Tag Archives: Peycho Kanev

Whatever is Approaching

by Peycho Kanev

Black and hairy clouds.
The pines in the backyard –
strangely still…

The only sound is from us;
you sipping the wine and me
lighting my cigarette.

The eyes are almost shut;
the ashtray is full of memories –
grey and burnt…

…this is a storm in a clam’s shell.
…there is the quietness of the graveyard.

Whatever is approaching!
Whatever is encroaching!

We are still here,
idle and soon to disappear.
Time slips by,
like a fly through the crack of the screen door.

And then suddenly the drapes are waving,
just a little bit, and she says:

“Can you smell the rain…

…and hear the thunder?”



by Peycho Kanev

From the toenails to the hair you
are mine The voice is important Let

it fly This salvation is sown in
the black garden Let it bloom

The time within time turns
the worms into silkworms and

it is ours While we climb others
go down Older than us Let the sun

shine Wind around me like a snake
Time is eating something small but your

eyes are the ocean Let the tears drop
unshed by anyone While I’m looking

at you
I can see you


по Чарлс Буковски
The Replacements, by Charles Bukowski
Translated by Peycho Kanev

Джек Лондон изпиваше живота си,
пишейки за странни и смели мъже.
Юджийн О’Нийл пиеше до ступор,
докато създаваше своите мрачни и поетични

Днес нашите съвременници
изнасят лекции в университетите
в костюм и вратовръзка,
малките момчета са подчертано трезвени,
малките момичета с безжизнени погледи
моравите са толкова зелени, книгите толкова тъпи,
животът толкова умира
от жажда.

Превод Пейчо Кънев

View the original English version of The Replacements.


by Peycho Kanev

Under my roof there’s a ceiling

full of forgotten memories.
Turning the knob of the radio-
it’s not working, only static.
I need some quiet music. Now!

Today I can hear the walls move
within themselves,
as time slips by
beneath my elbow and the table.

I want to live my life as a spider
or a bee, not caring for anything
in the world. It is only Tuesday after all.

I am nothing,
and I am perfect in my nothingness.
Time slowly pours out of
my empty wine glass.
And I am myself again!

What is this thirst inside us all,
that makes us ache, even for the word?
Can we breathe the calendar in and out
with all our days when we will be forgotten?

Last night I dreamed of ancient Greek gods,
and today I think of something more
pleasurable, like grapes and wheat.

When I dust my clocks, I am very careful.
They speak to me in hush voices, but I answer No!

The hours pretend to be my brothers,
alluring me in their fossil forgetfulness,
making me work too hard on these poems.

But I am not alone.
Her skin is under my skin,
the sheets are our umbilical cord,
and the tattoo on her soul is in my throat.

And her thoughts chase me around the clock’s dial,
begging me to finish this poem.

So, my friends,
I pour fresh time in my glass for you
and drink it down.

Let’s grow old!

Last Word

by Peycho Kanev

I will lose everything into the swirl of myself.
I’ll fade quickly away, then soon enough
I’ll be gone. My legs will disappear, my knee:
gone; my right eye will start to blink before it
vanishes into the void. Between the hands of
a clock, the last sound will die, crucified by
silence. All turns white, gray, ashes.
If I have her hair do I really have her?
I have no time for questions. I erase myself
so slowly that nobody feels me anymore.
That’s why I hasten to write these words so
at least she could remember that I ever lived.