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