I can't give you anything but love

to our world ad infinitum


Sarah Vaughan, "Tenderly"  |  http://youtu.be/kUjf5pPNmiI

I would have written this, and wished I could make my words dance to you like this, irrespective of how not-so-beautifully they would seem due to their inability to measure up to all the delicacy of these words-not-so-mine I bring you today… So I would have expressed you this all if I could… But I can’t. And I don’t even feel that I should. I am not a poet. Nevertheless, I catch myself letting poetry course through my veins, loving it all not only in such materialized forms but also, or especially, as a vast, astounding realm in which you find so much beauty ready to be appreciated, contemplated, touched with hands and eyes and skins – wholly experienced. Amongst a universe of poems I have ever entered in this frantic yet sweet existence of mine, of all us, these lines [by a Bulgarian poetess who remains unknown and not as honored as she really deserves] express better-ad infinitum what I deep-down would like to for now. Elisaveta’s wondrous poems, like this one herein, are a little out of the so-called [and, most of the time, unreasonable] literary canon… and unfortunately, because she is one of the most gifted artists I have ever touched with all my senses – and that’s what I would really like to share with you… In front of her poems, I feel in a complete state of wonder!

Poetry  Elisaveta Bagriana

If my glance were not blest–
with you, inside. Open-eyed to penetrate the darkness,
and to make it fly and dance for me,
grafting wings to it,
to teach it how to see the flower,
to see the future fruit in the a branch still bare,
and to land with an interstellar craft
on a star that twinkles there–
how could my eyes, deprived of such joy last,
if you did not exist?

If you had not pitched my ear–
so that in stillness I can hear
those words, someone whispers to enlist for me
words, that bring both care and cheer,
with nearby or distant voice,
from outer space or next door’s fence,
that reach me when full of remorse–
all that powerful richness of sense
my life would miss,
if you did not exist.

If you had not possessed my heart
from youth until this very hour,
poured all your song and thought in me–
so I might feel my sister’s hand
when I was helpless and alone,
so that your furnace could transmute
sorrow to a spark, into joyous-tones.

In: Penelope of the Twentieth Century. Translated by Brenda Walker, with Valentine Borrisov and Belin Tonchev. Forest Books, 1993.


Karime said…
gorgeous my friend!!
Carol P. said…
Thank you ad infinitum, dear Karime! I feel honored by you, my beloved friend - a major poetess in sensitiveness and excellence! Tim-tim!
Pretty Alliteration said…
So I miss you. So.
Larissa said…
lembrei-me de vc.

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