Olya Stoyanova
He looks around for / a fire, a tragedy, police, / so early on a Monday morning / when the world seems / a brittle and fragile place.
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He looks around for / a fire, a tragedy, police, / so early on a Monday morning / when the world seems / a brittle and fragile place.
Should we break up? / Okay. / But let it be / through the middle
Guest editor Clint Margrave introduces readers of English to an eclectic mix of poets, both established and emerging, who are defining the Bulgarian literary scene right now. Check back daily throughout November for new poetry from Bulgaria.
He looks around for / a fire, a tragedy, police, / so early on a Monday morning / when the world seems / a brittle
God this poetry’s made me so horny / it’s made me forget my own existence
Should we break up? / Okay. / But let it be / through the middle
I no longer blame you for going into the sea and not coming back.
A monster is never something from the future / despite the lingering fear you might become one.
I take my leave of mother, she gives me / a key, but there is / no key, only her hand stretching out / and
The peddler could hardly see the path in front of him, and cursed himself for failing to buy new oil for his lantern. Twice he
No one knows how much the silverware drawer matters. It rattles in Leah’s mind if it’s left unorganized. She checks it often.
He didn’t recognize me, or else pretended not to see me. A neighbour who doesn’t say hello. I’m a neighbour who is see-through, perhaps completely invisible, not
My sister bought me a “Sucka Free” hoodie in the ‘80s when Yo! MTV Raps was hot. I wore that shirt till the hole under
Geoffrey pulls his hand from his pocket and withdraws the four-inch handle of a switchblade knife. Jason’s face turns ghostly. The American yells and runs
Horror stares back at me surreptitiously from every corner of the flat with wide-open cats’ eyes. The reflexes I had of old have become alien
IT’S NOT A POEM Phil Levine died on Saturday. While the newspaper obituaries discussed his position as a “poet of the common man,”
THE BLACK SWAN — Translated from the Danish by Michael Goldman Red at the bottom, a green stripe,
Because he wanted all the attention at the funeral, all the condolences, all the pity. The big man in sorrow. Jakob weeping.
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