TWO POEMS

GEO MILEV TRANSLATED FROM BULGARIAN BY DOROTEA LECHKOVA

Art by Tim Peters

  • Признание 

     

    Ich liebe die hektischen, schlanken

    Narzissen mit blutrotem mund…

    Felix Dörmann

     

    В този час на вечерни измами

    мълча и печално предричам,

    предчувствам: туй що обичам 

    е болна надежда в душата ми:

     

    Обичам нервозните, болни

    нарциси с уста разкървавени ⎯

    сред сумрачни стаи, безволни,

    в самотност и страх изоставени:

     

    обичам онези безсърдечни 

    смарагди ⎯ зелени и лунни ⎯

    мечти белнострунни, далечни,

    пречупени в сънни лагуни;

     

    обичам змиите, унесени

    в див танец ⎯ тъй хладни, тъй ярки ⎯

    обичам полетата есенни

    с петна многоцветни и жарки;

     

    и тези жени меланхолни,

    с лица изморени и бледи

    ⎯ обичам усмивките болни,

    смеха им пред скучни поети;

     

    обичам горящите здания

    ⎯ сред ужас, и вечер, и буря ⎯

    и техните страшни сияния

    на стари канали в лазура;

     

    обичам аз всичко, което

    е пурпур в кантика печална, ⎯

    и болно посипва сърцето

    с ридаеща пепел кристална:

     

    ⎯ тъй както ти, странна! гадаеща!

    заплиташ с усмихнати взори

    душата ми в мрежа ласкаеща

    от влюбени тихи умори.

     

     

     

      *

     

     

     

    Луната, старата змия, съблича 

    ⎯ дълбоко в черни лесове ⎯ зелената

    си кожа.

              Студената

    и влажна нощна тишина е пълна

    с дъх на отровни бурени ⎯ в поличба

    се сплитат немите далечни мълнии

    и злобно гърчат мургавия лик

    на кръгозора. 

     

              В миг

                                  над тъмната стена на

    Света застана пурпурният Демон ⎯

    и в мрака пламна неговият вик:

                                  ⎯ ОСАННА!

    Ти спираш тук; От тук започвам Аз.


    Ще ту задам едно Защо: ⎯ о колко земен

    си ти, за да не чуеш своя глас!

    да не останеш в никой миг без чувство!

    Помни: Магията не е изкуство ⎯

    и злато няма да намериш ти!

    На дъното остава черен сок и яд ⎯

    ⎯ мъчение ⎯ и с него ти си кръстен!

    Затягай здраво пак жестокия 

    на свойта мисъл пръстен!

                                  Без мечти

    не ще останеш ти, но ⎯ те болят.

    ⎯ О знаеш ли де води твоят път? ⎯ 

    Нощта е без изходи. Аз съм Ти.

     

    Над кулата високо пропълзява

    луната, старата змия, с корава

    усмивка в жълтите очи.

  • by Dorotea Lechkova

     

    My hope with these translations of Geo Milev’s poetry is to bring the Bulgarian experience of the First World War to an English-speaking audience, as well as to revitalize international interest in the leading voice of Bulgarian modernism. I offer English-speaking readers two poems from 1920 that provide a glimpse into the Eastern European post-war era. In my translations of Milev’s poetry, I spotlight the poet’s experimentation with sound—a consistent use of consonants like szkdz, and ts in the Bulgarian, which convey the rejection of lyricism. Clusters of consonants strike jagged and dissonant notes, underscoring the nightmarish quality of the poems. These are ugly poems for revolting times. There is, however, a sort of elegance in the rigid unattractiveness of the sounds and the complexity of the linguistic experimentation. My translations also highlight Milev’s use of imagery—moons, snakes, woodlands, burning buildings, bloodied narcissi—that hints at a myriad of traumas. As a translator, I find that the most alluring aspect of Milev’s work is its grotesque strangeness that defines his poetic project and, at the same time, reveals the horrors of war.

      

    Geo Milev (1895–1925) is a Bulgarian poet, essayist, and public intellectual who founded the modernist journals Scales (1919–22) and Flame (1924–25). Although short-lived, these journals redefined established literary conventions and gave voice to Bulgarian writers and translators engaged in the broader European literary and cultural sphere. Much of Milev’s work reflects the personal trauma of World War I and the political and social turmoil of the postwar years in Bulgarian society. Shortly after the publication of the revolutionary poem “September” in 1924 Milev was detained, and his body was discovered years later in a mass grave.  

      

    Dorotea Lechkova holds a Ph.D. in Hispanic Studies and Comparative Literature from Washington University in St. Louis, an M.A. in Spanish from Saint Louis University, and an M. St. in Slavonic Studies from the University of Oxford. She has published journal articles in Confluencia: Revista hispànica de cultura y literatura and Bulgarian Studies. She is currently interested in translation, bilingual education, and children’s literature.

     

Confession 

 

Ich liebe die hektischen, schlanken

Narzissen mit blutrotem mund…

Felix Dörmann

   

In this hour of evening 

deceptions in silence and sorrow

I foresee, foretell, that what I 

love is diseased hope in my soul:

 

I love the neurotic, sickly

narcissi with blood-red

mouths in dusky rooms,

abandoned in loneliness and fear. 

 

I love the heartless emeralds⎯

green and lunar⎯like dreams on 

taut strings, distant, refracted

over dreamlike lagoons.

 

I love the snakes lost

in a savage dance⎯so cold, so bright⎯ 

I love the autumn fields 

with their vivid, fiery patches.

 

And these melancholic women, 

with fatigued, pallid faces

 ⎯I love their weak smiles, 

laughter before tedious poets.

 

I love burning buildings 

⎯amidst horror, the night, and the storm⎯ 

and their frightening radiance that leaves

grooves in the azure.

 

I love all that is 

crimson in sorrowful chants⎯

that truly splashes the heart

with doleful, crystal-like ash:

 

⎯just like you, strange! prophetic!

You entangle my soul with smiling

gazes in a flattering web of

enamored, silent languor.

 

 

 

* * * 

 

 

 

The moon, that old snake, 

strips its green skin deep in the

black woodlands.

          Cold and moist,

the evening silence is filled with the breath of

poisonous weeds. An ensnared omen of the

distant, mute lightning rods viciously

distorts the somber face of the horizon.

          In an instant

                              a crimson Demon

rose above the dark fences of world,

his cry enflamed the darkness:

                              ⎯HOSANNA!

You stop here. And from here, I begin.

 

I ask: Why? How mortal you must be,

unable to hear your own voice!

To not be left in some moment without feeling!

Remember: magic is not art⎯and you will

not find gold! Left at the bottom are dark

juices and venom⎯anguish⎯with

it you are baptized! Fasten the cruel ring

tightly around your thoughts!

                              You will not be left

without dreams, but⎯they are painful.

⎯Where does the path lead? Do you know?⎯

There are no exits in the night. I am you.

 

The moon crawls high above the tower,

that old snake, and in its yellow eyes, an

unyielding smile.