viernes, 5 de junio de 2015

BOIKO LAMBOVSKI [16.203] Poeta de Bulgaria


Nació el 13 marzo 1960 en Sofia, Bulgaria. Formación: 1982-1987 Universite litteraire "M. Gorky" - Moscou (maitrise). 1981-1982 Universite "St Clement d'Ohrid", Sofia - Psychologie. 1974-1979 Lycee de langue française, Sofia.


-Le Messager, 1986 /Вестоносец/
-Decadence rouge, 1991 /Ален декаданс/
-Edwarda, 1992 /Едварда /
-Critique de la poesie, 1996 /Критика на поезията/
-Dieu est le commandant de la garde 1999 /Господ е началник на караула/
-Mitrailleuse avant le sommeil 2004 /Тежка картечница преди сън/
-Rammassant les mots /oeuvres choisies/ 2004 /Бране на думи/
-5 sycles avec renseignements (2010) Пет цикъла с пояснения

Prix Littéraires:

-"Zlaten Lanetz" - 1996, 1999, 2000, 2008
-"Geo Milev" - 1997 - pour sa contribution a l'art bulgare
-"Yavorovi dni" 1993
-"Vladimir Bashev" - meilleur debut poetique - 1988, pour  Le Messager

Бойко Ламбовски

Роден е в София през 1960 г. Завършил е френска гимназия в родния си град и литература в Москва.
Лауреат е на много награди за поезия, между които: "Владимир Башев" - за дебютна книга, "Гео Милев" - за принос в съвременното изкуство, "Дървената роза" - за книгата му "Ален декаданс" и др. Книгата му "Тежка картечница преди сън" е номинирана от България за Международната награда "Балканика" 2003.
Негови стихове са превеждани на сръбски, немски, английски, руски, чешки, полски, италиански и др. езици.
Пише още публицистика и есеистика, превежда от френски и руски.


 Eh, Doctor,
 ¿qué hacemos con
 el hombre de arcilla?

 No quiere estudiar.
 "Mis ojos," dice
 "se deshacen desde las letras."

 Sus ojos parecían
 gotas asustadas.

 No apto para soldado.
          el comité militar
 encontró la enfermedad de las palomas
 en su cerebro.

 No apto para payaso-
 temblando a la derecha
 temblando a la izquierda
 su sonrisa

 Eh, Doctor ¿qué
 vamos a hacer con el hombre 
 de arcilla?

 El doctor alzó la mano hasta su frente.
 La tierra después de cada sequía - eso es su frente.

 El doctor no cree 
 en la maestría de Dios.

 El fuerte no le cree a los débiles.

 El pez no le cree a la red que lo hamaca.

 El sano no le cree
 a los enfermos.

 El árbol no le cree
 al beso de la sierra.

 El viviente no le cree a los muertos.

 Él no cree en el Doctor,
 el hombre de arcilla.

 Traducido al inglés del búlgaro por Kristin Dimitrova.


Ръката и длетото методично
почукват Идеала. Става скучно.
Това е жилав навик - да си камък,
и бавен, мъчен подвиг - да обичаш.

Taille de pierre

La main et le ciseau sans cesse
entaillent l’Idéal. Vient l’ennui.
C’est une tenace coutume d’être pierre
et longue et rude la bravoure d’aimer.

Traduction :  André Manolov


Hand en beitel houwen voortdurend
Het Ideaal. Het is vervelend werk.
Hardnekkige gewoonte - steen te zijn,
langdradige heldendaad - lief te hebben.

Vertaling: Aneta Dantcheva-Manolova 


Marina, our holidays are our punishment.
Our holidays are merciless exotic suns,
suddenly rising and suddenly setting,
and shame burns our faces.

Marina, our holidays are fragments
of the days when we were gods.
Love is a test to remind us
that we are wholly mortal.
And yet no wholly.

Which is why we must not pass each other by
as a miracle passes by
unbelieving eyes.
Let us once more, for a minute, be overwhelmed!
Let us for one minute be silent as a bell!

Marina, our holidays are our shame...
They make us great and we make them pitiful.
What's terrible is not that I am left alone.
The most terrible thing is that I love you
too little.

Translated by Ewald Osers


The day we heard
that the ill-favoured slave Aesop
was rattling on with his senseless parables
before the people in the square
we simply walked away.

The day we learned
that the impudent slave Aesop
was accusing us of greed
we were astonished.

The day we killed
the repulsive slave Aesop
no one came to the temple.

Translated by Ewald Osers


Thus a child pulls off
a doll's head
and from curiosity rips off
a tank's turret,
cuts an unread magazine
into strips
and builds
castles in the sand.

Thus an uncouth savage
angrilly re-examinates
the gnawed bones
after a finished meal.
Thus he looks askance
at his sleeping brothers
and with droppings of bats
he defiles the limestone.

Thus does a pensive Caesar
frown and scowl
before making an imperious
hypnotic gesture.
And cities are born
and tribes perish,
and someone curls his lips
with scepticism.

Thus a young man in love
walks down a lonely path
while emotion with terrible force
grows in his breast.
Thus grows the grass.
Thus grows the universe.
Thus life with measured tread
dances on death.

Translated by Ewald Osers


In their craned throats sing nostalgia and triumph.
Roosters are live sparks saved from the great
explosion by a miracle. They serve selestial fire.
Dinosaur-doom in their combs being latent.

Translated by Belin Tonchev



what's following you?

I kiss your golden hair,
I kiss your soul so serene -
my artless sphynx,
my carefree
wretched girl.

what's following you?

You're puddled of the same clay,
and the same sun
ran bit by bit into you.
The same wind
tossed you
along the road.

a molecular fate for the meek

We advance en masse,
We're sought after
like generous natives.
For a handfull of beads
we leap about together,
we sell the old idols.
We scrape up gold sand,
we clear wise jungles,
we take off the old furs.

our hands breathe separetely.


we broke all taboos
and we're still alive!
what's following us?
By the road they've left
of rusty cans,
celophane rolls,
empty bottles,
discarted amulets,
crumpled newspapers
and many useful objects.

We walk on
and walk on.

our feet breathe separetely


Across violet brooks we walk,
along bridges stretched tight,
along asphalt rivers,
to the call
of the iron horse

We sleep under huge letters,
we eat to the rhythm,
and love on the way.

what's following us

Whenever one looks back
he roars with laugher:
that there hangs in the museum
the thinned out beak of the totem.


I kiss your golden hair, 
I kiss your saul so serene.        
You have no doubts, darling.
You've only weariness.
I would have carried you along
but I'm not
the strong warrior I was
who took upon his back
the sins of the tribe
and met all threats
with a wry grin.

Have a little patience,
my weary waif.
Where we go, they say,
there's rest for all.
For everyone there'll be
immense hunting grounds.
There, everyone is given
a ramshackle hut, a motley shirt,
a radio and a cask of whisky.

/and you may not believe it/
even the dogs
eat their fill.

our heads breathe separetely


And we've been walking for so long.
I wish
someone could return from there
to tell us what he saw.

who returns from there?

They say so many chieftains
lead the sons of their tribe
in that direction.

who returns from there?

With grey heads
old people walk beside us
and push their grandchildren.

who returns from there?

Like signs of an important
but obscure languge,
mounds rise along the road.

Translated by Belin Tonchev


Hey, Doctor,
what shall we do with
the clay man?

He doesn't want to study.
"My eyes, he says,
crumble from the letters.

His eyes look like
frightened drops.

Unfit for a soldier.
Wearily the military committee
found dove disease
in his brain.

No good for a clown -
he trembles
trembling to the right
trembling to the left
his smile

Hey, Doctor, what
shall we do with the clay

The doctor raised his hand to his forehead.
Earth after drought - that's what his forehead is.

The doctor doesn't believe
in God's mastery.

The strong one doesn't believe the weak.

The fish doesn't believe that the net's hugging it.

The healthy one doesn't believe
the sick.

The tree doesn't believe
in the saw's kiss.

The living one doesn't believe the dead.

He doesn't believe in the doctor,
the clay man.

Translated by Kristin Dimitrova


The king shouted to his vassals: "Hey, listen:
The absurdity
of my absurdity
is not my absurdity!
We are all human...
i.e. mammals.
I order you: Live
according to nature!

But the Fool laughed
disguised as a bat
and flew away from the tower.

Translated by Kristin Dimitrova


Nearby the kiosk with pumped up tits
a dog, a donkey and a man are grazing
The dusty forehead of the Earth
is darkened by a Balkan cloud

A mouse amalgamated in the scenery
has lived a century beside the rails
Up on a machbox little mousie gives
a squeaky and intoxicating laugh

the progress leans down on a stick
knock-knocking on the black-oiled platform
then sitting on the bench to rest
forgets about his paper
inside the cafe knit the sublimation
game, that is, rock, self-consciousness,
agression against anything vulnerable

the yearning coils down like a snake
silently cuddling in the sesame rings
Where did you get lost, white engine
Where headed, black world

a young guy in a seraph's coat
pulling his cart across the sky
ransacks its piss-soaked corner
and dies to kick its golden ball

with such a poignant, thorny love
someone has smeared the tranquil picture
that there's no way to pass through it
but healing inside it like a scar

motherland pretends to be stoichkov
and sells us nuts beside the gents.

Translated by Kristin Dimitrova

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