MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA

 

Seltsi *

 

The air in the village was sweet,

and the fields were sun of colour,

the sky - a vast impulse,

the earth - dark chocolate.

There was a swing under the walnut,

the barn - full of barley -

and every little firefly

lived a wonderful moment.

The grass grew happily

to the bare feet

and a bird's nest took over

every sweet native eaves.

The ground was a spontaneous morning

and it bore a thirsty fruit,

we children were happy there

and cheerful - our life.

The fountain, the pear, the river,

the moor, the vineyard, the soil

flickered in clear simplicity

in harmony, sung by God.

Hope had the colour of a rose,

the dream - an unearthly white quilt,

the cricket, dreamed up,

played in hypnosis with its violin.

The furnace was a real discovery,

there was a chair by the table,

the copper looked coy naked

on hooks black and curved.

Swallows flew low

and talked to us -

when the lilac is close,

you understood every bird's voice.

And you talk to the cat, to the dog,

with willow leaves there,

with which just happened to you -

and you know that everything is a temple.

Jars glowed in the closet,

more important than each other, with zeal,

for which the hungry threat

it sounded like a dumb rebuke.

The evening of white candles - gains

of thousands of summers at night -

bloomed clear -

with fragrant words and smiles.

The door knew about god,

and the floor argued with the ceiling -

and there a vault forged from slats

watched warmly, not sternly.

Next to a shelf with woven rugs

a chest touched a forehead.

Treasures, not allergies

were always hiding there, but shut up!

A good volume of prayer

always lay next to to grandmother

and she sang songs, read

for modesty in a modest little home.

People shone for her

of gold - an earthly ideal

it was every stalk, grass and roof

were for her an earthly ideal

but the Lord had given it to her.

Hoes of different types

lay preserved in the barn.

That was a real sound,

it was a real hit.

For grandfather the long hoe

was a faithful old friend,

for me - the smallest - resemblance,

and grandmother waved the third with zeal.

The rooster, the little chicks,

the calf, the cow in the barn

and bunches of grapes, not lighters

created coziness, comfort.

My sister's baby voice,

eyes black as twilight,

limited - the lack of drama -

enchanted - the sunrise is again.

And it was all a glow,

which thunders in the memory

like a heart from a distance,

in which you also hear yourself.

Why does the thought bring me back

decades ago?

Here I chose the first

of my three native houses.

 

Idyllic Memory

Of Bulgaria

 

I know, you never close your eyes,

you smell of wheat

and the sun in you shower on pies.

The earth in rays sets in the sky.

Rocked by the darkness, the field trembles

with the voice of crickets.

They are cut by clouds - living rivers

and they sing softly,

with its serene wheel

they pour the wine again.

 

MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA

 

MIROSLAVA PANAYOTOVA (Bulgaria) graduated from Plovdiv University, specialty Bulgarian philology and English language. She has published poems, stories, tales, aphorisms, essays, criticisms, translations, articles and interviews in periodical and collections. She has published the following poetry books: Nuances, 1994, God of the senses, 2005, Pitcher, 2014, Whisper of leaves, 2017, Green feeling, 2018; two books with stories: An end, and then a beginning, 2017, Path of love, 2018; two eBooks: Laws of communicatons /aphorisms/, 2018, Old things /poetry/, 2018. She is a member of the Union of the Independent Bulgarian Writers and a member of Movimiento Poetas del mundo. She is a member and a coordinator in the team to the e-journal Ghorsowar, too. Miroslava Panayotova is an ambassador of IFCH (International Forum for Creativity and Humanity).