Emil Katsarov


Literature club | Emil Katsarov | new bulgarian literature


From „A Saga about the Lake Garden, Lapis Animatus“ (2003) and some other poems


Emil Katsarov



A Treatise about the Dragon-Fly



The wings - tiny sunlight gleams,
semi-transparent fans of geishas, buzzing
among the leaves of a peach-tree,
The silhouette - elevated like a ritual bark
at the approach of a great water-fall,
in a moment will fall apart
as though by its own motion absorbed,
The blazing up memory of herbs and the body's glittering,
as an echo of a lulling flute,
in my mind are distinctly whistling:
I am getting up, the flight of an insect,
the beautiful figure,
with the high grass I quiver...




Bees smelling sweetly of sunlight,
golden ornaments among the shadows,
the green dusk and the blue of the ocean,
are spreading out tenderly on her dress…
Whether it is a morn or an unseen silhouette
painted by a peacock feather,
or a Beloved, whom I've lost,
and only now, in my thoughts,
at dawn her steps are turning out…
I kiss her warm shoulders,
a cold moon suddenly emerges
midst of the colors of her dress.
I wake up exactly at midnight,
my bed, an enormous turtle,
through the immaterial walls
of memories conducts me…



My Memory of You


I am pressing my lips on the glass of the window.
Outside, the snowflakes whisper
/I sense it from their motions/
the poem of your body,
I know, I feel
how your lips are sticking to the wall
that sets you apart from my touches,
I make a final effort - I know,
the snowflakes are non-existing,
they are just a fruit of my thought,
at this summer night
snow is unreal,
its lulling whisper
freezes my body,
have I loved or I haven't,
/I do love… /, I am pressing my lips
on the glass of the window,
juicy October pears,
grapes and sweetness - you are delicious,
my dear, who will be the gardener,
who will take care of your branches
                                      laden with fruits,
I am not sad,
just the winter wind is blowing your hair,
and I am drinking the milk of this night,
my memory of you…



She and the Bed


A bed of dazzling birds,
golden feathers, pure light,
their bodies - sun beams,
tremble, touched by her smiles,
and her figure,
a breeze untwining
their songs, their plumage ,
flooded with morning dusk
/as sunlight silk
sunk into the depths of fresh shades/.


She vanishes into the light
of this gleaming bed,
and her beautiful shapes
   barely hinted - like juicy
but immaterial fruits,
   are inviting me shyly
   to taste their sweetness...



* * *


The color of these irises -
- her shadow coming into green leaves
and the brooklet murmur singing quietly
from her soft outlines,
a tree altering imperceptibly,
a touch full with tenderness,
vanishing wind, misty landscapes
and limpid rains,
the color of these irises,
I just want to lay down...
and dream of her.



* * *


Golden-haired silence stands
on the window frame
and calls me to jump,
into her body, among the stars...



* * *


Fallen in love with the sunny spot on the floor,
unnoticeably I am taking the shape of a crane, coming
out of its light...



* * *


The airy touch of your lips
reaches my face
and sows green landscapes into my eyes.



A Vase from Dynasty Tan


Colorful birds, a branch of a blooming peach,
and an old-time porcelain vase,
on which the hand of an unknown painter
has spread them out, making their outlines
as if they were fog and wind...
Inside the vase it's dark and deep as an echo.
Just hinted shapes of two ominous creatures
get out of the dark, get of the echo, of the pain
in your temporal bone.
You are almost lost.
But promptly something happens,
the creatures are merging,
a white-sparkling marble blazes,
the vase tilts - and you are saved -
on the table the darkness is poured down,
and from its blindness
the new Universe, flooded with light,



De Profundis


A wide-open mouth of a bottom fish,
widely open, my eyes absorb the light,
only now do I see the clouds,
beneath them
the reddish clay of the town
seems like a slough of a dragon,
melted into the island's plateau;
a wide-open mouth of a bottom fish -
- the outlines of the fortress
show scarlet like frozen blood
of an ancient soldier,
the reddish clay of the town
crumbles silently,
the almost endless wink
of my eyelids puts the clay asleep,
as if Time coils up
into the shape of the sun,
burning under the surface
of my temples,
widely open,
my eyes penetrate through the walls:
the non-persisting material
/vanishing in seconds/
of people dressed in white tunics;
the market-place appearance
like charming feathers
of a parrot
made of colored sands
/in an instant rubbed out by the wind careless/;
the moon in the gull's pupils
/fading away at dawn/;
the visions of the tattooed priest
who talks with gods
and from the moon-dish
serves his offerings;
the scriptures of the Bookman
and his hieroglyphs quivering
like graceful birds...
The mouth closes deafly
like a latch of an ancient gate,
seen in a dream,
then a momentary darkness comes,
In my soul I feel
the whiteness of the walls
in the room where I am locked;
stink of chloriated lime ,
of men's sweat
and bean farts,
Recruiting Military Centre,
Yambol, July 2000;
The sky is vast beyond the window,
in another room
endless like sunshine,
my eyes commence to see,
there the island and the reddish town
are lightweight like breeze
mixed with a nightingale's song
I imagine;
A bireme,
less material than a moon night,
cuts into the shore,
the mouth opens;
into the tunnel I sink till next dawn, till next life;
the scales glitter as a thought,
as uncompleted poem,
the sail ship cuts the sidereal anchor
into the hills, the eyelids close,
when I wake up...
who I shall be?






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