Share A Poem.. ( Archived) (31)

"A story..."
by Damyan Damyanov



Were you asleep?
I woke you up –
forgive my coming now!
My soul is fretted madly
into the arms of its own sorrow…

I am alone, and how I wish to speak…
my lips are stuck together with the silence.
But drive me not away – soon I'll be gone.
I came here with the weeping of the storm.
I’ll sit here, closer to your head,
and tell a story now,
wherein a sage of old
a moral sad has given:
"…A bandit there was,
that, always on the road, had never had a home.
Instead of heart, he had inside his shirt
a hidden, evil, bloody knife.
He waited for belated caravans
and only in the daylight hid his dagger;
this knife was never rusted from the blood,
the man was evil as the devil.
But once it happened that, from weariness asleep,
he lay upon a crossroad in the sun.
The hurried passers-by did kick him in their ways
and no one stopped beside his head.
A girl in rags was only there
to cover up his face with fallen leaves.
He cried – 't was the first time ever someone loved him.
He cried, the bandit, why?
What warmed the hardened heart
that never in his life felt warmth?
A hand it was to make
the tears rush from his blooded eyes.
A hand – 't was warmer than a fireplace -
gave to the thug the thing
no robbery, no cut off head could ever buy."

But, oh, you fell asleep… and I’m so cold!
That girl of fairytales, where is she gone?
She warmed the bandit, and never
did you warm me this way. And why?

"The loner"

by Boris Hristov



He has a scar on his forehead, and always sits at the back.
Even if he's tall, the loner is a small man.

He gathers herbs, or hews the stones reminiscent -
Whenever he is out of work - and carries shabby blanket with himself.

A horse's skull is glistening in the field: the loner goes,
To simply have a look - not that he wishes it still had its mane.

And while the others cry, or talk of arts,
The loner at the table catches flies, then sets them free.

But if he is a poet, for certain he's to leave
A tear in the eye, or a scratch inside your memory...

He has a home, and hot soup, but his life is so much pent
As if it were a crate that someone's ditched at the back of the hall.

And if this home should even topple upside down
He'd rather live on ashes, but he'll never pray.

What fires he's burned in, and what iron's pressed him -
A lot of wine you'll have to drink with him to know...

And as he strides, speck on his clean shirt,
The loner suddenly dissolves into the crowd, as if he were a bead.

A book he has in one hand - for the burdened soul,
And in the other, does the loner clutch a rope - deep in his pocket.

"For two arm"

by Evtim Evtimov



For two arms, reaching for embrace,

the end of world I would attain

For two eyes, hot as fireplace,

All my warmth I would unchain


For two words, after me inspired

the finest words I would express

for two tears, that for me been cried,

the oceans I would drink, confess.


I wanted just a bit – a mere seed,

from distant and abided rain a drop.

But you came really big indeed

and everything at once you brought.


From the winds you brought me ordering,

and starry flames, escape from wane,

from suffering – a song, from song – a suffering

I don’t know, how I will sustain...

Love for love

by Evtim Evtimov



Have I borrowed a single embrace,
or your shadow at night, in my dreaming?
No – affection cannot be repaid
like a loan. But I’ve given completely.
And you don’t have to meet me today
wait another,
or two,
even three –
until something in you starts to ache
and you leave, crossing forests for me,
while above them, the storm-seared sky
spreading sails, keeps unfolding and waits.
You can write only once in a while,
just three words – but that one simple phrase
should excite more than hundreds, exceed
hundreds others in substance and worth.

You should only kiss once, but the heat
of your lips touching mine – it should burn
to the death, through the rest of my days,
to the death…
till the last breath I lose.

No more loans!
No more truth on the scales!

Love for love
is the measure I choose.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
shakespeare

"I'm nobody! Who are you?"
(Emily Dickinson)

I'm nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell!

They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

WS