Saturday, 6 January 2018

Топла гора/Warm forest



                                               Seasonal paradoxes are paw marks in snow,
                                               impressions of an absence that’s not so old,
                                               like the silence from which words form
                                               and back into which poems threaten to go.

                                               Snow’s proximities open onto new spaces –
                                               easy to underestimate scale and distances
                                               along these cusps of mountain and cloud –
                                               and yet they take us out of the wood.

                                               Or maybe deeper in … Geometry
                                               is an attempt to fix an arrangement
                                               of leaf-mould, frond-tips, bark-crust
                                               that hardly make themselves felt for long.

                                               Winter denies logic, refuses measurement.
                                               Through a warm forest, we walk in the sun.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Saturday, 30 December 2017

Кратък разговор в кухнята/Brief conversation in the kitchen



It’s as if I’ve been here before,
sitting on this chair beneath
your painting of red peppers.

It’s as if I’m meeting again
people I knew in some other life –
as if you could ask me to pass
a particular plate or fork
and, without so much as a thought,
I’d reach for the drawer
where it’s always been kept.

It’s one way to explain
this atmosphere, this ease –
and, of course, we’ve spoken
via email, and I’ve seen on Skype
your painting in this kitchen
where friends, not guests, are entertained.

It’s only as you make to leave,
to cycle across the city,
it’s as if I’m doing a disservice.
There was no other life,
nothing pre-ordained.

It’s as if I’ve forgotten the word
in my own language – although,
as we’re saying our goodbyes,
I’m not so sure it ever had one.


Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips


Saturday, 23 December 2017

Весели празници/Happy holidays!


Warm wishes for Christmas and the New Year from all of us at Colourful Star!

Thank you for visiting our site and continuing to support us. 

We hope that you have had a rewarding year and that you've enjoyed our ongoing collaborations.

We'll be back with more new posts in a week or so.

Much love,
Marina, Vasilena and Tom

Saturday, 16 December 2017

Това отдалечено място/That distant place


It’s tipping down and I’m off to Rakovski,
with that newly learned joke in my head:
‘White wine, white wine – why aren’t you red?’

Beneath NDK, we’re doing our best
to keep up, to say what we can, to drink
from the right bottles – it’s Malta

he’s talking about, that distant place,
and we’re here, in our apartment,

and she’s taking on folded paper with shears.
Everything’s written. Here is the weather forecast.


Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips


Saturday, 9 December 2017

Музика през нощта/Music at night


                                                   Beside bottle clusters and salad plates,
                                                   exchanging intimations of time
                                                   we’ll be spending together, here
                                                   amongst moorland and mountain,
                                                   these stories we’ll share like fables,
                                                   we’re on a last glass of rakiya.
                                                   Except, of course, that’s never “good night”.

                                                   With instruments drawn from bags and cases,
                                                   they’re tuning up for songs that speak
                                                   of other histories, other causes –
                                                   and it might be I’m remembering
                                                   glimpses of tracks and yards where lives
                                                   are routinely, uniquely led
                                                   and fed the soaring rapture of his song.




Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Thursday, 30 November 2017

Временно топене/A temporary thaw


                                                  Breath redoubles my cigarette smoke.
                                                  The city trees are creaking with snow.
                                                  Crystalline drifting under the branches
                                                  is not a new fall: it’s yesterday’s weather
                                                  beating a passing retreat, diffusing.

                                                  And so now here beside shopfronts
                                                  we’re dodging tumbling ice
                                                  from cordoned-off buildings
                                                  as cloud cover clears, reconvenes,
                                                  and early winter mist gathers
                                                  its skirts across our mountain.

                                                  A new gratitude for being at home
                                                  forms in the light trapped in our foyer
                                                  against a melting soundtrack.


Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips














Thursday, 23 November 2017

Тих момент/A quiet moment


                                                And I suppose you can hear traffic on Slivnitsa,
                                                but for most of us it’s a pause with nothing in it.
                                                The dog across the street wanders dully along.
                                                Imperceptibly, the line between sunlight and shade
                                                slips across an apartment block’s ochre façade.
                                                A few late fig leaves drop into our path.

                                                An ordinary afternoon, towards four o’clock –
                                                a man in winter jacket, cap, lets himself out
                                                through a stern iron door, makes his way
                                                with the household waste to a corner dumpster.
                                                And yes, this may well be the kind of day
                                                when an Icarus somewhere rises, then falls,
                                                or a woman watering plants on her balcony
                                                looks down and, yes, sees something amazing.


Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips