the timeless flower
the freshness of today
The last one standing in the crowd.
The one who doesn’t like the music oh-so-loud.
The one who wishes, whispers, moves, and changes.
The one who breathes within and rearranges.
The one who gathers the crumbs and feeds the birds by the lake.
The one who never mistrusts or assumes.
The one who lets the bird out of its cage.
The one unafraid to suffer or pay the prices of living so boldly.
The one who hears the bells and climbs all the way up the stairs.
The one who is dancing in silence.
The one who knows you will hurt and he will be there.
The one who will gather you in your arms as if you are leaves.
The one who will transmit through your palms light beams…
I deserved the pain, God.
I deserved every single scratch and bruise, and loss.
I deserved it all.
Now I trust.
He took the typewriter from the trash
and sold it,
unaware that he would meet her.
It seems I only told the truth
about what I have lived
to the strangers,
wanders, explorers, warriors,
and possibly some souls in danger.
They had nothing to gain, nothing to lose.
I never once told it to the ones that claimed they love me.
And I turned my head to the Sun,
hoping when it will fall behind the hill as slowly as it should.
You and me, we type, every single day we type
until someday… the typewriters disappear
and we can dance into their light.
To you I seem light on the outside, I know.
Dancing and swirling,
frivolous, beautiful, good.
You underline all these words happily,
sitting softly in the clouds of your heart.
you don’t know all the storms which have passed.
You didn’t hear the sadness of the guitars,
that didn’t arrive
or how I broke all the strings of attachment,
nor the blissful dying of all that I was.
You didn’t know how many times
I remained all alone,
till I started loving reclusion
more than this room full of people and songs.
I was demolished, and scratched, broken in two,
penetrated with the wounds of this world.
And I barely survived
in a vast sea of voices,
when in truth
I hoping to hear
In my lungs lives a tree.
It’s my home and my stop,
always breathing in me.
9 generations of fortunate loves,
trees of colored beliefs,
trees of tireless talks.
In my lungs lives a tree.
Its leaves are floating like angels,
and its branches are deep like the sea.
Dear Tree, dear Tree….
I’m growing so strong.
Thank you for ever believing in me.
Poetry lives in the weirdest of places,
for a stranger, it builds a home by the sea,
pours a coffee, breaths of calmness and peace,
kicks wilderness right below in the gut,
questions the point of journeys & races.
More Poetry by Svetlina
I became a lover of my loneliness,
a great frenemy to its existence.
I was the one to build a home for it,
I feel as if now
I am a victim of my guest.
Poems I can go back to (over & over again)
Today I’m sharing some of the best blackout poems of Grigor Atanasov. Grigor & I were both featured on the same project (Manu Propria). It’s a gigantic online book for collaboration of modern day artists such as poets, photographers, painters, living in my homeland.
Somehow he found my FB page later on and we shared our mutual adoration for the liberating talks of Krishnamurti. I had no particular idea about blackout poetry at the time. I asked him whether he would let me “try it out as well.”
He was kind enough to stand my excitement and I enjoyed seeing this form of poetry through his eyes. In all my humbleness, I say that blackout poetry can be a very fine tool. You might be surprised what comes out.
You are often surprised what comes out.
He is a poet and a photographer, a keen traveler. Actually, traveling might come first on his list and then… all the rest could easily follow. Let me correct myself right now – he’s an explorer, a wanderer.
Grigor’s poetry breathes air into our urban life, so it’s quite likely to find it in a gallery in Sofia, or gracing an urban wall that simply adores its new function in society!
Here, here, Grigor! What you don’t know yet.. is that I will play with your poetry now by… continuing every single poem with an odd answer, a mindful sentence or … a blissful silence.
You are right.
this about you.
The rain said:
You are endless.
You were not.
You are not
More beautiful poems
– Colors will enter because
you recognized the beauty of the blank canvas.
– But I wish to remain a blank canvas.
I don’t really need much of anything else anymore.
I have you – we are together,
in different spaces and times,
we are always together, my beloved.
I don’t need colors, let me be pure,
I am a white space.
I am beyond the colors,
I’ve lived in the Light
and swam through the darkness.
beyond all poles of understanding.
Remember me this way.
Colored, on the outside.
Remember me this way
if you still haven’t seen
my colors on the inside.
But if you have,
then we can be friends.
Not friends for a couple of years.
Friends for Eternity,
friends even when I exit this place
and you remember my heart.
You have this.
The first time I conquered
the deepest, darkest fears
and put them in the colors.
beyond form and matter,
I am a feeling.
of distant times,
of ancient times
when life was flowing,
when life was not a mascarade.
Love was pure to the core.
We were fire from the core.
We were liquid,
beauty had no form.
I remember so well.
A thousand lives ago.
Until we became everything –
friends, lovers, warriors,
beautiful and broken…
after every single round.
We were mistreated, abandoned,
loved and forgotten.
In the darkest night,
nobody of our friends was around.
We flew through galaxies,
planets and stars,
our Love knew no limits.
Do you know how sad it is for me
to see you now?
The one who gave everything,
fell from all his grace, all his glory.
The one I loved became dark.
I hope, my friend
you start to repair yourself
and remember yourself.
I have never been your enemy
even when we were enemies.
I have always been and forever will be free.
when you decide to dismantle your prison,
you will know it too.
All colors will gather,
your Essence will begin to emerge.
Sleep tight, for now.
One day I will come back to ask again.
Are ready now, my eternal, beloved friend…
Photography by Kristina Likova
What I now know
is less than I could have known, but greater than me.
While it rests in the I, it flows out of my eye.
I can’t keep it.
It is never mine, never yours.
We are floating in and out of our beings
and you are forever glorious and imperfect, my love.
What I now know is a liquid step in the desert –
it will perish through the transient days.
Out of ignorance, we committed
more crimes than we would, if we knew:
Debt is paid only by death.
Dead love is, as it seems, the greatest loss of a man.
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Там, където Светлината огрява и най-тъмните кътчета. Където зримото и незримото са в съвършена хармония .
( Freedom All the TIME )
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