Tag Archives: Bulgarian literature

Bulgarian Literature Month June 2016

8 Replies

Regular readers of this blog will know that Bulgarian literature is very dear to me. This year, I am planning to devote one month to reading exclusively Bulgarian literature.

Since Bulgarian is a so-called “small” language (small regarding the number of speakers, but not of course regarding the literary potential) and is not located in a region that is usually very much in the centre of attention, not much Bulgarian literature is being translated. But there are a few hopeful developments. The Elizabeth Kostova Foundation supports the translation of Bulgarian literature in English, the Traduki program sponsors translations in German and South-Eastern European languages and there are now also translation grants from the Bulgarian Ministry of Culture/National Cultural Fund plus a few smaller initiatives that also support translations in specific languages.

One of my own modest attempts to support and promote Bulgarian literature is this blog where I frequently review Bulgarian books or translate as a teaser a few lines of poetry by various authors. I firmly believe in the potential of the Bulgarian literature also to be interesting for an international audience. Therefore I will this year have my personal Bulgarian Literature Month in June.

During this month I will publish reviews, a few translations, and maybe a few other things related to Bulgarian literature. More details will follow in May, but for busy readers and bloggers, this early announcement might give you time to think about if you would like to join with at least one post.

There will be no rules, except that the posts need to be related to Bulgarian literature in the widest sense; non-fiction is allowed too, as are books written by Bulgarian-born authors that write in another language, or other works that have in the widest sense a connection with Bulgaria.

If you are a book blogger and you are interested to join, send me a short note. If you don’t have a blog of your own but would be interested to review a book, email me as well. I am considering also to allow guest posts during this month.

In May I will make a few reading suggestions and post more information. A few ideas you can get already from an article by Svetlozar Zhelev in Words Without Borders, but there is more to discover.

It is an experiment and it will be interesting to see if someone is joining in this somehow exotic reading month. 

© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-6. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

aus: Verbotenes Meer von Blaga Dimitrova

Leave a reply

В началото бе Словото,
а в края – безсловесен?
Приемам смъртта,
както детето не я приема.
Забранено море!
За въображението
забраненото е
като вятър за огъня.
Словото е моето
открито море.
Хвърлям се в него
сама със слово в гърлото
като камък на шията.
Потъвам, потъвам –
запечатана бутилка,
за да изплувам в слово.

Думи, времекрушенци-думи,
мои сираци-думи,
стигнете до някакъв бряг
и тръгнете по стръмното
с подпухнали жени на раздавач.

Думи, сплетени в корабно въже,
завързани в примка на бесилка.
Думи, повтаряни и преповтаряни
напевно, както в училище за заекващи.
Думи, безчерупкови охлюви,
полазили по стената нагоре
към тавана, все към тавана.
Думи, набрани билки за болки,
думи, изкоренени дървета,
преметнати над въртопа
до другия ронещ се бряг.
Думи, ръкомахащи като глухонеми,
за да изразят МОРЕ-ВРЕМЕ-МЕНЕ.
Думи, написани с дъха ми по вода.

Забранено море,
в теб искам да проникна чрез словото
навътре, навътре до корена ти,
усукан от улегналост и от вълнение,
дълбоко, дълбоко до самото дъно,
за да извадя шепа небе.
Непримиримо море,
бъди ми пример
как да изхвърлям от себе си
тленното и нечистото.
Море, бъди ми
измерение.

Преглъщам соления горчилак на словото:
     СОЛ, СЪЛЗА, СИЛА, СЛОВО.
     Ако и словото ми забранят,
     ще приема смъртта,
     за да освободя словото
     за своето прераждане.

Im Anfang war das Wort,
und am Ende  – die Sprachlosigkeit?
Ich nehme den Tod an,
so wie ihn das Kind nicht annimmt.
Verbotenes Meer!
Für die Vorstellungskraft
ist es das Verbotene
wie Wind für das Feuer.
Das Wort ist mein
offenes Meer.
Ich werfe mich hinein
allein mit dem Wort in der Kehle
wie ein Stein um den Hals.
Ich versinke, versinke –
eine versiegelte Flasche,
um im Wort wieder aufzutauchen.

Worte, von der Zeit verbrauchte Worte,
meine Waisen-Worte,
erreichen irgendeine Küste
und nehmen den Anstieg
mit den geschwollenen Venen eines Briefträgers.

Worte, geflochten zu einem Schiffstau,
zu einem Galgenstrick geschlungen.
Worte, wiederholt und wiedergekäut
melodisch, wie in einer Schule für Stotterer.
Worte, Nacktschnecken
die die Wand nach oben kriechen
zur Decke, weiter zur Decke.
Worte, gepflückte Kräuter gegen Schmerzen,
Worte, entwurzelte Bäume,
über den Strudel geschlungen
zum anderen bröckelnden Ufer.
Worte, gestikulierend wie Taubstumme
um auszudrücken MEER-ZEIT-MICH.
Worte, mit meinem Atem ins Wasser geschrieben.

Verbotenes Meer,
in dich will ich mit dem Wort eindringen,
drinnen, ins Innere deiner Wurzel,
verdreht durch die Schwerkraft und durch die Strömung,
tief, tief zum Grund,
um eine Handvoll Himmel hervorzuholen.
Unversöhnliches Meer,
sei mein Vorbild
wie man das Vergängliche und Unreine
von sich abwirft.
Meer, sei mein
Maß.

Ich schlucke die salzige Bitterkeit des Worts:
     SALZ, TRÄNE, STÄRKE, WORT.
     Wenn sie mir auch das Wort verbieten,
     werde ich den Tod annehmen,
     um das Wort zu befreien
     für seine Wiedergeburt.

Aus dem Bulgarischen von Thomas Hübner

Blaga Dimitrova: Forbidden Sea – Забранено море, bi-lingual edition, transl. by Ludmilla G. Popova-Wightman and Elizabeth Anne Socolow, Ivy Press, Princeton, NJ, 2002

Blaga Dimitrova: Забранено море, Georgi Bakalov, Varna 1976

© Ivy Press, 2002
© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Drei Gedichte von Iglika Dionisieva

2 Replies

Обяд

Благодаря ти, Господи,
че след градушката
оставяш и за мен:
някоя и друга череша,
някоя и друга пчела
в градината ми,
някое и друго
стихотворение               
за написване

 

Mahlzeit
 
Danke, Herr,
dass du nach dem hagel
mir lässt:
die eine oder andere kirsche,
die eine oder andere biene
in meinem garten,
das eine oder andere
gedicht
zum aufschreiben

————————————————————

Кислород

1.

Проливен дъжд.
между очите на кайманите
Лилии цъфтят.

2.

Рибите са медиуми
в порите на водата
Махалото на пясъка сияе.

3.

Морето е следствие
от целувките на мидите
Водата ми горчи от спомени.   

   

Sauerstoff
 
1.
 
Sintflutartiger regen.
zwischen den augen der kaimane
blühen lilien.
 
2.
 
Fische sind medien
in den poren des wassers
das uhrwerk des sandes glänzt.
 
3.
 
Das meer ist eine folge
der küsse von muscheln
mein wasser ist bitter von erinnerungen.

————————————————————

Планините са тези
които
имат нещо да ми кажат
но мълчат и черно-синьо
многозначителстват
а върховете им белеят
и ме викат с поглед
и ме притеглят близо-близо
близко е това което казват
докато аз потъвам
в техните лавини
и се давя в хоризонта
самоуверено надвисват
върху мене
засенчват ме
като избистрени желания
има ли за мене знак и ехо
ето
Планините никога не могат
да бъдат толкова големи
че да мерят образ с тебе

 

Die Berge sind diejenigen
die
mir etwas zu sagen haben
aber schwarz-blau und
vielsagend schweigen
und ihre gipfel erbleichen
und rufen mich mit einem blick
und ziehen mich ganz nah heran
nahe ist das was sie sagen
während ich in ihren
lawinen versinke
und am horizont ertrinke
bewusst hängen sie sich
an mich
überschatten mich
wie klargewordene wünsche
gibt es ein zeichen für mich und ein echo
hier ist es
Die berge können nie
so groß sein
um sich mit deinem abbild zu messen

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 
Иглика Дионисиева (Iglika Dionisieva): Déjà vu Hug, Scalino, 2015

          
Texte in diesem Blogpost übersetzt aus dem Bulgarischen von Thomas Hübner

© Iglika Dionisieva and Scalino, 2015
© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Reading/Reviewing Plans

9 Replies

The end of the year is approaching with fast steps. This year I haven’t been so active as a blogger as last year until recently – German Lit Month brought me back to the usual pace – and I have done more blog posts on poetry and translations than the year before; also I did more posts in German and one in Bulgarian too. Book blogging is a dynamic process and the focus of such places will always be subject to small unplanned changes, but I will keep also in the next year my habit to publish reviews of books that were interesting to me.

As you already know when you follow this blog on a regular basis, my taste in books is rather eclectic. I am definitely not a person who is permanently scanning bestseller lists or is jumping in on discussions about books that were – usually for marketing reasons – the “talk of the town”. Therefore I avoided so far reviewing books by Houellebecq or Knausgård; it is difficult to not be influenced by the public discussion that focuses frequently on aspects that have very little to do with the literary quality of the books by such authors but a lot with their public persona and their sometimes very controversial opinions about certain topics. Not that the books by these authors are necessarily bad, but I prefer to read without too much background noise. So I will come also to these authors, but most probably not in the near future.

My blog tries to be diverse, but without quota. But of course my choice is subjective and I am aware of the fact that probably most readers will find many authors/books on this list that are completely unknown to them. If you look for just another blog that is reviewing again and again the same exclusively Anglo-saxon authors, then this might not be the best place for you. If you are eager to discover something new, then you are most welcome. 

There are no ads on this blog and this will also not change in the future. There is zero financial interest from my side to keep this blog alive, I do it just for fun. Please don’t send unsolicitated review copies if you are an author or a publisher. In rare cases I might accept a review copy when contacted first but only when I have already an interest in the book. All blog posts contain of course my own – sometimes idiosyncratic – opinion for what it is worth. In general I tend to write reviews on the positive side. When a book disappoints me, I tend to not write a review unless there is a strong reason to do otherwise.

These are the books presently on my “To-be-read” pile; which means they are the one’s that i will most probably read and review within the coming months. But as always with such lists, they are permanently subject to changes, additions, removals. Therefore I (and also the readers of this blog) will take this list as an orientation and not as a strict task on which I have to work one by one. 

Chinua Achebe: Things Fall Apart

Jim al-Khalili: The House of Wisdom

Ryunosunke Akutagawa: Kappa

Rabih Alameddine: The Hakawati

Sinan Antoon: The Corpse Washer

Toufic Youssef Aouad: Le Pain

Abhijit Banerjee / Esther Duflo: Poor Economics

Hoda Barakat: Le Royaume de cette terre

Adolfo Bioy Casares: The Invention of Morel

Max Blecher: Scarred Hearts

Nicolas Born: The Deception

Thomas Brasch: Vor den Vätern sterben die Söhne

Joseph Brodsky: On Grief and Reason

Alina Bronsky: Just Call Me Superhero

Alina Bronsky: The Hottest Dishes of the Tartar Cuisine

Dino Buzzati: The Tartar Steppe

Leila S. Chudori: Pulang

Beqe Cufaj: projekt@party 

Mahmoud Darwish: Memory of Forgetfulness

Oei Hong Djien: Art & Collecting Art

Dimitre Dinev: Engelszungen (Angel’s Tongues)

Anton Donchev: Time of Parting

Jabbour Douaihy: June Rain

Michael R. Dove: The Banana Tree at the Gate

Jennifer DuBois: A Partial History of Lost Causes

Isabelle Eberhardt: Works

Tristan Egolf: Lord of the Barnyard

Deyan Enev: Circus Bulgaria

Jenny Erpenbeck: The End of Days

Patrick Leigh Fermor: Mani

Milena Michiko Flašar: I called him Necktie

David Fromkin: A Peace to End All Peace

Carlos Fuentes: Terra Nostra

Amitav Ghosh: In an Antique Land

Georg K. Glaser: Geheimnis und Gewalt (Secret and Violence)

Georgi Gospodinov: Natural Novel

Georgi Gospodinov: The Physics of Sorrow

Elizabeth Gowing: Edith and I

David Graeber: The Utopia of Rules

Garth Greenwell: What Belongs to You

Knut Hamsun: Hunger

Ludwig Harig: Die Hortensien der Frau von Roselius

Johann Peter Hebel: Calendar Stories

Christoph Hein: Settlement

Wolfgang Hilbig: The Sleep of the Righteous

Albert Hofmann / Ernst Jünger: LSD

Hans Henny Jahnn: Fluss ohne Ufer (River without Banks) (Part II)

Franz Jung: Der Weg nach unten

Ismail Kadare: Broken April

Ismail Kadare: The Palace of Dreams

Douglas Kammen and Katharine McGregor (Editors): The Contours of Mass Violence in Indonesia: 1965-1968

Rosen Karamfilov: Kolene (Knees)

Orhan Kemal: The Prisoners

Irmgard Keun: Nach Mitternacht

Georg Klein: Libidissi

Friedrich August Klingemann: Bonaventura’s Nightwatches

Fatos Kongoli: The Loser

Theodor Kramer: Poems

Friedo Lampe: Septembergewitter (Thunderstorm in September)

Clarice Lispector: The Hour of the Star

Naguib Mahfouz: The Cairo Trilogy

Curzio Malaparte: Kaputt

Thomas Mann: Joseph and His Brothers

Sandor Marai: Embers

Sean McMeekin: The Berlin-Baghdad Express

Multatuli: Max Havelaar

Alice Munro: Open Secrets

Marie NDiaye: Three Strong Women

Irene Nemirovsky: Suite française 

Ben Okri: The Famished Road

Laksmi Pamuntjak: The Question of Red

Victor Pelevin: Omon Ra

Georges Perec: Life. A User’s Manual

Leo Perutz: By Night Under the Stone Bridge

Boris Pilnyak: Mahogany

Alek Popov: Black Box

Milen Ruskov: Thrown Into Nature

Boris Savinkov: Memoirs of a Terrorist

Eric Schneider: Zurück nach Java

Daniel Paul Schreber: Memoirs of My Nervous Illness

Carl Seelig: Wandering with Robert Walser

Victor Serge: The Case of Comrade Tulayev

Anthony Shadid: House of Stones

Varlam Shalamov: Kolyma Tales

Raja Shehadeh: A Rift in Time

Alexander Shpatov: #LiveFromSofia

Werner Sonne: Staatsräson?

Andrzej Stasiuk: On the Way to Babadag

Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar: The Time Regulation Institute

Pramoedya Ananta Toer: A Mute’s Soliloquy

Pramoedya Ananta Toer: The Buru Quartet (4 vol.)

Lionel Trilling: The Middle of the Journey

Iliya Trojanov: The Collector of Worlds

Bernward Vesper: Die Reise (The Journey)

Robert Walser: Jakob von Gunten

Peter Weiss: The Aesthetics of Resistance

Edith Wharton: The Age of Innocence

Marguerite Yourcenar: Coup de Grace

Galina Zlatareva: The Medallion

Arnold Zweig: The Case of Sergeant Grisha

Stay tuned – and feel free to comment any of my blog posts. Your contributions are very much appreciated. You are also invited to subscribe to this blog if you like.

© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Drei Gedichte von Mehmed Karahüseinov

Leave a reply

За меда и мухите

Подлостта винаги е кръжала
над и около доблестта. 
Дори на една доблест
са се падали сума ти подлости,
тъй както стотици мухи
са плюли на капчица мед…
И ако те не са възприемали нещо от нея,
то не значи,
че вече е нула – 
доблестта си е доблест,
дори да са я оплюли.

(1986)

 

Über den Honig und die Fliegen

Der Verrat hat immer
über und um die Tapferkeit geschwebt.
Selbst bei einer Tapferkeit
unter all den vielen Gemeinheiten,
so wie Hunderte von Fliegen
einen Tropfen Honig beschmutzen…
Und wenn sie nichts davon wahrnehmen,
bedeutet das nicht,
dass sie deshalb schon ein Nichts ist –
Tapferkeit bleibt Tapferkeit,
sogar wenn sie beschmutzt wurde.

(1986)

 

——————————————————————————–

 

СТАЙНО ЦВЕТЕ

За мене твърде неудачно свърши лятото –
интервенции от кръста до шията…
Сняг наваля, а аз съм заел место
до мушкатото –
пуснах корени в тази стая,
както то в саксията.
За мене твърде задъхана беше тази есен –
кратки разходки с пре дълги почивки…
Сняг наваля, а аз стоя на балкона
като заглъхнала песен
някъде на най-трудната си извивка.
Снегът вали на парцали –
чувам това шумолене.
Хубава зима, а аз не мога да дишам.
Щърба ще бъде лакираната ви история
без мене…
Цъфна мушкатото –
призори на прозореца ще се впишем.

25, 11, 1988 г.

 

Zimmerblume

Für mich endet der Sommer ziemlich unglücklich –
Behandlungen von der Hüfte bis zum Hals…
Es schneit, und ich sitze
bei den Geranien –
ich habe Wurzeln in diesem Zimmer geschlagen
wie in einem Topf.
Für mich war dieser Sommer ziemlich atemlos –
kurze Spaziergänge mit sehr langen Ruhepausen…
Es schneit, und ich sitze auf dem Balkon
wie ein verklingendes Lied
irgendwo nahe der mühsamsten Windung.
Der Schnee fällt in Fetzen –
ich höre dieses leise Rascheln.
Ein schöner Winter, und ich kann nicht atmen.
Lückenhaft wird eure lackierte Geschichte
ohne mich sein…
Blühende Geranien –
Vor der Morgendämmerung werden sie sich dem Fenster einschreiben.

25.11.1988

 

——————————————————————————–

 

Добрите хора си отиват незабележимо,
без шествия помпозни,
без пищни некролози…
Добрите си отиват незабележимо –
тихичко,
за да не ни тревожат,
но дълго след смъртта им
съвестта ни гложди.
 
Die guten Menschen gehen unbemerkt von uns,
ohne pompöse Aufmärsche,
ohne umfangreiche Nachrufe …
Die Guten gehen unbemerkt –
still,
um uns nicht zu beunruhigen,
aber noch lange nach ihrem Tod
nagt es an unserem Gewissen.
 

——————————————————————————–

 

Mehmed Karahüseinov (1945-1990) war ein bulgarischer Dichter und Übersetzer türkischer Abstammung.

Um gegen die von den Kommunisten betriebene sog. “Wiedergeburtspolitik”, eine gegen die bulgarischen Bürger türkischer Abstammung gerichtete Politik der ethnischen Zwangsassimilierung und Vertreibung, die u.a. zur Ausweisung Hunderttausender Bulgaren durch ihren Staat und zwangsweise Namensänderung der im Land verbliebenen Bulgaren türkischer Abstammung führte, zu protestieren, unternahm Karahüseinov am 2. Februar 1985, einen Tag vor seiner erzwungenen Namensänderung, eine versuchte Selbstverbrennung. Er konnte jedoch, schwerstverbrannt und entstellt, gerettet werden. Karahüseinov verstarb 1990 an den Spätfolgen.

Die Politik der Zwangsbulgarisierung in den 1980er Jahren ist bis heute ein Tabuthema in Bulgarien, das erst nach und nach in einer breiteren Öffentlichkeit diskutiert wird.

Mehmed

Мехмед Карахюсеинов: Болката на откровението (Mehmed Karahüseinov: Der Schmerz der Offenbarung), Mehmed Karahüseinov-Meto Stiftung, Sofia 2015

Übersetzung aus dem Bulgarischen: Thomas Hübner

© Mehmed Karahüseinov
© Stiftung Mehmed Karahüseinov-Meto, 2015
© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

An evening with books and writers

2 Replies

Although I am working in another city in another country, I am frequently in Sofia, Bulgaria – the place I call my home since many years now. One reason is of course that I have close friends there and that therefore I am very much attached to this place. Another important reason is the fact that Sofia has kind of re-invented itself in the last years as a really bookish place.

There are a growing number of well-equipped book stores (new and antiquarian) including a French and an English book store, an open book market, several coffee shops where you can read and buy books and a great number of book-related events, including two book fairs, an Alley of Books once a year at Vitoshka (Vitosha Boulevard), the pedestrian area in the centre, and plenty of book presentations and public readings by authors.

The number of published titles has exploded in the last years, including the number of translated titles. For some languages it seems to be easier to find the book translated in Bulgarian than in English – and I am talking of real literature, not only the fast food literature that is so successful nowadays. Yes, people are reading again, much more so as compared to ten years ago – and this although the average incomes are small compared to Western Europe and although books are expensive for Bulgarians because of the small circulation of most editions and the exorbitant taxes on books (20% VAT!).

And since a few months, Sofia has a new attraction for book lovers. The National Palace of Culture (NDK), a brutalist piece of architecture built in 1981 to celebrate 1300 years Bulgaria, hosts the literature club Peroto (The Feather), a 24/7 open venue that is a combination between coffee shop, library, book store and event stage for all kind of literary events. Miroslav Borshosh from NDK and Svetlozar Zhelev from the Bulgarian Book Association and their team have created a real meeting place for writers and readers. The interior design is tasteful and very suitable for such a place. Since September Peroto is established as an already indispensable part of the book-interested community in Sofia. (Address: National Palace of Culture, Bulgaria Square 1, near Metro Station NDK, always open)

A particular nice event took place last Sunday which I had the pleasure to attend. With the support of the American College a reading performance of a whole group of well-known Bulgarian authors was held. Deyan Enev, Georgi Gospodinov, Alek Popov, Zachary Karabashliev, Alexander Shpatov, Ivan Landzhev, Ivan Dimitrov, Blagovesta Pugyova and Dena Popova read mostly from their own books, Ivan Landzhev read also poems by Rosen Karamfilov who was not able to attend. (I have reviewed books by Popov, Karabashliev and Landzhev already on this blog, others will follow.)

What can I say? It was well presented, entertaining, sometimes funny, sometimes touching, all in all just a great event that made me curious to read more by these authors. It was – as Deyan Enev pointed out – also great to see such a big audience of mainly young readers at the event. Plenty of books for a good cause – the support of a foundation for children with special needs – were bought and authors were busy to sign them. Georgi Gospodinov even drew a small labyrinth in my copy of the Bulgarian original edition of Physics of Sorrow – a reference to the labyrinth of the Minotaurus that plays such a prominent role in this beautiful book. It was of course also a good opportunity to meet friends or to make new one’s. Peroto – I was for sure not the last time at this wonderful address for Bulgarian literature!

Here are the books by the mentioned authors that are available in English:

Enev

Deyan Enev: Circus Bulgaria, transl. Kapka Kassabova, Portobello Books, London 2010

Natural Novel

Georgi Gospodinov: Natural Novel, transl. Zornica Hristova, Dalkey Archive Press, Victoria London Dublin 2005

And Other Stories

Georgi Gospodinov: And Other Stories, transl. by Alexis Levitin and Magdalena Levy, Northwestern University Press, Evanston 2007

Physics of Sorrow

Georgi Gospodinov: The Physics of Sorrow, transl. Angela Rodel, Open Letter Books, Rochester 2015

Mission London

Alek Popov: Mission London, transl. Charles de Luppe, Istros Books, London 2014

Black Box

Alek Popov: The Black Box, transl. Charles and Daniella de Luppe, Peter Owen, London 2015

Eighteen_Percent_Gray-web-194x300

Zachary Karabashliev: 18% Gray, transl. Angela Rodel, Open Letter Books, Rochester 2013

Shpatov

Alexander Shpatov: #LiveFromSofia, transl. Angela Rodel, Colibri, Sofia 2014

The books of the other authors are not (yet) available in English, but I hope this will change.

© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Drei Gedichte von Vladimir Levchev

Leave a reply

Милано

Мустафа гълта огън
с каменно лице
под синята сянка на пламтящата готика.
Катедралата
е скрила залеза.

Тълпата аплодира Мустафа
на площада.
Зелената змийска реклама съска срещу катедралата.
Нощта със звезди и вятър
атакува залеза.

Луната е червена и бавна.
Сградите са вече тъмни.  
Мустафа е италианец.

                                                  1987

Mailand

 
Mustafa schluckt Feuer
mit versteinertem Gesicht
unter dem blauen Schatten der flammenden Gotik.
Der Dom verbirgt
den Sonnenuntergang.
 
Das Publikum spendet Mustafa
Beifall auf dem Platz.
Die grüne Werbeschlange zischt Richtung Dom.
Die Nacht, mit Sternen und Wind,
greift den Sonnenuntergang an.
 
Der Mond ist rot und langsam.
Die Gebäude sind schon dunkel.
Mustafa ist Italiener.
 
                                                  1987

————————————————–

Мост

                              На Исмаил Кадаре

Хилядолетия спориме,
хилядолетия градихме и разграждахме  
Нашия мост
(на Дрина,
на Дунав,
или Моста с трите арки
в Албания).

Хилядолетия се питахме:
Къде е Златният Град – на Изток
или на Запад?
Къде е Пророкът?
И каква ще бъде нашата звездна стока
по този мост между изгрев и залез?

С ножове между зъбите
се питахме:
Наистина ли живи хора – наши хора
са били вграждани,
за да стане моста
между Изток и Запад
по-здрав?

Хилядолетия спориме, воювахме,
убивахме, загивахме,
градихме и разграждахме.

Най-накрая изобретиха самолета.
И днес
никой пътник не вижда дори
нашия древен мост.

                                                   2000

Brücke                         

                              Für Ismail Kadare
 
Jahrtausende stritten wir,
errichteten wir und rissen ab
Unsere Brücke
(über die Drina,
die Donau
oder die Brücke mit den drei Bögen
in Albanien).
 
Jahrtausende fragten wir uns:
Wo ist die Goldene Stadt – im Osten
oder im Westen?
Wo ist der Prophet?
Und was werden die Sterne uns bringen
an dieser Brücke zwischen Sonnenauf- und -untergang?
 
Mit Messern zwischen den Zähnen
fragten wir uns:
Sind wirklich lebende Menschen – unsere Menschen
eingemauert worden,
auf dass die Brücke
zwischen Ost und West
stabiler wird?
 
Jahrtausende stritten, kämpften,
töteten, starben,
errichteten wir und rissen ab.
 
Schließlich erfand man das Flugzeug.
Und heute
sieht schon kein Reisender mehr
unsere uralte Brücke.
 
                                                  2000

————————————————–

Балкански Танц

Ние сме самуиловите войници
ослепени от императора Василий.
Ние сме петнайсет хиляди
и само един на всеки сто
е намигнал с едното око.
Държим се за ръце, вървим и се препъваме
в светлината и мрака на залеза.
Ние играем народно хоро
от хоризонт до хоризонт.
Хора!

Бяхме тръгнали да се връщаме
при нашия цар Самуил.
Той ни видя.
И умря от сърдечен удар.
Но ние не го видяхме
и не умряхме.

И още продължаваме хорото си
босоноги в диви гори,
ситним по жаравата на лагерни огньове,
пързаляме се по леда на езера
под ледените съзвездия.
Танцуваме към новото хилядолетие.

И всичко,
което виждаме в бъдещето
е нашето минало.

Balkantanz

Wir sind Samuils Soldaten
geblendet von Kaiser Basileios
Wir sind fünfzehntausend
und nur einer von hundert
behielt ein Auge.
Hand in Hand gehen und stolpern wir
in Licht und Zwielicht.
Wir spielen zum Volkstanz auf
von Horizont zu Horizont.
Leute!
 
Wir brachen auf um zu
unserem Zar Samuil zu gehen.
Er sah uns.
Und starb an einer Herzattacke.
Wir aber sahen nichts
und starben nicht.
 
Und doch fuhren wir fort unseren Horo zu tanzen
barfuß in wilden Wäldern,
trippeln an die Glut der Lagerfeuer,
Schlittschuh laufend auf dem Eis der Seen
unter eisigen Konstellationen.
Wir tanzen ins neue Jahrtausend.
 
Und alles,
was wir in der Zukunft sehen
ist unsere Vergangenheit.

Vladimir Levchev

Владимир Левчев: Любов на площада (Vladimir Levchev: Ljubov na ploshtada), Scalino, Sofia 2014

Aus dem Bulgarischen von Thomas Hübner

© Vladimir Levchev and Scalino, 2014.
© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Vier Gedichte von Ivan Christov

2 Replies

Лари

Всичко това се случи
на брега на едно езеро
в щата Уисконсин,
когато Лари ми предостави
своята къща за гости.
Малка къща
с фотоси по стените,
с баня, кухня и тоалетна,
с пиано, пишеща машина
и хол.
Лари тогава не знаеше,
че преди това бях живял
в семейство Василеви,
които много се страхуваха
да не стана алкохолик,
макар че синът им беше
алкохолик и една нощ
ми открадна телевизора.
После бях живял в Крум.
Когато влязох в неговата баня
съседката се разкрещя,
че има вода в коридора
(Мисля, че Крум не се беше
къпал от десет години.).
Лари не знаеше още,
че бях живял в Симон,
на улица Раковски.
Стаята беше хубава,
но нямаше прозорци.
Купих една малка лампа,
която включвах нощем,
за да не се събуждам
като в ковчег.
Бях живял дори в едно мазе,
в казармата,
с Гонзо – кръгъл сирак,
който всяка сутрин
отваряше очи
и запалваше цигара.
Приятелю, Лари,
колко неща не знаеш!
Благодаря ти,
че ми предостави
твоята къща за гости.
Благословен бъди,
че пиша сега тези стихове
на твоята пишеща машина!

Larry

All das geschah
am Ufer eines Sees
im Staate Wisconsin
als Larry mir sein
Gästehaus überließ.
Ein kleines Haus
mit Fotos an den Wänden,
mit einer Dusche, Küche und Toilette,
mit einem Klavier, einer Schreibmaschine
und einem Wohnzimmer.
Larry wusste damals nicht,
dass ich bei den Vassilevs
gelebt hatte,
die sehr fürchteten,
dass ich Alkoholiker werden würde,
obwohl ihr Sohn
Alkoholiker war und eines Nachts
meinen Fernseher stahl.
Dann wohnte ich bei Krum.
Als ich sein Bad benutzte
kreischte die Nachbarin unter uns, 
dass ihr Flur überflutet sei.
(Ich glaube nicht dass Krum
in zehn Jahren ein Bad genommen hatte.)
Larry wusste auch nicht,
dass ich bei Simon gewohnt hatte,
in der Rakovski-Strasse.
Es war ein schönes Zimmer,
hatte aber keine Fenster.
Ich kaufte eine kleine Lampe,
die ich nachts einschaltete
so dass ich nicht
wie in einem Sarg aufwachen würde.
Ich lebte sogar in einem Keller,
in der Kaserne
mit Gonzo – einem rundlichen Waisen,
der jeden Morgen
seine Augen öffnete
und eine Zigarette ansteckte.
Larry, mein Freund,
es gibt so vieles was du nicht weißt!
Danke,
dass du mir
dein Gästehaus überlässt.
Gesegnet seist du,
dass ich jetzt diese Verse
auf deiner Schreibmaschine schreibe!

————————————————–

Chevrolet

Бял „Шевролет“,
модел 1990!
Хвърли ми ключовете
и „Опитай“ ми каза.
Много се зачудих,
защото това не беше
старата кола на баща ми,
който за всяка грешка
ме удряше отзад, зад врата.
Четири скорости?
P – паркиране
R – заден ход
N – „Неутрална“ ми каза
„като Швейцария“
D – напред
Само газ и спирачка!
Когато завъртах ключа
и светлините светваха нощем.
С тази кола обикалях
езерата на Уисконсин.
Езерото „Мокасина“,
„Бурното езеро“,
„Залезното езеро“.
Понякога спирах да снимам
стада елени.
Друг път зареждах.
Натисках педала до дупка
и така откривах Америка.
Бял „Шевролет“,
модел 1990.
Моята първа кола,
макар че всъщност
беше на Дъглас,
баща на жена ми.

Chevrolet

Ein weißer „Chevrolet”,
Baujahr 1990!
Er warf mir die Schlüssel zu
und sagte „Probier ihn aus”.
Ich war sehr erstaunt,
weil das nicht
das alte Auto meines Vaters war,
der mich hinter verschlossener Tür
für jeden Fehler verdrosch.
Vier Gänge?
P – Parken
R – Rückwärts
N – „Neutral” sagte er,
„wie die Schweiz”,
D – Dauerbetrieb.
Nur Gas und Bremsen!
Als ich den Schlüssel drehte
erleuchteten die Scheinwerfer die Nacht.
Mit jenem Auto
fuhr ich die Seen von Wisconsin ab.
Moccasin Lake,
Storm Lake,
Sunset Lake.
Manchmal hielt ich an, um Fotos
von Wildrudeln zu machen.
Dann wieder füllte ich den Tank auf.
Ich trat das Pedal durch
und entdeckte Amerika.
Ein weißer „Chevrolet”,
Baujahr 1990.
Mein erstes Auto,
obwohl es tatsächlich
Douglas gehörte,
dem Vater meiner Frau.

————————————————–

Poetry Room

книжарница City Lights
Сан Франциско
                                 На Силвия Чолева

всички ние
стоим
във тази мрачна
и леко задушна
poetry room
стая за поезия
мълчим
и чакаме
кога ли
някой от нас
ще излезе

Poetry Room

Buchhandlung City Lights
San Francisco
                           Für Silvia Choleva

wir alle
bleiben
in diesem finstern
und etwas stickigen
poetry room
raum für dichtkunst
schweigen
und warten
wann
jemand von uns
hinausgehen wird

————————————————–

Snickers

Срещнах Сникърс
пред една врата
в щата Минесота.
(Всъщност,
всички кучета в Америка
се казват Сникърс,
така че ще ви бъде трудно
да си го представите,
но не това сега
е най-важното.)
Огрян от оскъдното зимно слънце
той ми подаваше
малка гумена топка.
Хвърлих топката
и Сникърс я донесе.
После пак, и пак, и пак…
По-далеч…
Изведнъж забелязах,
че някъде там, в далечината
кучето спира
и отказва да донесе топката.
От Дъглас разбрах,
че това е електрическа нишка,
която пази Сникърс
от близката магистрала.
Почувствах го близък
този приятел
в неговия невидим затвор.

Snickers

Ich traf Snickers
vor einer Tür
im Staate Minnesota.
(Übrigens
heissen alle Hunde in Amerika Snickers,
deshalb wird es schwer für euch
ihn sich vorzustellen,
aber das ist nicht
das wichtigste jetzt.)
Gewärmt von der schwachen Wintersonne
brachte er mir
einen kleinen Gummiball.
Ich warf den Ball
und Snickers brachte ihn zurück.
Immer und immer und immer wieder…
Immer weiter weg…
Plötzlich bemerkte ich,
dass irgendwo dort in der Entfernung
der Hund innehielt
und sich weigerte, den Ball zu bringen.
Douglas erklärte mir,
dass dort ein elektrischer Zaun sei
um Snickers
vor der nahen Autobahn zu schützen.
Ich fühlte mich ihm nahe,
jenem Freund,
in seinem unsichtbaren Gefängnis.

Иван Христов: Американски поеми / Ivan Hristov: American Poems, Bulgarian-English, English translation by Angela Rodel, DA, Sofia 2013

Aus dem Bulgarischen von Thomas Hübner

© Ivan Hristov and DA Publishers, 2013.
© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Vier Gedichte von Petar Tchouhov

2 Replies

Малки Дни

Във входа все по-рядко виждам
лица
и все по-често
снимки

графинята от третия етаж
остана в пощата
а лудият замина
с Христос да отпразнува Коледа

близначките
потънаха в небето
да търсят годеници

от леглото
съседката с изкуствения крак
се хвърля към екрана

там краят на века минава
по Sunset Boulevard

Kurze Tage

Am eingang sehe ich immer seltener
personen
und immer häufiger
fotos*

die gräfin vom dritten stock
blieb in der post
und der verrückte ging
mit Christus Weihnachten feiern

die zwillinge
versanken im himmel
auf der suche nach verlobten

vom bett aus
schleppt sich die nachbarin
mit dem künstlichen bein zum bildschirm

dort vergeht das ende des jahrhunderts
auf dem Sunset Boulevard

 

*Anspielung auf den bulgarischen Brauch, Todesanzeigen mit Fotos der Verstorbenen an Hauseingängen aufzuhängen.

————————————————–

Теория на познанието

Адам позна Ева,
Аврам позна Сара,
Исак позна Ребека…и т.н.

После се появи Сократ, философат
с ужасна жена и каза:
– Познай себе си!

Erkenntnistheorie

Adam erkannte Eva,
Abraham erkannte Sara,
Isaak erkannte Rebekka…usw.

Danach kam Sokrates, der philosoph
mit der schrecklichen frau und sagte:
– Erkenne dich selbst!

————————————————–

Oмир

Платил
последния обол
той стъпва
в лодката на Харон

и тя потъва

Homer

Bezahlt
den letzten obolus
er tritt
in Charons boot

und es versinkt

————————————————–

Трудов стаж

Този младеж
е на 20 и е доста объркан –
като топче за пинг-понг след несръчен удар.

Току-що се е припознал –
за миг му се стори, че вижда приятеля,
в чиито очи е събирал лицето си,
чиито ръце са държали чашата,
помагаща на неговата да оживее
и чието дишане
често е било единственото
лекарство срещу безветрие.

Този объркан младеж, израсъл в семейство,
на което смъртта е далечен роднина,
си е мислел за нея като за непознат братовчед,
беден студент,
какъвто е всъщност и той, самият,
но днес, уви, е за пръв ден на работа
в градската морга.  

Arbeitserfahrung

Dieser junge mann
ist 20 und sehr verwirrt –
wie ein pingpongball nach einem plumpen angriff.

Er hatte gerade eine erscheinung –
für einen moment glaubte er den freund zu sehen,
in dessen augen sich sein gesicht spiegelte,
dessen hände das glas hielten,
das ihm zu überleben half
und dessen atem
oft das einzige heilmittel
gegen die stille war.

Dieser verwirrte junge mann, aufgewachsen in einer familie,
in der der tod ein entfernter verwandter ist,
stellte er ihn sich wie einen unbekannten vetter,
einen armen studenten,
so wie er es selbst ist, vor,
doch heute, ach, ist sein erster arbeitstag
in der städtischen leichenhalle.

big-petar-chuhov

Petar Tchouhov: Malki dni (Малки Дни), Janet45, Plovdiv 2002

Aus dem Bulgarischen von Thomas Hübner

© Petar Tchouhov and Janet45 Publishers, 2002.
© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Gespräch

Leave a reply

Meine Übersetzung des Gedichts Gespräch von Ivanka Mogilska wurde auf der deutschen Website von Public Republic veröffentlicht.

Dank an Natalia Nikolaeva und Tsvetelina Mareva.

© Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com, 2014-5. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Thomas Hübner and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.