Poet Profile: Petya Dubarova

05.07.2012 § 1 Comment

Petya Dubarova

Petya Dubarova was born on April 25, 1962. She studied in the English-language high school in the seaside city of Burgas. She committed suicide, not yet 17, on December 4, 1979. She wrote poetry from a very early age. Her first published works appeared in the periodicals “Септемврийче” (“Child of September”) and “Народна младеж” (“People’s Youth”), in the magazines “Родна реч” (“Native tongue”) and “Младеж” (“Youth”). Her moral and spiritual guide was the poet and translator Grigor Lenkov.

During her short life Petya Dubarova penned original poetical works, impressions, fables and short stories which stand out in the literary life of 70’s Bulgaria with their flowing, daring ease and freshness.

The poetess writes about intransient human values: sea, summer, rain, youth, love and poetry, returning them to their archetypal meanings and beauty. Her poetry bares the emotional face of a generation unwilling to accept conformism, hypocrisy and lies. Her disapproval of vice and crassness Dubarova expresses not only with her verse, but also with her refusal to participate in the illusions and falseness of a degrading society.

Petya Dubarova with poet Hristo Fotev


Saturdays
On Saturdays I’m
unappreciated –
wild, flexible, and lively as a lynx.
And tiredness, having turned into a whim,
vacates me like a wound
– healed up and faded.School totally collapses in my mind
and I am far from registers
and blackboards.
A hundred thousand rivers
run towards me,
tints, hues, and rainbows fill my eyes,

and I get rhythms from
those gipsy women.
I’m very, very strong – a vine in spring,
and I turn my guitar into a tear;
I never ask questions, never listen.

On Saturdays I’m unappreciated –
wild, flexible, and lively as a lynx.
And fear, sorrow, tiredness or whims
vacate me like a wound
– healed up and faded.

And I’m not even sure who I am.
But when I put on Monday’s uniform –
that blackboard-tunic once again,
I turn into a good girl as before.

Събота
Във събота съм тъмна,
неразбрана
и гъвкава, и дива като рис.
Умората, избила във каприз,
напуска ме като
зарасла рана.Училището рухва в мисълта ми –
далеч със свойте дневници,
дъски.
Към мен пътуват
хиляди реки,
очите ми се пълнят с цветни гами

и циганки ми дават
своя ритъм.
Аз, силна като пролетна лоза,
китарата превръщам във сълза
и никого не слушам, нито питам.

Във събота съм тъмна, неразбрана
и гъвкава, и дива като рис.
Умората, избила във каприз,
напуска ме като
зарасла рана –

не зная просто как да се наричам…
Но щом във понеделник облека
престилка с цвят на черната дъска,
ще бъда пак добро момиче!

Mood
The whole sky stumbled on a cloud,
And tumbled like a temple dome.
Then like a plane, it shrieked, it shouted.
And I saw, angered again and dumb,The night rain, lean to kick
The clipped off border of the cloud.
Joy, branching out in me, was an oak
And vast the width of its crown…

For my life is a playful minute,
Snatched by a long day – instantly,
I live quite unnoticed in it
But now all the sky lives in me.

Настроение
Препъна се във облака небето
и падна като купола на храм.
Извика нещо с писък самолетен.
А после аз видях, сърдит и ням,как нощен дъжд приведен подковава
на облака изрязания ръб.
И синя радост в мене разклонява
короната си, мощна като дъб,

защото като палава минута,
внезапно грабната от дълъг ден,
живея аз от никого нечута,
а цялото небе живее в мен.

Drowned stars…
Drowned stars are floating on the sea.
Salt burnt the freshness of their colour.
How softly, without taking leave,
they lost both light and power.But I would turn my heart right now
into a pyramid, a sell,
and it would bring them back alive,
ripe in its flesh, like a shell.
Удавени звезди…
Удавени звезди в морето плуват.
Солта цвета им свеж е прегорила.
Как тихо, без дори да се сбогуват,
изгубиха и светлина, и сила.Но моето сърце ще се превърне
в гробница за тях, във пирамида
и живи, преродени ще ги върне,
узрели във плътта му като в мида
Winter Holidays
They melted like snow in my hair,
then died like a cropped out plait.
My panting day is dreaming
they’re here,
my morning pursues them to stay.Heaping snow in my cave of delight,
I hide some image there, a secret.
Then textbooks overcloud my sight
and swooping tests speed up to hit me.

Sweet holidays, I yearn to have you
in memories that branch like vines,
and in my winter herbarium keep you
like a miniature tear of ice.

Зимна ваканция
Тя се стопи като сняг във косите ми,
като отрязана плитка умря.
Как да я върна?
Задъхват се дните ми,
търсят я, гонят я мойте утра.Във пещерата на своето щастие
образ и тайна заравям със сняг.
После учебници грабват очите ми.
Бързат контролни, връхлитат ме пак.

Мила ваканция, пазя те, имам те
в спомени, бухнали като лоза.
Пазя те в своя хербарий на зимата
като замръзнала малка сълза!

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