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In memory of Lubomir Levchev by Ann Wood

LUBOMIR LEVCHEV Took to the Stars ...
May his way be bright!
What I wrote in my 2012 post, I confirm it today:

I know everything (or almost everything) bad you can write in the comments. But today, I beg you not to. Because THE SONG Lyubomir Levchev has a birthday, that is a holiday. Be alive and well! I love his poems, and for the other ... one is the judge! S.N.

"The one we used to play,
the story then played him cruelly ...
... Look at the kids sometimes for what they play.
Because they always play in the future.
Look (for the same reason)
the poets what they did. "
(from verse "The Hands of the World" by L. Levchev)

AFTER Cognac is finished
Now go away everyone
well-wishers,
advisers,
concerned about what to be! ...
... I want to be a tin can
from a lemonade bottle.
I want my daughter,
dressing in the morning,
to hide me
in the pocket of his apron.
To have something hidden
from homes in kindergarten.

Because it's not allowed
to import such things.
And they are so necessary! ...
When necessary,
I will suddenly shine -
jagged,
silver -
like a star.
And my daughter will smile ...
And let's break the ban!

(from the Observatory verse collection, 1967)
Hallucination from fatigue
Hiking.
Hiking.
Hiking.
All the way.
All against the sharp fire.
All the way to the great goal.
Dry comes the fatigue.
The Sun - Black Spider -
in black rays they twist you.
Your brain is on fire.
And you hear constantly
splashing fountains.

You throw away your personal effects.
(Even your letters are drawn.)
Will you handle it?
- Be bold! ...
In that moment I saw
my childhood buddy.
My childhood buddy
secretly threw out his heart.
Skrishom threw out his heart -
the heavy,
pure heart.
And he smiled, vile.

It came to him slightly
and nice.
And it flows forward.
All the way.
All against the sharp wind.
All the way to the great goal ...
Wind,
shut up for a minute.
Stop it, watches!
Quiet!
I want to hear my heart.
I want to hear it beating.
I want nothing else.
(from the poem The Position, 1962)

ROOFS
The old grandfather's house
there was a tile roof.
I even remember growing some grass
up there...
"Where is the old grandfather's house, I ask?"
And they tell me it has collapsed
by itself.

- Look, they say, -
from the roof tiles we did
an original sidewalk!
... Of course the plates are the same.
But the house had been demolished
by itself...
I don't believe it at all!
It was a wonderfully designed house -
cozy,
just,
humanoid ...

However, like the grandfather universe,
so was she suffering
from the same defect -
terribly heavy roof,
and no basics!
So the house did not collapse,
and slowly,
it slowly sank into the ground.
It sank right up to the roof.

And today I walk on her plates like a cat.
chimneys smoke from the chimneys ...
And below - in Grandpa Atlantis -
everything is left as it once was.
The fire is burning.
In the pot boil the beans.
And Daddy,
suffocates in the grandmother's lap.
- Get some sleep soon! she whispers,
that the Karakondul goes on the roof! ...
And Dad is listening terribly.

Yes - it is heard!
(These are my steps.)
And he believes it.
And she trembles.
And he falls asleep ...
And I'm still pounding on the sidewalk.
It's hard to compose roofs,
so that the basics of time can withstand them.
The superstructure (Marx would say)
should not smear the base!

And we - the writers -
we have to come up with something very true,
realistically,
sunny
and lively ...
Because it seems to me that
someone is already walking on our roof.
And lightning,
like wings,
above his shoulders sprout.
(from the poetry collection "Shooting Range", 1971)

Poetry by Ann Wood