"the golden domes"

Winter poem

At the turn of the winter sea-

son(g)s rise to hail the Creator

The forest rumble and sway

and somber waves thunder and swell, roll over-

taken by the rugged wind

as bone-chilling squalls hurl giant

swaths of snow upon a distant harrowed field

where a seed has dropped ― to die

and bear

the fruit (of Man) ―

a prayer's unravelling to silence

_ _ _

"You fool! What you saw does not come to life unless it dies."

― 1 Corinthians 15:36

ЗИМНА ПОЕМА

(на Майка)

Край вълнолома на зимния сезон

песни се реят във възхвала на Създателя

Разлюляната гора бучи

повдигат се с грохот мрачни вълни, и падат

сломени от грубия вятър

и мразовити вихрушки запращат (вели)-

кански снопове от сняг надaлеч в разораното поле,

където едно зърно е паднало ― да си отиде

и прероди се

в нов (човешки) плод ―

една молитва се разплита в тишината

_ _ _

“Безумецо, що ти сееш, няма да оживее, ако не умре.” 

― 1 Коринтяни 15:36

"thirst"

For you, Dad!

"Aware" by Denise Levertov

When I found the door

I found the vine leaves

speaking among themselves in abundant

whispers.

My presence made them

hush their green breath,

embarrassed, the way

humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,

acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if

the conversation had ended

just before you arrived.

I liked

the glimpse I had, though,

of their obscure

gestures. I liked the sound

of such private voices. Next time

I'll move like cautious sunlight, open

the door by fractions, eavesdrop

peacefully.

― Denise Levertov

_ _ _

eternity bound

innate blind 

eyes wide shut

an un-fathomable love pass-

age footsteps fresh in the dust

a room with no exit

I enter, and stay

"skeletal"

"vortex"

"woolgathering"

"God told me if I painted it enough, I could have it."

― Georgia O'Keeffe

The old barn

"I don’t believe a person has a style. What people have is a way of photographing 

what is inside them. What is there comes out."

― Sebastião Salgado

linden blossoms

oh, this heavenly scent of lindens blossoming ― 

how cherished now, what once was taken for granted

traffic

"To have an inner life, to think, to juggle and leap, to become a tightrope walker
in the world of ideas. To attack, to riposte, to refute, what a contest, what acclaim.
To understand. The most generous word of all. Memory. To retain, a geyser of felicity.
Intelligence. The agonizing poverty of my mind. Words and ideas flitting in and out 
like butterflies. My brain a dandelion seed blown in the wind."

― Violette Leduc

"each word changes"

. . . "And there's no hour,

not the most promising or lucid or impartial,

not even the hour that brings no announcements of death,

that can equalize reflections,

adjust distances

and make the same words

say the same thing."

― Roberto Juarroz, from Each text, each word changes

Tulips ablaze

"Of all the girls who asked me if I remember them, 

the only one I remembered is the one who did not ask." 

"Malèna" (2000), the movie

The underpass

"Nothing can drive one closer to his own insanity 

than a haunting memory refusing its own death."

― Darnella Ford

Aberration

Portal

"The mirror is, after all, a utopia, since
it is a placeless place. In the mirror, I see myself there where I am not, in an unreal,
virtual space that opens up behind the surface; I am over there, there where I am not,
a sort of shadow that gives my own visibility to myself, that enables me to see myself
there where I am absent: such is the utopia of the mirror. . . .

But it is also a heterotopia in so far as
the mirror does exist in reality, where it exerts a sort of counteraction on the position
that I occupy. From the standpoint of the mirror I discover my absence from where I am
since I see myself over there. Starting from this gaze that is, as it were, directed toward me,
from the ground of this virtual space that is on the other side of the glass, I come back
toward myself I begin again to direct my eyes toward myself and to reconstitute myself
there where I am. The mirror functions as a heterotopia in this respect: it makes this place
that I occupy at the moment when I look at myself in the glass at once absolutely real,
connected with all the space that surrounds it, and absolutely unreal, since in order
to be perceived it has to pass through this virtual point which is over there."

― Michel Foucault, from "Of Other Spaces"

Vortex

Daybreak

How sweet

O, how scrumptious-sweet this season's apples
picked by hand from heavy branches bowing down

and how bitter-fowl in a month or two
if left uneaten