Thursday, June 1, 2023



The Playground


My daughter is waiting for her redheaded inspiration

                                                          but, as a rule, he won’t come.

She, my little friend, the only one at this hour of the day,

is moving away from me, finding shelter

                                             in the company of some

kids ludicrous with egotistical impatience.

Her tenderness, so rarely directed at herself,

                                                       now reveals itself 

in grave concern for some accidentally wayward ants.

Then, already on the jungle gym, alone with her own limbs,

                                                          she is a foal again,

flourishing its leggy absurdity; a unicorn touching my solar plexus 

with its horn, already torn apart by the whitish flocks

of low-grade turns.


I see with the double vison of a loser

the ethereal hair of a woman. Her silky laughter spreads out,

causing the passers-by to chaotically regroup.

The hubbub of the children snuffs out the warmth, 

                                                and it finally turns to a dusky cloud of dust

whose transitional space could make you blind.

The spit coming into leaf inside my mouth collides as lightly as a sail

with the rumour of a noisy and devilishly monotonous dissipation.

Suddenly, with the blindness of natural obligation, someone’s child

cries out and gathers together the tumult of the sleepless pink shore -

like a ship whose whistle gives out its last signal for departure.


Translated By Hristo Dimitrov And Tom Phillips


Whimsical Time


Summer came and I remembered Lanzarote,

the easternmost island of the Canaries.

I’ve never been there, but my wrist is adorned

with a bracelet from Arrecife.

Colourful marbles - sky lilac next to white and

sunny wedges,

green-blue sea in floating poppies -

like slowly foaming blood,

and volcanic black -

with pink and green petals -

feet rushing down with screams 

towards the sea.  


Translated By Hristo Dimitrov And Tom Phillips


Mobile Home


The Jurassic rain burst into the room

like an army at drill:

Peace – peace – peace be with you

Then it fell silent

(on the roof of the caravan

and the slightest rustle

sounds like the tread of a marten)

“Give me a kiss,” he said.

Get out, I yelled, who invited you here!

“Who invited you, invited you,

who invited you here …”

The doors and windows thundered

and the flag screeched like sheet metal …


Translated By Tom Phillips




EKATERINA GRIGOROVA (born in 1975 in the town of Dobrinishte) is a Bulgarian poet and author of numerous poetry publications. Three poetry books by Ekaterina Grigorova have been published and two other are in process of publication. Published Books include: 1. “Faraday cage” (2013, Janet – 45 Print and Publishing) 2. “Board on the Wet Sand” (Ergo, 2014) 3. Empty dawn (Small Stations Press, 2019).  Ekaterina Grigorova is a laureate of the Binyo Ivanov National Award (for contributing to the development of Bulgarian poetic syntax) in 2014, as well as the Slaveykov National Award (second prize) in the same year. Her poems have been translated into English, Italian, Hindi, Greek and other languages.


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