SmallStations.com - Poems by Iana Boukova

Some Poems by Iana Boukova

IN THE BOOKSHOP

In the bookshop where I work, he comes and talks to me about Spanish ships, aerostats named after beasts, polar expeditions lost in mirrors. (And only somebody in my profession could recognise the smell of damp bread and fustiness left behind by books.) In the course of time, I notice one of his eyes is made of glass. To be more precise, one of his eyes is a glass ball known to me from childhood by the name of ‘marble’. That’s where his problems start too. On certain days unspecified by meteorologists, the glass crunches with its ancient sands. A desert wind rearranges the lineaments of his face. He is left alone, the shop window surprises him, stops him entering. ‘No, sir,’ I reply politely, ‘we don’t have any books about Spanish ships. We only sell dry paper.’

NEIGHBOURS

First they come for a cup

of sugar for a cup of vinegar

for nothing

And you being well brought up

allow your kitchen to fill

with people and your days to shorten

as if winter has suddenly begun

Later all evening through the wall

you hear the muffled blows of bodies the dog’s

bark the ringing of the phone

which nobody answers

Your cigarettes pack up this night

you walk for miles in the room

and then in your dreams (having finally fallen asleep)

In the morning you see them refreshed they water

their flowers wave to you

go out in the open

casting a fourfold shadow

like a footballer’s

in the middle of the park.

MY VELVET BLACK

A well migratory

cold-blooded

a pin under the eyelid

and in the dream

waiting for passers-by

munching stars

and filling its belly with cries

Today

it is in this man’s breast

it bores and blackens

without affecting the vital organs

now it’s deeper than the roots of grass

than the roots of trees

deeper than the dead

now it crosses underground rivers

reefs of gold

then the man stands

more or less

stands

on his own ground

branches snap against his forehead

stones weigh down his jacket

let anyone who dares go and talk to him.

THE MERCIFUL SUNDAYS OF TECHNOLOGY

Miss Eleonora

who confuses the radio with the telephone

and the telephone with the voices

of the dead

she converses with

does not get on well with silence

But on rainy days

and especially on nights

with interference on all networks

the silence pulsates

an autonomous heart

under the skin of her right temple

exactly where she wore a rose

in certain other years

either because she’s always afraid

of losing her hearing

or because of two lovers

who passed through her life

at different times

spraying waters and the smell of metal

like transoceanic ships

Alone in the drawing-room

the furniture is simple

a few photographs on the wall

a little darkness left

in the bottom of the glass

Outside protected by the window

the city with the reddened eyes

of headlights and other latecomers

Inside

in the heart of the night

the white lace moon

of Miss Eleonora.

EVE’S DREAM

apropos of the pension the State awarded to the poet Alexander Gerov after his death

A frozen sea

with fractured waves

and fish in the underworld

All around people build

their swimming pools fit

tiles open sunloungers

A scene you enter for free

and pay when you leave.

PAPER CUTS

Observed by

museum attendants

iron lasts shorter

than clay

Of course

the question of materials’ endurance

does not concern diamond thieves

or one struck by the lightning

of a passing ankle

And so

I prepare my paper clothes

for the glaciers sliding down highways

and for my immortal soul.

SOMETIMES IN THE DARK

(poem that begins like a dream and ends in tears)

Sometimes gropingly

she gets up to drink a glass of water

the carpet trips her up

throws out floating fag-ends

midnight and the bee begins to

bite in the transistor

and she finds neither the glass nor anything

else to hold on to

her life constantly leaning

towards what’s next

she goes back to the room

but her bed isn’t there either

and what is left for her

but to carry on walking

like all these people

with their refugee trolleys

piled high with frying pans

and bedside tables and

new year cuckoos

as the snow covers the tracks

even of the innocent

and bridges fall on their backs

and communications are broken

and up above the moon a sucked sweet

drops its bait

and waits.

BALKAN NAIVE PAINTERS

And when they reached the final door

the judges asked them

(simply to amuse themselves)

what is it that

rises with a roar and suffering

flies with delight

and quietly falls

all in flames

Boeing, answered the fireman

My song, answered the silent one

The bird which flew

from end to end of my head and loved me,

answered the third (happy!)

the youngest brother

all in flames.

MISS ELEONORA TELLS OF A DISTANCE

He who dawned in my eyes

and was greeted by my blood with flags and horns

now lies on the bottom of the bay

under the red-bottomed boats

And the other a good talker

a beautiful imperative nakedness his

(he also lies on the bottom of the bay

under the red-bottomed boats)

How much water my heart contains.

Translated from Bulgarian by Jonathan Dunne

A selection of Iana Boukova’s poems appears in Take Five 07 published by Shoestring Press.

Anthology publication date: Jan 2010. Order this book in English.