Kristin Dimitrova was born in 1963 and began publishing her work in the early 1990s, after the collapse of socialism in Bulgaria and the wider Soviet bloc. Despite widespread and heavy-handed censorship, poetry had survived, even flourished, during Bulgaria’s socialist years, but publishing was strictly under party control and only poets who adhered to the tenets of socialist realism or found ways to coexist with the political system could expect to see their work appear in print and receive the accolades, financial rewards and city-center apartments the state afforded to “approved” intellectuals. As the Bulgarian critic Milena Kirova has observed, Kristin’s work from this period incorporates “many elements … aligned with the general postmodern trend: a struggle against political clichés, the breakdown of established mythologies, a boundless vault of cultural associations, wordplay, ambiguity, self-irony,” which she has continued to develop over the years since then and very much make her own. At the same time, however, she retains a deep connection with Bulgarian literary tradition through the language itself. To her, “language is not just a string of symbols — it is a net of cultural meanings” and so while many of her poems originate in the contemporary everyday — a scene at a local corner shop, a bus ride, an insect flying in at the window — the words she uses to explore the meaning and value we might attach to such apparently ordinary phenomena are, as it were, woven into this net, into an ever-changing, ever-renegotiated symbolic economy of which the Bulgarian language is a key part.
— Tom Phillips, from his introduction to A Moment Short of Perfection
⟐ ⟐ ⟐ ⟐ ⟐
In The World of Ink
The painter increasingly strives to paint
what he dreams rather than what he sees.
— Charles Baudelaire
Tonight the sky shines with diamond tears,
the indigo dome falls towards the brightening horizon
and the sea merges with the air along a fluorescent line.
I’m running over the curling waves in unsinkable shoes,
for me now the water’s a transparent skin over a chasm of darkening
radiance,
I’m breathing blue air.
I glide from leap to leap,
the sea flexes beneath me, but holds me up,
I have a place in this azure ball
of live inorganic infinity.
I look like an anomaly, but I don’t see it like that.
My clothes are light and empty.
I have need of nothing.
⟐
See You on the Blank Page
I no longer trust paper,
I lie to it.
It also pretends to listen to me
but it does not believe me.
I got used to being silent, to digging holes
inside where I bury
frivolous thoughts, unvoiced
impressions after a dumb movie,
untold stories, unimplemented
conversations, unforgettable views.
Wherever I dig, however,
I get to you.
Nobody else knows this —
and that’s how it should be.
How does the paper know?
⟐
Meeting During Lockdown
I’m walking along the empty street.
There’s nobody here today —
the awnings outside restaurants
give shelter to the breeze,
the buildings have become engrossed
like patients in front of a medical lab —
but all the time my mind
amends the view
with packed-out cafes, excited
children’s screams, surly types
in hoodies, noses pressed to their phones,
balloons flying above overburdened
young families, beggars,
beauties, beasts,
office lions and lionesses
over calzone and Lavazzas
and a young lad awkwardly
holding an arrow marked:
“Good.”
It’s a good place to meet.
We’ve always met,
even by chance —
and here you are coming towards me.
No street is empty
when we’re both here.
We lived like immortals.
Believe me,
Nothing has changed.
⟐
Please
Do you remember how we stood in the dark,
holding hands,
and the saints in the frescoes
had withdrawn into contemplation?
I don’t even know how well
they saw us through the smoke.
We had brought our grave news,
and at once found ourselves
in a throng of people, each one
bearing their own.
My thoughts shrank from
strangers’ voiceless prayers,
nor could my eyes get further
and strayed among the candles.
So many little flames,
laden with messages,
their tongues shooting up,
quivering the air,
carving it.
It’s hot.
Your hand is hot.
Countless lights in the darkness —
cracks in the silent wall,
behind which hides an eternal sun.
Please,
don’t go there.
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A Moment Short of Perfection: Selected Poems of Kristin Dimitrova, translated by Tom Phillips, is published by White Pine Press, Youy may order a copy from the press by clicking here.
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В мастиления свят
„Художникът все повече се стреми да рисува
това, което сънува, а не това, което вижда.”
Шарл Бодлер
Тази нощ небето свети с диамантени сълзи,
куполът от индиго се спуска към изсветляващия хоризонт
и морето се слива с въздуха през флуоресцентна линия.
Тичам с непотъващи обувки по заоблените вълни,
водата за мен сега е прозрачна ципа над бездна от все по-тъмно сияние,
дишам синия въздух.
Летя от скок на скок,
морето леко се огъва под мен, но ме издържа,
имам място в това лазурно кълбо
от жива, неорганична безкрайност.
Приличам на изключение, но не го усещам така.
Дрехите ми са леки и празни.
Нямам нужда от нищо.
⟐
Ще се видим на празния лист
Вече не се доверявам на хартията,
лъжа я.
Тя също се прави, че ме изслушва,
но не ми вярва и тя.
Свикнах да мълча, да дълбая дупки
навътре, където заравям
несериозни хрумвания, неизговорени
впечатления след глупав филм,
неразказани случки, непроведени
разговори, незабравени гледки.
Накъдето и да дълбая обаче,
стигам до теб.
Никой друг не знае за това –
така и трябва.
Откъде го знае хартията?
⟐
Среща по време на локдаун
Вървя по празната улица.
Днес няма никой тук –
навесите пред заведенията
са приют за ветровете,
сградите са се вглъбили
като пациенти пред лаборатория –
но умът ми постоянно
поправя видяното
с препълнени кафенета, възторжени
детски крясъци, темерути
с качулки, заболи нос в телефоните си,
летящи балони над натежали
млади семейства, просяци,
красавици, зверове,
офис-лъвове и лъвици
над калцонета и лаваци
и един младеж, с неудобство
придължащ стрелка с надпис:
„Добро”.
Това е добро място за срещи.
Ние винаги сме се срещали,
дори случайно –
и ето, че идваш към мен.
Никоя улица не е празна,
когато сме двамата.
Живеехме като безсмъртни.
Повярвай ми,
няма промяна.
⟐
Моля те
Помниш ли как стояхме в тъмното,
хванати за ръка,
а светците от фреските
се бяха оттеглили в размисъл?
През дима дори не знам
доколко ни виждаха.
Бяхме донесли тежката си новина,
а изведнъж се оказахме
сред гъмжило от хора и всеки
носеше своята.
Мислите ми се свиваха от
безгласните чужди молитви,
очите ми също не стигаха по-далеч
и се лутаха между свещите.
Толкова много пламъчета,
натоварени със съобщения,
езиците им се стрелкат нагоре,
люлеят въздуха,
изрязват го.
Горещо е.
Ръката ти е гореща.
Безброй светлини в мрака –
процепи в мълчалива стена,
зад която се крие вечно слънце.
Моля те,
не отивай там.