Plamen Antov

[1]
The thicker the shadow of death,
the more azure the noise
that civilization raises around itself,
frivolously squandering what could be
its only salvation:
the dignity of death,
humility.

This century of hypertrophying democracy grimaces, donning
а cheerful mask of a clown to hide
its deathly pallor.
A dying old man, mischievously made up like a fool, a pedophile, a teenager,
with a face perforated with piercings, wretched drunk,
drugged with ecstatic optimism – the same one
whom Gustav Aschenbach had met long ago
when he landed on the Venetian shore.

What a long agony…

While in all past ages the poet
was the drunk among all the sober – today
it is a matter of personal honor to be
the only sober – like a nerve –
in the whirlwind of carnival. Without
clown makeup on his ancient face,
aged by the world’s fornications. Because
only through him – like in a portrait of Dorian Gray –
the world has been getting older with its natural,
beautiful
death.

………………………………………………………………

[2]
It is comfortably to love the monumental epic People –
the President loves it too.
It is difficult to love that other,
the inhabitant of small towns, as well as of large ones;
the one who drinks his little brandy with his little salad
and diligently chews the areferential gum of Turkish
and Bulgarian TV series.
Who believes in “Around the World and at Home” and sends sms whenever
they ask him to – for TV reality shows, pre-Christmas
charity actions for homeless children, rangers from Iraq
and football players. – Love this one, democrat! –
if you can…

I can’t. That’s why
I’ll never get the Nobel Prize. (Nor was I sent
to the Gulag, nor am I a Holocaust victim, not to mention that, unfortunately,
I’m not even negro, gay, or a woman.) – I
love you, Eurydice – my brother
and my mother…
A fragile light shadow
in the shadow of Hades.

………………………………………………………………

[3]
Eurydice, beloved and harlot! Only I – the lover in dumbness –
am your reality and your life. Only I
can take you out into the sun, where
the birds sing and the grass is green. My song
is your only reality – only it
can move the limbs of your distant body again. Therefore –
follow me! Follow me, Eurydice – my brother
and my mother… Follow me – a body,
following its thought.

………………………………………………………………

[4]
Poet, standing against the lie
in the name of Truth – but why
do you only shout the convenient Truth?
The other one screamed too. The one for whom
they don’t shoot,
they don’t canonize,
they don’t give Nobel Prizes… And in general –
I don’t believe in poets-consciences, I don’t believe
at all in the chirping of democratic nightingales just as I don’t believe
in others. – I believe
only in the poets who are leaving,
wrapped in a cloak of silence. Those with amputated throats. For
grief is more sincere than conscience and
uncashable/unspeakable in words.

The poet is a chthonic being. He is not suited
to wallow in the spotlight
like a Hollywood plasma.

………………………………………………………………

[5]
Poet,
faith is only half the way to truth.
The other half is disgust. And it is dishonorable
to stop halfway along the way. Like an actor
who, in the middle of a play, stands in the middle of the stage,
sharpening his ears to the applause of the audience.
But it is even more dishonest
to expect with both ears
conductors’ applause.

I don’t believe the prophets
from the Nobel podiums. I believe
in the mute prophets – inarticulately
growling somewhere below, huddled
in the dark wombs of Language – bearded,
with boar tusks
and red bristle on their shoulders. They –
yes, only they – who growl inarticulately – are the possessors
of unсaptive mind. When

the mind is itself,
deprived of the body of the predicate.
A mirror looking at itself.

………………………………………………………………

[6]
Singer ancient, don’t look back. Behind you
Eurydice (my brother and my mother!) is not there. Behind you
there is no one,
no one
there is.

You are alone. – That
is enough.