Rupchev: Moving

It's a winter morning.  These people are moving house today,
the truck is waiting, its driver calmly frowning
and they load up their life, couch, and extending table;
the new place is on the other side of town.
They lived here sixteen years and four months,
with the walnut bedroom set, the children's cots;
they barely got the three-section wardrobe out,
hopefully the door at the new place will be taller.
They are quiet in the snow, the rope slips and twists,
then they load the desk, the refrigerator, the two buffets,
the lampshade, wall-hanging, pots with two dry ficuses -
and love, bound up tightly in blue bundles.
Finally and at last it's loaded -
two boxes with pictures and valued shells
and the twice-glued teapot from the wedding,
and the inherited rug eaten away by footsteps.
So the driver zips up his jacket,
and the kids wait on the corner with a radio
and the wife wrings her hands and sobs a bit,
and gets in up top with her husband, and they set off.

Georgi Rupchev: The Call of the Rivers

These are my rivers,
I hear
how their waters beat.
I just stumble into them,
without seeking them -
I'm always forgetting where they are.
Somewhere a pile of clothes left behind me -
and splash -
I'm a new owner,
though beaten,
overcome,
confused,
transparent,
diluted.
In the first of them
my friend and I jumped in
and I don't know
which
of us swam out.
The one
who came out,
had cut his ankle;
was it him
or me -
I couldn't tell,
but it was only one.

Whichever was me, it doesn't matter;
more grown up,
on my own
I went into the second,
went in on my own.
Strung a rock about
my neck with wire
and lay on the bottom
until the iron rusted,
then stood up, stretched a bit,
and said: "I am myself!"
And I got clear of the slime.

In the third -
very late
midnight and probably drunk
I threw myself in.
I don't remember how -
however it was -
I was washed up on dry land.
In unknown lands I awoke
and when I decided to return,
I met peoples
whose languages
where meaningless to me.
There I wandered,
and with muddled head went toward the river,
I could hear only the river,
but I didn't know
where it was.

I loved faithful wives, I drank with their husbands,
and headed onwards,
without asking
about the river -
where its source
or to where it flowed.
With how much sweat I salted its sweet rapids,
how much blood it washed away,
how many wounds it closed,
as we played with the water,
as I dove
and sank to the bottom,
how contentedly I shot up
for a gulp of air above,
then how I buried myself
in its bubbling reefs.
From river to river -
through the rivers -
I finally found myself in
a dry river bed -
only a sign of a river,
but the sky above it was still damp.
I hear them,
I hear how their waters beat
I hear how they bear me onward.

Andrey Filipov: Lines Written under a Summer Oak

Lines Written under a Summer Oak (1965)


On the rickety table in front of me,
a hundred leaves of paper wait.
Thoughtless and white
they make me think
that the earth is flat
like them.

Suddenly a leaf flies down from
the sky - at least a hundred colors -
but I can't read it,
seated here in the cool
of this summer oak
at this disappointed table.

Vaklev (of course)...I stand powerless before you

I stand powerless before you...

Please don't notice that I'm trembling

like a leaf ready to fall.

This has nothing to do with my years,

which weigh on me like mortal wounds.

The flame of belated youth

erupts in my soul.

My feelings are like lava,

bubbling with giddy love

and irrepressible hate...

Just don't abandon me.

I'm trembling, trembling with fear

that I will never see you,

that I will never meet you again.

Немощен пред тебе се изправям...

Ти не гледай, че треперя

като лист пред падане.

Нищо общо нямат тук годините,

натежали върху ми като смъртни рани.

Във дупата ми изригва пламъкът

на позакъсняла младост.

Чувствата ми са като лава,

от която блика шеметна любов

и нестихваща омраза...

Само не ме изоставяй.

Треперя, треперя от страх,

че никога няма да те видя,

че няма да те срещна никога.

Vaklev: Surely you're not asleep!

Yet another.

Surely you're not asleep!

Get up.

Lift your head.

Look, the stars are calling you.

Set forth according to

their faithful compass.

The wind,

the faithful night wind

will be your guide.

It will show you

the hidden paths

travelled only

by snow-white deer

and thrilling feelings,

feelings

long forgotten.

Therefore go

beneath the whispering leaves -

listen,

they make declarations of love.

Remember

the tender words

of the past.

These are the passwords

which you must speak

to set out on the path

of the deer -

the gentlest

and most beautiful.

Don't stop,

keep going!

If you turn back,

you're done for and

you will never

catch up to

the light.

Нима ще спиш!

Изправи се.

Повдигни глава.

Виж, звездите те зоват.

Тръгни на път

по техния верен компас.

Вятърът,

верният нощен вятър

ще ти бъде водач.

Той ше ти покаже

скритите пътеки,

по които минават

само сърни белоснежни

и чувства трепетни,

чувства,

отдавна забравени.

Затова мини

под листата шепнещи,

чуй,

те се обясняват в любов.

Пропомни си

словата нежни

от миналото.

Туй е паролата,

която трябва да изречеш,

за да преминеш по тази пътека,

на сърните -

най-красивите

и най-нежните.

Не спирай,

продължавй напред!

Ако се върнеш,

с тебе е свършено.

Никога вече

няма да догониш

светлината.

Vaklev: We are baked like clay

You guessed it!  More Vaklev.  (Не, сериозно. Как познахте?)

We are baked like clay,

stripped naked by savage winds.

We are craked like clay,

in which the sun has sunk thirsty lips.

We are slippery like clay,

which a fierce rain has tried to wash away.

But on our scraped surface the gentle

stars will gaze at their reflections again,

and in our painful fissures

grass will grow again,

innocently green and tender.

Спечени сме като глината,

обрулена до голо от ветрове сурови.

Напукани сме като глината,

в която слънцето е впило устни жадни.

Хлъзгави сме като глината,

която дъжд яростен е искал да отмие.

Но кротките звезди в остърганата ни повърхност

отново се оглеждат,

а в болезнените ни пукнатини

отново никне трева,

невинно зелена и нежна.

Vaklev: Take off your formal clothes

One more of Vaklev.  Translation is my own.

Take off your formal clothes.

Those are not just clothes,

but robes of hypocrisy.

The tie – a noose to hang

everything dear to you,

the shirt, corpse-colored -

even real corpses wouldn't want it.

The suit-coffin,

in which are sealed up

the purest reflections

of the sun.

Throw off these poor

masquerade rags.

The ball will end sooner or later.

You must have time

to spend naked and alone

with yourself.

Sooner is better.

Later on will be too late.

Свали си официалните дрехи.

Това не са просто дрехи,

а одежди на лицемерието.

Връзката – примка за бесене

на всичко, което ти е скъпо,

ризата, с цвят на мъртвец -

нея не я искат и истински мъртвите.

Костюмът-ковчег,

в който са заключени

най-чистите отражения

на слънцето.

Захвърли тези жалки

маскарадни парцали.

Балът рано или късно ще свърши.

Трябва да имаш време

да останеш гол и насаме

със себе си.

По-добре рано.

После ще е късно.