Translator’s Note

Stoil Roshkev’s “Поетите не са това” is a poem that rattles, mocks and sings. It’s an irreverent catalogue of what poets are not and its wild cataloguing builds momentum through strings of phrases where sound often precedes sense: combinations of nouns and adjectives chosen less for rational semantic criteria than for shock value, alliteration, and the simple joy of repeating syllables. Roshkev clearly had a lot of fun stacking these units, and it is this sonic play, as much as meaning, that gives the poem its pulse. 

To translate this poem is to confront the very question of fidelity: what must one be faithful to—the semantic content, the cultural references, or sheer sound?

A literal rendering would often betray the poem’s spirit. Take, for instance, “перколясали бели лястовици”—literally, “deranged white swallows.” The white swallow is a layered symbol in Bulgarian: rare good fortune, the promise of healing in a classic short story by Yordan Yovkov. The phrase is heavy with cultural resonance. But alongside this weight, the Bulgarian carries the lilting repetition of л, с, and и sounds. My version—“certifiably frenzied finches”—abandons the cultural resonance in order to achieve a fluttering sound pattern in English.

One of the most playful phrases in the poem is “нагли баби яги с нацупени дупета”—literally, “brazen Baba Yagas with pouting little bottoms.” The doubled syllables give the line a comic rhythm, as if the sound itself mocks the image. I rendered this as “grim grannies with grumpy bums,” an infidelity that drops the culture-specific Baba Yaga but eachos the original’s alliterative bounce.

The poem also reads as a manifesto against stereotypes, and a literal rendition of such key lines would be:

Poets are born in

matte reflections among

the tender-peach gardens of Creation

with linguistic tics and

horned prerogatives

to prick their listeners through

avalanche accusations,

fierce retorts, and

surreal surprises

of the kind that

the flung bouquets

behind cemeteries are not only flowers,

but also hands.

Trying to use alliteration and assonance to preserve the idea of this elemental, volatile force that refuses to be confined, I’ve come up with this:

They’re born in

the subdued sparkle and sheen

of the fruity and fragrant garden of the Gods,

with twitching tongues,

with the prickly privilege

to pierce their listeners

with torrents of truths,

rumbling ruthless retorts,

and uncanny discoveries—like

saying the flowers flung around graves,

rather than mere wilted wreaths,

are indeed arms, reaching out.

In translating this poem, I found myself negotiating constantly between what to lose and what to amplify. In such passages, fidelity to “meaning” alone would silence the poem’s unruly music. My translation instead seeks fidelity to play: to the sound-driven, list-making exuberance that makes Roshkev’s catalogues fizz with both nonsense and revelation. 

What emerged in my English text is not a mirror but a parallel composition, one that aims to thunder and crackle like the “blueberry bolts of lightning” of the original.

—Rosalia Ignatova