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Best Poems Written by Bozhidar Pangelov

Below are the all-time best Bozhidar Pangelov poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Hear

Behind the black olives redianted*
the moon this night
is handing over a bloomed sign.
Why are you going to bed alone
in colorful bed sheets?
Hear! In Syracusae troubadours are singing
in one love,
about that while you burn into,
you burn endlessly.
But you are falling asleep.
A domestic bird, hidden
behind curtains of brocade
and pressed her lips on a golden spider.

A homeless night in the black olives
and a sound of our Beyond.

* ? neologism created by the author expressing that something is shined on by radiance

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I Feel At Ease

Like a nest on a little church
indented in the rocks.
The sky is low.
The twitch 
of the air flower-beds –
the passing angels.
And voices like gushing
streams; rivers before the sea.
The day is silent.
The body is growing up –
some birds are thronging.

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The Things

Art must mount a full-scale attack on language itself,
by means of language and its surrogates, on behalf of the standard of silence.
Susan Sontag.




I talk too much.

The Things are:
a flower
a grain of sand
a spark.

And all together.

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With All the Homesickness of the Foreigner

Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova

With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner

"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova

He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.

Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.

Compared with your arm.

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24 May - the Day of Slavonic Alphabet, Bulgarian Enlightenment and Culture

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.

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A Feather of Fujiyama

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

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Hear

Bozhidar Pangelov&Vania Konstantinova/In Memoriam/

Under the Coat of Arms 

In Malta, in the ancient walls
is beating the sea so salty.
Somewhere behind,
distant,
hidden
are shining through southern almonds.
There is no moon.
The light is illuming 
herself
in the pearl of your eyes.
Harmonious.
Without gunshots
of the squadrons by Lepanto. 
The falcons on the coat of arms fall asleep,
never wanted,
in honor 
and dignity. 

Vania Konstantinova

Behind the Gates

Behind the gates
of Mdina I hide you,
far of any nemesis,
of foam and stretched sails.
Behind the towers of the castle.
In the most inner yard.
Under the spurts of the cascade, 
more precious than silver.
Here they see only
the eyes of the peacocks, 
whisked their tails
for cooling.
Keepers of the secret
with their tongues wrested.
And when your brush sculptures
the bracelet around my ankle,
reflected in Venetian mirror
like a trap – 
I forget who you are and the sin
with head chopped off,
I forget about the death …



Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova

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In Autumn

in autumn
the leaves
fall
into

the same water

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To Wait For You To Come

i love you
and i want you to be here
what will the Tuareg do
without the desert
that furrows
behind a dark burnous
his thigh – his
pinched by the caresses
of the vulture
what will he do
without the fragrance of the date palm
even of one of them
grain for growing

a Lightning split the sand

just opened up like rain in my handfuls
and like a vestige of tomorrow’s wind
in my eyes
stared at somewhere
after the reflection of the olives
in the oranges of South
with my breath
forgotten
in the caves under water
like the sea drum
of the ancient Old man
who lost his heart

of sorrow die only the waves of the sand
with the white sea foam
a scream of a seagull
a moan of the boat
i stay deep
like the sea orchid
among the yellow radiance


to wait for you to come

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This Love

This love
 wants nothing.
 It just happens
 like a ray of the tree-tops
 or of a temporal bone a palm.
 This love
 is not a centenary tree keeping
 secrets – 
 open and clear is shining
 the grass on the hill.
 It stays quiet under the stormy wind
 it bears under the fire of the sun,
 in hollows of the nights long
 tells fairytales.
 The world changes. – It does not faint.
 It grows up higher than it
 and shorter than the stone.
 In the church a thunder falls,
 but She is praying…
 She is Her temple
 and the temple is Her.

 And Everything!