Natalia Ivanova is one of those young poets who do not shout with their work, but write somehow inwardly, without, however, remaining locked in the zone of personal experience. Although a debut collection of poems, the topics covered by Man with Binoculars (Ars Publishing, 2020) are profound, universal, and carry the individual handwriting of their author, long sought after and somewhat self-deprecating. But a good author always doubts his writing and looks for the most accurate words to describe his thoughts and feelings.
Natalia's poetry emphasizes the small events in life and the quiet clashes of the personality with the constantly changing reality and the speed of the passing time. This is poetry that is born slow to read slowly and stay long.
# poetry today
The musical as a genre is still a new concept for the Bulgarian theater scene, despite the increasingly frequent attempts with famous authors and titles. On September 1, the Bavarian Opera opened its new season with a different performance - "The Seven Deaths of Maria Callas" by Marina ...
How I only love you in the evening,
I walk the streets of your weary and listen
lonely TV how it blooms
and his voices say nothing.
And here we are,
sidewalks never end,
blocks grow from the tiles,
I have lived in everyone,
in no one.
And the memories like a dusty living room
lined up in the same afternoon -
I'm going out, mom -
from one child,
which has since been harvested,
you know all about it
and everything after -
the witness in the evenings and mornings,
of the first love and the rest,
of my secret meetings and divisions.
Then are you a god or a good friend?
I will not admit anything.
We are here now:
you - all the same,
and I forgave you for staying with me.
Your name - the bite of the thirsty -
stuck in the throat.
Even if they stand up to us now
for reconciliation or for judgment before one another,
what else can we say to ourselves:
is not all the past forgiven,
there were no grounds for forgiveness,
or forgotten, sometimes involuntarily?
All I have to do is not be able to swallow
or not to understand that I have succeeded.
"Finally, the heart. Finally. "
Of course, after the end of a love affair,
you will try to be alive first -
and it will happen.
This is irrevocably:
on the way you will stop somewhere
and you will trump in front of the tulips, innocent as in the morning.
But that's where you'll remember everything
and as if it were a letter folded in four,
you will put your hand in your pocket,
you will forget he is there
and you will leave.
Sadness swelled in anxiety,
the dust of days was rising in me,
a man was asleep in my chest
and I was terribly afraid to wake him.
My eyes remained closed
for what weighed on us,
over me and the one in me -
the fear of not talking,
that it will always be so
and we will fight quietly.
The fear that anxiety is eternal.
But today I turn to you
and I say everything I can.
I also hear the man in me: that was,
Do not worry.
So it's there, breathing more.
of whom you are secretly afraid, they will come
but you will not prepare -
before the body you love today goes out,
you will watch life invite him to dance
and you will not hear their conversation
and you will not question afterwards
but you will notice - the other is a little tired
you will timidly ask him "should we leave?"
and he will say "a little more"
and you will embrace
but you won't stop it when
stood up for the next song.
Isn't that right to do?
And the dance will be easier and easier
and the quieter conversations on the dance floor
so when it's too late,
will mean it's too late for both of you,
God forbid it's too late for both of you,
then this long night will mean
that no one is ahead of time
and time has not overtaken you.
"We have to do something"
If I close my eyes, I have eyes in front of me,
stubborn but also careless,
waiting for something to happen,
but the events opposite are still small,
and yet I hear them say:
Friends, but we have to do something!
And we all know the secret that is universal:
nothing will happen.
I also know women who are sorry
for his youth, when he is not there,
for his youth, if he still has it
and like me they have no voice and no courage for history,
which who writes,
who writes about those with battles,
who writes about those with battles to be good?
But we have to do something!
we say in the toilet of the office,
we say in front of our beer in the park,
we tell our mothers
and we fall asleep before twelve.
At least we face the consequences as heroes:
worries grow in our stomachs,
they rise in our throats and choke
with something like grief, but hardly -
for sorrow you need something more
from all the same.
But here we are
with delayed riots and short memory
we are alive and there is nothing to do,
don't be afraid of us (if at all,),
for tomorrow our shoulders will be straight
and with you we will ask who are those who keep repeating something,
they keep repeating "must".
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