Морски

(помолиха ме да преведа по две стихотворения от Петя Дубарова и Христо Фотев. 
срокът беше доста кратък, събитието, в което щяха да се ползват, така и не се състоя, но ви споделям резултата)


Христо Фотев
Измислица ли е морето?
Is it true that the sea is fiction?
And happiness? Do not believe it!
Do not believe the captains
Who sold it!
And do not believe the hookers either
Who forgot it!
And don’t believe the poets
Who lost it!
The sea’s not fiction
And happiness exists!

You only need to listen
To the silence of your heart.
You only need to reach out
Your hand, to smile
At someone and to give him back
What captains and what hookers
Took –
Oh, just a bit
Of your own faith in trees,
In those most happy premonitions,
In greeting friends,
In workdays, and then in a flash
You’ll find the sea…
The bluest and most radiant
Will smile in your eyes.
And then the orange-like sun
Will be your captain’s Cap, my captain!
Ahoy, my captain!

The sea’s not fiction
And happiness exists!

Морето само живите обича
The sea loves only those who live, and hurls
All who are dead back to the shore.
One girl there was, there was one girl
That came back to the shore no more.
Her towel was the one thing that was left
To float around amid the waters brimming.
She loved a sailor, this girl, and she was bereft,
Because the sailor loved all pretty women.
Her towel was the one thing that remained,
In red and purple, on the shore above.
We cried, embarrassed, noiseless, pained,
And then into the cold depths dove.
We searched the waters far and wide,
And dug the sand with fingers blue with woe,
To find the one girl, whom the tides
Returned onto the shore no more.

Петя Дубарова
Удавени звезди
Drowned stars are floating in the swells.
Sea salt has burned their youthful colour.
How quietly, without farewell,
They lost both light and valor.
But my heart will be their tomb,
A pharaoh’s pyramid for them,
And ripened in its flesh as in a mussel’s womb,
They will return, reborn, alive again.
Ела сега
The summer stepped into the waters, bare,
Threw all dead sea-weed out, and laid
Fresh sand down on the bottom where
Mothers-of-pearls, as children, played.
The lighthouse stretched its manly shape up high,
A certain kind of yearning burst
Inside its brightness-laden eye….….
I dive towards the bottom with a sudden plunge.
My skillful hands scoop water, and in tiny sips
I seem to breathe in water with my lungs
Of an amphibian, and with my dolpnin’s lips.
Green circles faintly glint below,
My heartbeat’s in a skyward rush.
Ports sound a sombre siren’s call.
And from their open veins out gush
Waste oil and death, and fill the sea.
Cry, summer – future orphaned child!
Come now, you saviour poet, come to me,
Not with your pen and paper, we won’t cry!
(To cry is awful easy on the page!)
But hurry, brother! Let us ban
The poison and the vile rage
That’s taken over man!...


(имаше коментар от една читателка – че винаги е смятала, че кърпата е по-скоро шал. и аз се двоумих, питах околните и накрая се спрях на плажна кърпа, но приемам забележката)