В кухнята/In the kitchen

Adventurous light plays on vegetable surfaces,

out to remind us, it seems, that this is the morning after.

We’ve been talking as if bare, crude facts

were nothing more than annoyances.

Across the way, cleaned washing balloons

in chance wind currents and lime-green leaves

make love a plausible topic of conversation.

In the distance, a city does what it has to do

and email messages stack up to not much at all.

You are paring and peeling hot peppers

while the job I was meant to do goes undone.

The kettle’s drilling boiling sounds out

the proximities of silence. That was my promise,

I think, to reach a certain temperature, to make the tea.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Нарове/Pomegranates

Stilled ripeness behind a wall

in the Black Sea town of Sozopol ...

Fig jam greens refracted sea-light,

jars stacked up on foldaway tables,

but it’s the lure of hidden fruit

that’s proving food for thought

on these staggered, staggering cobbles.

And so because land ends here

in a tumble of rock, you might

have to bear with me, back

over a stony unadopted route

or out along coastal defences.

Cloudbursts of gulls shadow

wakes of returning fishing boats,

though we’re already in the shade

of balcony overhangs and a care

not to abide the inferences

clamouring in every word.

And so because here we are

browsing at a souvenir shop,

we’re hoping to find a thread

to hang shells and semblances on,

while waves not so far below

furl and roll along the shore

and there’s hidden fruit behind a wall

in the Black Sea town of Sozopol.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Посред бял ден/In broad daylight

За Марина/For Marina

In parkland we’re lit with August sun

and afternoon strollers disperse, coalesce

around a lily pond’s surface tessellations.

It’s all coming together in so many words

and we’re taking up again conversations

time and the geography failed to disrupt.

Almost inconceivable not to be here,

with summer verging into plenitude

and shrub blossom haloing bronzes

of those who’ve created, preserved,

marking pathways through the trees.

A singular brightness – like the one

you bring to the humble, everyday –

hazes out squared city horizons.

Were it night, I’d be thanking lucky stars,

though there’s no need: you’ve already

brought to light those of your own making.

In the grounds of a seminary, we’re talking

of eye-tints, perspective, minutiae of

a given world we both have our cares for –

only now I see it, here amongst leaf shadows,

illuminated for us, this place, your gift.

17 July is St Marina's Day in Bulgaria: this poem is for Marina Shiderova - a wonderful collaborator and friend with love and gratitude on her name day - Tom.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Орхидеи/Orchids

He came home with them,

laid them down

on the dining room table,

cellophaned exotica.

My father, back from India

or the UAE, took off

his uniform, returned to

light through French windows.

In that room, whose furniture
pieces were like so many
precise coordinates,
Mum vased those bright flowers.

They were part – I'd assume –

of their latest negotiations.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Рибарска приказка/A fisherman’s tale

The softest plunk in near-dark

where bait and hook sink

through water. A turning point

of sorts beckons in cloud banks

beyond a pub car-park’s clunked doors.

It’s not what we’re about:

it’s almost a distraction, in fact.

Overnight, we watch trees

lose shape and disappear.

At dawn, they reassert themselves.

As do we, and the small, frail fish

we’ve yanked up

from entirely predictable depths.

There’s a photo in the cupboard.

It's that or something else

which might put us in the frame.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

Задължителни грешки/Mandatory errors

From balcony to balcony,

the summer cats are singing.

They're saying: ‘I wish you

were here.’ But I know

they can't understand

the meaning of such words.

The city is trying to sleep,

but the birds have gathered

for a party and the wires

dance between apartment blocks.

For some reason, I can

only think about eyes –

about eyes which 

promise, suggest

a thousand possibilities

(or simply the sea),

but nevertheless remain

in someone else’s mirror.

It’s almost time to admit

that this is how

the tale ends – except,

there, listen – in the song

of the cats, the dance of the wires,

you can hear a new story

about a mermaid’s blue eyes.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips