A poem for My Beloved
1.He is like a bunch of myrrh,
He is gilding my fingers
With fragrance.
He is weaving into between
My breasts, He is cloaking on
My pearl buttons in sunrise redden
Like a droplets of blood,
A necklace of my heart,
A star of cinnamon tree,
A porcelain cup with milk
On a small table,
Till a silver spoon which
He is taking up slowly along
His stifling lips, and like a butterfly
Is swallowing a little chalice of my heart.
My beloved is walking and decreasing.
2. He wakes the forests green like emerald
Hayricks, white droplets, running on the
Face of the sky.
Eyebrows of clouds ,each snowdrop
bowing down
Under His white fingers.
All blade of grass reducing.
The pomegranates are like big chalices
For Holy communion.
My Beloved lifted it.
His back have been cut of
Smart whips, blood veronicas
Shoots up His white skin,
Strained like a drum, for fierce mad
Throng.
My Beloved will never be separated
From my breasts.
Myrrh deeply in my bosom and I
Live from her Holiness,
Golden lichen in golden hoops,
Tightens up my heart.
Beloved how giving out a sweet perfume,
Smells a summer.
Nina Mindova was born in Yambol, Bulgaria.
She graduated at Bulgarian philology, English philology in Paisii Hilendarski university in Plovdiv and Theology in VEBI Sofia..
She is author of six poetry books.
Copyright © Nina Mindova | Year Posted 2012
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BROWN BALD BULAGARIAN BUNNY BUMPING BLOWING BURBING BUBBLEGUM
BOUNCING BONKING ON BLUE BLOOMING BLOSSONING BLOSSOM BEHINED
BOBBY BOLT BOTTERSON BROTHER BIG BELLY
Copyright © Angkul Kuparatana | Year Posted 2013
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Bulgarian Poem |
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A competition was held in Bulgaria
to find out which girl's legs were hairier.
The winning lassie
beat a huge chimpanzee
and a wiry old Irish Fox Terrier.
Copyright © angela sutherland | Year Posted 2007
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Bulgarian Poem |
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Hello friends! This is my first bilingual book.HAMMER @ ANVIL BOOKS released my book of
poems as e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: //www.amazon.com/A-Feather-of-Fujiyama-
ebook/dp/B 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr_1_1? s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1374938945&sr=1-1
Special thanks to Vessislava Savova (translator) , Mercedes Webb-Pullman (Editor) , Adam
Henry Carriere (Editor) , and my daughter Liliya Pangelova (illustrator)
All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to the Bulgarian Integrated Education
Foundation, working to improve the lives of children and youth with special health and
educational needs (including mild Down syndrome, autism / autistic spectrum, cerebral
palsy, language-speech disorders, and hyperactivity) and their families.}
Thanks for your support everyone! I wish you happiness and good reading.
Bozhidar Pangelov
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2013
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Dog Gone Languages
All dogs bark except the Dingo
Humans think they know the lingo
But truth be told – reality
It’s a different sound in each country
In Arabic – hau-hau, how-how
Armenian – haf-haf
In Cantonese – wow-wow, wong-wong
Bulgarian – jaff-jaff
In English it’s arf-arf, bow-wow
In Malay it’s gong-gong
The Germans hear wuff-wuff, vow-vow
The Thais just hear hong-hong
I’d give you more but that’s enough
You need to know this other stuff
Dog barking has one common vice
A dog will always speak it twice
No matter how we hear the bark
Between two dogs it hits the mark
They seem to understand all others
Better than we do our brothers
Mdailey 11/28/12
Copyright © mike dailey | Year Posted 2012
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At dusk
the leaves are bending.
They are fading away.
The light they are closing.
Under the ground
I won't be.
The original:
??? ???????????
??? ???????????
??????? ?? ?????????.
????????.
?????????? ????????.
??? ??????
???? ?? ????.
The original of the poem is in Bulgarian and has been translated and adapted in English by
Vessislava Savova.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here -
http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.
marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
The original:
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the
Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in
Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an
exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
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Like the twelfth
juror in the play
I must say I am not
convinced
For I know a recipe
for trouble
I have seen the
double standards
And I do not approve
this for Kenya
I will never approve
it, and neither
Would you, dear
friend of Kenya
If you saw what I
most clearly see,
For you, too, know a
recipe for ire
That promptly
transforms into dire
Consequences for
those unwary
Of the machinations
of self-interest
These are myriad,
the machinations
And Africa is
totally unprepared
Just like South
America for
centuries
For we have
forgotten the real
heroes
And think our
enemies are they who
bled
To free Africa, for
in our minds they
looted
A few inches of our
land for their
kinsmen
A current
unforgivable outrage
indeed
And yet there were
those of Africa
Who, routinely,
betrayed our
struggle
To rid Africa of
colossal colonial
vestiges
These we have
forgiven and moved
on
For ‘tis not right
that we should be
stuck
In a time-warp or
worse through
ineptitude
Now we have
‘liberators’ who
daily oppress
Erstwhile liberators
in the hope of
usurping
The liberation
struggle and
supplanting it
With a breed that
totally ignores the
history
That was written
with the blood of
our people.
For them, the
ultimate sacrifice,
Deserving the
ultimate accolade
Is this deformed
limb of yesterday
Not the sixty plus
years of servitude
I shudder at the
thought, I do, I do
Brother, for I know
full well the truth
It is not to be
found in this lie,
this lie
I say, it cannot be
found here, no!
We are busy
negotiating the
truth
For we know not what
the truth is
And the more we
negotiate
The further we get
from it
The more we seek
assurance
The less certain we
get, brother
I can see that,
brother, I can see
And so can you,
brother, if you look
If you look inward
and seek the truth
You cannot negotiate
the truth with
strangers
You cannot seek
retribution through
strangers
For, strange though
it sounds,
encouragement
From outsiders has
an outside chance of
success
If it undermines the
inside view, the
local input
I see that happening
here, my brother, I
see it
And I’m saddened,
for I wish it were
not so
I long for a
permanent
understanding
A permanent truce, a
permanent pact
And this can only
come from within
Not from without,
never, never!
What have we learned
from the Middle East
conflict?
What have we learned
from the Congo
conflicts?
What have we learned
from the Iraq
conflict?
What have we learned
from global
conflicts?
Nothing? And so the
conflicts continue!
Learn something and
dissolve your ire
In a locally brewed
long-term quencher
That the communities
involved can own
And claim to have-
as the only solution
With local
mechanisms of
enforcement
And universally
acceptable local
censure
The Hague process is
a poor remedy
For a supposed
conflict that did
not exist
A swift sweep of
dirt under the
carpet
Of politics, power,
greed, retribution
By the very
protagonists who
will fuel
Future conflicts in
the same zone, yes,
I do not claim to
know all or even
most
But this I do know,
we are all watching
Our kinsmen dancing
on a volcano!
And the world will
say, as it has
always,
That this is savage
Africa at work as
usual
Yet I know and you
know that it is not.
It took Europe over
a hundred years
To settle down, nay,
longer, much so
For when was it that
Napoleon reigned
And Bismark sought
to annex France
And Adolf Hitler
thought he was God?
In the 19th century
Europe experienced
Twenty one revolts
and uprisings
And twenty six full
blown wars
From the Irish
Rebellion of 1803
To the Greco-Turkish
War of 1897
The twelve year
Napoleonic Wars
The Serbian
uprisings
The Russo-Persian
wars
French invasion of
Spain
The War of the
Malcontents
The Russo-Turkish
and Liberal Wars
The Tithe War, the
Albanian Revolts
The Galisian
Slaughter, the
Carlist Wars
The Albanian
Revolts, the Mahtra
War,
The Hungarian
Revolutionary War of
Independence
The sixteen year
Wars of Italian
Independence
The Schleswig Wars,
the Crimean War
The Epirus and
Cretan Revolts
The Austro-Prussian
War
The Franco-Prussian
War
The Russo–Turkish
War
The Greco–Turkish
War
The Serbo-Bulgarian
War
The Cod (not Cold)
War
What kind of war did
they not fight?
Is it not by the
Grace of God
That they can claim
European unity
And play football in
the same league
Copyright © Gerald Kithinji | Year Posted 2013
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BROWN BALD BULAGARIAN BUNNY BUMPING BLOWING BURBING BUBBLEGUM
BOUNCING BONKING ON BLUE BLOOMING BLOSSONING BLOSSOM BEHINED
BOBBY BOLT BOTTERSON BROTHER BIG BELLY
Copyright © Angkul Kuparatana | Year Posted 2013
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I am Bulgarian,
but wait, I am not proud at all.
Your voice is never heard in here
because ignoring is our law.
Gypsies, addicts and psychopats
walk aroung each day.
Eternal Halloween hangs over us,
how would I want to stay?
You could be stabbed for 50 bucks
while walking down the street.
The villain will be briefly detained
then free again to terrorize and cheat.
If you happen to be dying
I'm sorry, you're screwed, my mate -
The ambulance will come for sure,
but often a little too late.
Our rulers are filthy coward rats
who live at our expense.
We suffer and wonder every day
how their acts make no frigging sense.
Am I making a bad reclame?
Well, I don't really care.
If a miracle happens and things get better,
I'll be more than happy to share.
Our people leave one by one
and nothing changes as days go by.
I am Bulgarian and I am puzzled -
should I laugh or cry?
PS: I may be rebelling, but this doesn't mean I hate my country. It is a beautiful land and everyone is welcome here. Peace, xxx
Copyright © Victoria Georgieva | Year Posted 2016
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...Hoender - Afrikaans, Pulë - Albanian, ???? - Arabic, ?????? - Belarusian, ???? - Bulgarian,
Pollastre - Catalan, ? - Chinese (Simplified), ? - Chinese (Traditional), Piletina - Croatian,
Kurecí - Czech, Kylling - Danish, Kip - Dutch, Kanaliha - Estonian, Manok - Filipino,
Kana - Finnish, Galiña - Galician, ??t?p???? - Greek, ??? - Hebrew, ???? - Hindi, Csirke -
Hungarian, Kjúklingur - Icelandic, Ayam - Indonesian, Sicín - Irish, ?? - Japanese,
??? - Korean, Calis - Latvian, Vištiena - Lithuanian, ??????? - Macedonian,
Ayam - Malay, Kylling - Norwegian, ???? - Persian, Kurczak - Polish, Pui - Romanian,
?????? - Russian, ???????? - Serbian, Kuracie - Slovak, Kuku - Swahili, Kyckling - Swedish,
??? - Thai, Tavuk - Turkish, ????? - Ukrainian, Gà - Vietnamese, Cyw Iâr - Welsh,
????? - Yiddish, Huhn - German, Frango - Portuguese, Poulet - French, Pollo - Italian,
Pollo - Spanish, Chicken - Maltese, Chicken - Slovenian, Chicken - English.,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=..............-=...-=....-=....-=...-=.............-=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-=..............-=...-=....-
=....-=...-=.............-=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-=..............-=...-=....-=....-=...-=.............-
=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-=..............-=...-=....-=....-=...-=.............-=...-,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=......HA! HA! HA!...for old times sake...lol...Your Kidster, Your Majesty.
Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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I can barely remember you now
because you died so long ago.
I was a little boy then whom
you raised in your Burgas home.
But a most evil cancerous illness
like a thief in the night snatched you
away from us, leaving us orphaned,
grief-stricken and truly despondent.
The only memento I have of you
is an old black-and-white photo of
you holding a toddler in your arms.
That sun-tanned toddler was me!
Nothing else is left of you now
but pain and sadness in our hearts.
You were like a beacon of light
in a land of total, eternal darkness.
People in Burgas still remember you
as a saint and bless your memory
whenever your name is mentioned—
Snezhina Ivanova Vasileva (Snezhina
is the Bulgarian word for Snow White).
You were never a member of the
Communist party in which at that time
all Bulgarians—greedy for personal gain,
rank and promotion—flocked like
hungry flies on a piece of rotting flesh.
You were more like the early Christians
—or perhaps like the early Communists
—ready to help anyone in need or distress
in your selfless generosity to all people.
You were a real martyr cursed with
an unspeakably cruel fate such as
a brutal husband (my late Grandpa)
and an unfeeling, ingrate son (my Dad)
who both drove you to an early grave....
You died in your morphine-induced slumber
alone—only in the presence of a medical
attendant who was a total stranger to you!
Grandma, I miss you so, so much!!
Copyright © Ross Vassilev | Year Posted 2016
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the rain is getting
shorter
an hour more
a second
breath
and someone somewhere
is speaking
like a fire
speaking
exactly
lightly
clearly
similar to a vale
in which you get down
and yet you are high
or a soil
which you do not decay into
when the rain stops
may I manage
something to put down
before scattering
with the fireflies
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Sofia is a Balkan city where I was
born forty years ago—the capital
of that little “wretched Bulgaria”
(as Winston Churchill once called it).
"Sophia" means wisdom in Greek but
Sofianites are anything but wise—let
alone friends of Wisdom. They don't
even speak the Bulgarian tongue—
speaking instead a bastardized
Macedonian dialect called “Shopski.”
They hate and despise each other and
everyone else who isn't from the West.
They adore things Western and worship
Westerners as Olympian gods whose
behinds they love to kiss and whom they
obey as only a colonial populace does.
The Austrians built “Golden” Prague and
Budapest into most beautiful European cities.
All the Ottoman Turks left Sofia after
500 years of barbaric colonial rule are
a grand mosque and a public bathhouse
in the formerly Roman center of the city,
as well as a corrupt population lacking
decency, dignity, self-respect or any morals.
Bulgarians, how proud you are that
your ugly, churlish capital is the Sodom
and Gomorrah on the Balkans!
Copyright © Ross Vassilev | Year Posted 2016
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Saint John of Rila
Father John –
I have no bread
(short is the bread daily)
And the Lestvitsa* -
so long …
Longer than a thought
and shorter than a peal
of a bell.
I’m ashamed, Father,
that today I am speaking
but not staying quiet like
a germ,
like a drop of a candle.
The heart holds me up.
*[‘lestvitsa] stairway to spiritual life
Saint John of Rila (Bulgarian: ????? ???? ??????, sveti Ivan Rilski) (876 – c. 946) was
the first Bulgarian hermit.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_of_Rila
January 7 — The Synaxis of St. John the Forerunner. This is his main feast day, immediately after Theophany on January 6 (January 7 also commemorates the transfer of the relic of the right hand of John the Baptist from Antioch to Constantinople in 956)
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2011
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Bulgarian Poem |
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And swallow are of love
the silky horizons
hit by a wing
of pink flamingo.
And the weeds are with deep
roots,
drawn water
of secret wells.
Careless was the wind,
carried off in hollows
tenderly
all kind of visions of
color.
Now the time is of the sand,
crossed the life-giving river.
And blows only wind from
Sahara.
*Translator bulgarian-english: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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just a little bit more
quite
a scrawling
of the senses
or a Raven
to come
before the final
rain
gracefully
till the end
did Annabel Lee
stay till the end
there’s no portent here
destiny
or a sign
self-made
it’s till the end
art
truth
without seeing
but the Raven
looked sorrowfully
croaked something
and jumped into my eyes
“Nevermore”
(out of Heaven)
Book" Delta" 2005
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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how fast we give up
to the thought
and tomorrow shadow
covers us up
but we had set off the place
not existing on the maps
from a shore like a pigeon
we kiss the eyelids of the death
but those ones in the mirror we don’t dare
and drown into our voices
till Marathon is an attack
of a heart
but who will be the messenger
for us
the betrayers
The book "The Man Who ..." 2009
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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The world - a boat and moon
in the bosom of the rains.
Left the hand of God
the soul - a silent flower -
thirst after
soil and light,
air and caress.
It prays to Madonna and Child
like Raphael prays, like Judas
after resurrection.
And like a luster of a coin, through
the Door solely the soul
will pass over - pure -
after the denial of the thought
from itself.
In the bosom of the rains
I pray like a candle.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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The Rozhen Monastery of the Nativity of the Mother of God (Bulgarian:
???????? ???????? "????????? ???????????", Rozhenski manastir
"Rozhdestvo Bogorodichno") is the biggest monastery in the Pirin Mountains in
southwestern Bulgaria. It is one of the few medieval Bulgarian monasteries well
preserved until today.
Rozhen Monastery website
http://rozen.pmg-blg.com/index.php
Rozhen
on a dry tree hung
does the monastery hang
and a road is curving
like a snake
with its tail up
do you hear that cry
of the rocks
the silence screams
overcome
by all the words
by the roar of crickets
by the blood in the vains
I've never understood nothing
stuck the palms
and three fingers
above the soil
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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The temple was refined.
High.
With colonnades, folded
in ivy
and in myrtle.
With wide gardens
(for healing).
It burns.
For centuries, the shadows
sealed.
But you!
Where are you going
when there’s no tomorrow?
The temple – is always
immovable.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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The night is speaking like a cascade.
She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
Sunk in the deep sea
of Sargasso eyes
I stay quiet and don’t find words.
And the scars on your hand
are fading, in order to burn
in my heart.
Oh, sailboats after a long trip
with all the winds in the sails –
sand is calling you.
But it isn’t death!
Oh, it isn’t the end too!
The hand
is going to knock up a hut for you
and in the wide garden
it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…
And I am a sign.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2010
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Bulgarian Poem |
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Today I bought from the market
a kilo of tomatoes
and a few cucumbers.
Totally 4.80 leva.
She also bought a kilo –
less cucumbers
more tomatoes.
For 4.80 leva.
A sunny day.
Bulgarian monetary unit, approximately - $ 1 is 1.5 leva.
Copyright © Bozhidar Pangelov | Year Posted 2016
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