Passing trains - Aksinia Mihaylova

                                             to my brother
 
Everything is still the same
after the midpoint of our lives just passed-
we buy apples
at the market next to the train station,

Evening Song - Elisaveta Bagyrana

Тhe rosary of my human days
         Is coming unstrung, has come unstrung.
       Slipping unstoppable
     Through my weary fingers,
        Are its black and white beads.

My desire... - Nadezhda Zaharieva

My desire is to find a shelter
In some god forsaken wilderness,
Bathe in virgin dew-drops Eden's water,
Drink a scent of herbs – luxturiaters
And lie-down in cradle-greenery;

Epigram to a Friend - Kasım Pasha

Thine entertainment, honest friend, had one insufferable fault,—
Too little salt was in thy songs, too much about thy meats and salads:

Apetites - Elena Alexieva

I will look incresingly like something eaten
I will be somebody's spoon of honey
unless I turn into another thing

The Gallery - Elena Alexieva

I am whispering in your ear:

we are passing, thunderously,

through the tunnel where

this girl was...

Bdin - Ivan Hristov

Dear mother,

I died

but I didn't go to heaven,

instead I arrived in Bdin¹.

Food - Katerina Stoykova

Tomatoes bring love.

Potatoes raise consciousness.

 

Descendants - Elisaveta Bagyrana

No portraits of my grandfathers are kept

fixed in a family picture-book.

I know nothing of the testaments they left,

The lives they led, their souls, their looks.

What Is A Poet's Soul Like - Ivan Vazov

A tight and chiming string

that resounds to anything—

A bar of chocolate - Georgi Savchev

has it become a habit

rather a regular sail

between two

Quiet - Petar Tchouhov

Our mothers are missing –

went out to buy

something delicious

and haven’t come back

Small Stories - Olya Stoyanova

She likes to write notes –

“I love you” to her husband,

“I’m thinking of you” to her child,

“Thank you” to her mother.

Warm weather - Dostena Angelova-Lavergne

The warm weather

Grows old

The stones: rings

Around the gnawed bones

Of lovers

The Disappeared - Margarita Serafimova

We are roots,

we are the unknown earth’s own,

we spread out in the eyeballs of the killers,

we are their blood vessels.

The Old Town of Plovdiv - Ivan Theofilov

Your ancient floors float among the stars.

Blue donkeys graze the silence around.

Poetry - Elisaveta Bagyrana

If my glance were not blest—

with you, inside. Open-eyed to penetrate the darkness,

and to make it fly and dance for me,

The world is for me a tough place - Nadezhda Zaharieva

The world is for me a tough place

But my tenor I choose how to alter:

Supper With Poppies - Dostena Angelova-Lavergne

one day lies will sparkle

like crushed puppies

and they won’t be lies

just crushed poppies sparkling.

Ortamezar - Ivan Theofilov

The neighborhood

with its shady provincial courtyards

next to the hot watermelon fields,