Bozhidar Pangelov

Bozhidar Pangelov Poems

With its death
the day gilds
the leaves.
I do not know the names of

In a while,
in a second
and rain is pouring down.
One expectation like an Alpine horn

as a child
I take a look

this world

Time is an idea of the over-ripe mind
The sky bent dries the earth
Did you achieve anything more than

The night is flexible
the quiet willow
over a lake

My pigeons.
these, who live
in the birdhouse,

Will you break off with me,
my beloved,
morsel for morsel laddu*?
My dream doesn’t come to me,

In English, the Greek Kalinihita (καληνύχτα) means Good Night

I do not expect you.
Sunken hours.
And the streets are rocking like slow guards.
I do not expect you.

“The voice of One crying in the desert speaks:
Isaiah,40: 3;

And here The One is coming…


I remain a guard of sorrow,
of angels who are thrilling there
and of the water of the fat soil.
Insane guard

A splendid vase –
the setting sun rotates
in redness of the skies.
Oh! Of happiness I dream!

Art must mount a full-scale attack on language itself,
by means of language and its surrogates, on behalf of the standard of silence.
Susan Sontag.

when even the day
is shrinking,
and the sun declines

I'm twisting
a shaft of silver reeds
for the sunrise on the waves

now not anymore
the Island that isn't
a loneliness but
Choice without being

The girl
who used to open
the markets
and lock the day.

At some unnamed night,
and it will be bright,
I'll go away.
The door I will never

it's a time of hunger
and of plague
and of starling
the grasshoppers ate up the wheat

wants nothing.
It just happens
like a ray of the tree-tops
or of a temporal bone a palm.

Bozhidar Pangelov Biography

e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: // 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr_1_1? s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1374938945&sr=1-1 http: // “The Second Genesis” – Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry – India’2014, WORLD POETRY YEARBOOK` 2014 Bozhidar Pangelov, was born in Sofia, Bulgaria, where he works and lives now. He is an author of four poetry books, written and published in Bulgarian. Some of his poems have been translated and published in Italian, German and American poetry sites.)

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*** (With Its Death)

With its death
the day gilds
the leaves.
I do not know the names of
the tree
and it doesn’t matter for

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