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The Air Around the Butterfly / Въздухът около пеперудата
Poems in Bulgarian and English; parallel text.
- GenresPoetry
148 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2009
About the author
Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
36 books38 followersКатерина Стойкова е автор на няколко поетични книги. Най-новите й стихосбирки на български са „Американски деликатеси“ и „Втора кожа“, издадени от ICU. През 2024 г. University Press of Kentucky ще издаде на английски нейната стихосбирка „Между клетка за птици и къща за птици“. Книгите на Катерина са носители на националните награди „Дъбът на Пенчо“, „Иван Николов“ и „Ваня Константинова“.
Катерина е собственик и главен редактор на американското издателство Accents Publishing, където е редактирала и публикувала близо сто книги, повечето от които поезия. Нейни стихове са номинирани за наградите Pushcart, Best of the Net, Discovery Award и други.
През издателството си Катерина редовно преподава дългосрочни и краткосрочни работилници по поезия на ученици от различни нива. Също преподава и в Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning.
Катерина е собственик и главен редактор на американското издателство Accents Publishing, където е редактирала и публикувала близо сто книги, повечето от които поезия. Нейни стихове са номинирани за наградите Pushcart, Best of the Net, Discovery Award и други.
През издателството си Катерина редовно преподава дългосрочни и краткосрочни работилници по поезия на ученици от различни нива. Също преподава и в Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
April 10, 2015
Всичко започна така: В разговор с Катерина Стойкова-Клемър споменах, че любимото ми нейно стихотворение е „Майка ми отива на война“. Тогава авторката ми изпрати файл на книгата „Въздухът около пеперудата“, в която е включено то. Започнах да превъртам страниците на файла, а те са много, понеже книгата е билингва – стихотворенията са написани и на български, и на английски език. Трудно ми беше да разчитам вертикалните заглавия на циклите, но прочетох бързо всичко, понеже дългите стихотворения, които разказват истории, са увлекателни, а другите, минималистичните, отнемат съвсем малко време. Но имаше много стихове – такива, които прочиташ веднъж и ги взимаш със себе си за цял живот – като „Често ми се иска“, „Време“, „Взимат приятеля ми войник“, „Молба“, „Последният пуловер“ и други, с които не можех да си позволя да се гледаме само през екрана.
И ето я хартиената книга, която си купих след голямо ровене в една книжарница. Успокоява погледа ми с благодатната за държане и галене кремавожълтеникава хартия, с онази невъобразима драсканица на корицата, с вертикалните заглавия на циклите, които ми напомнят колони от кръстословици. Сега четенето се забавя, не, аз го забавям – защото го преповтарям, прелиствам отново и отново, без да търся конкретно стихотворение или страница. Чета, където се отвори, първо на български, а след това и на английски. Интересно ми е да видя как изглеждат стиховете на двата езика, понякога откривам малки разлики и се опитвам да се наглася точно към конкретния смисъл.
Структурно стиховете са групирани в три смислови гнезда:
„Майка ми отива на война“
„И.С. и аз се обаждаме до вкъщи“
„Ябълката, която искаше да стане шишарка“
Стихотворенията в тях са написани с максимално опростен и разбираем език. Историите, които са основа на стиховете и са предпоставка за болезнени състояния, ме карат да мисля, че заради тях езикът е лишен от цвят и украса. Има изповедност, но не заради желано опрощение, а защото безименната болка или това, което тежи и притиска, трябва да се разкаже, да се прехвърли част от тежестта му, ако е възможно, върху листа. Така може да говори един изтръпнал от загуба или силно тъгуване по нещо човек. Индианците от племето Хопи имат дума за това. „Сус-тос“.
На моменти книгата ми прилича на личен дневник на изгнаник – записващ кратки моменти,случки от деня, защото само писането го кара да се чувства жив.
Откривам и две стихотворения, които много се родеят, сякаш „предвиждат“ излязлата 2014 година книга „Как наказва Бог“. Визирам „До имигранта, печащ ябълков пай“ и „Въжето заникъде“.
Но книгата не е само тъга. В последния цикъл на стихосбирката има много лапидарни стихове, в които точността и изненадата от съчетанието на думите и смислите са ключови. Като ситни камъчета или стрелички, изпратени към теб – и те уцелват право в десетката.
И ето я хартиената книга, която си купих след голямо ровене в една книжарница. Успокоява погледа ми с благодатната за държане и галене кремавожълтеникава хартия, с онази невъобразима драсканица на корицата, с вертикалните заглавия на циклите, които ми напомнят колони от кръстословици. Сега четенето се забавя, не, аз го забавям – защото го преповтарям, прелиствам отново и отново, без да търся конкретно стихотворение или страница. Чета, където се отвори, първо на български, а след това и на английски. Интересно ми е да видя как изглеждат стиховете на двата езика, понякога откривам малки разлики и се опитвам да се наглася точно към конкретния смисъл.
Структурно стиховете са групирани в три смислови гнезда:
„Майка ми отива на война“
„И.С. и аз се обаждаме до вкъщи“
„Ябълката, която искаше да стане шишарка“
Стихотворенията в тях са написани с максимално опростен и разбираем език. Историите, които са основа на стиховете и са предпоставка за болезнени състояния, ме карат да мисля, че заради тях езикът е лишен от цвят и украса. Има изповедност, но не заради желано опрощение, а защото безименната болка или това, което тежи и притиска, трябва да се разкаже, да се прехвърли част от тежестта му, ако е възможно, върху листа. Така може да говори един изтръпнал от загуба или силно тъгуване по нещо човек. Индианците от племето Хопи имат дума за това. „Сус-тос“.
На моменти книгата ми прилича на личен дневник на изгнаник – записващ кратки моменти,случки от деня, защото само писането го кара да се чувства жив.
Откривам и две стихотворения, които много се родеят, сякаш „предвиждат“ излязлата 2014 година книга „Как наказва Бог“. Визирам „До имигранта, печащ ябълков пай“ и „Въжето заникъде“.
Но книгата не е само тъга. В последния цикъл на стихосбирката има много лапидарни стихове, в които точността и изненадата от съчетанието на думите и смислите са ключови. Като ситни камъчета или стрелички, изпратени към теб – и те уцелват право в десетката.
November 19, 2009
This is a magnificent gem of a book. Witty, delightful, and surprisingly surprising poems fill each page. Don't just read it, savor it, and you will find yourself returning to it again and again for the beauty within.
November 14, 2009
Excellent and Amusing Poetry. Well worth the read. I learned something reading it and suggest that you will too. One of my favorite poets.
September 28, 2009
You can read my review here: http://bobbisbooknook.blogspot.com/20...
Read
February 4, 2010I won this book in a Good Reads contest and, being a fan of eastern European literature, I was very interested in reading a Bulgarian poet. I found a lot of what I hoped to find in the book – short poems, wit, brushes with the surreal. I read the collection over lunch, and re-read parts in the evening.
I found very appealing that it’s written by an ex-pat who obviously suffers from the same brand of homesickness and associated alienation I do. I definitely felt that connection and that understanding, and, reading the poem “Sus-toss,” it wasn’t long before I was crying in my noodles.
“Sus-toss is a word in the Hopi language to describe the disease that people suffer when they move to live on in new lands.”
Sus-toss is a disease that makes you not want the things you want.
It makes you not want to think about the things you want to think about.
It makes you not want to talk to your friends.
It makes you not want to have any friends.
It is the disease of living in a walnut shell
and spending all your strength to keep it closed…
On the surface, those first lines could be about anything, yet they struck me immediately as what the poet intends – the transplant’s limbo, trying to forget things you’ve always loved, the turning away from what would make you happy because acknowledging it would make you happy makes you unhappy. Anyway, I took it very personally, and there I was in the noodle shop, a little less alone for a few pages.
“Sus-toss” was the longest poem in the book. The others were much shorter, rarely more than a page, and sometimes just a few lines.
The book’s title, for example, refers to a poem called “How to Write a Poem,” which simply says “Catch the air / around the butterfly.”
The book is separated into three sections. The first – “My Mother Was Going to War” – is about a mother’s death by cancer. The second is about the alienation of living abroad – “e.t. and I phone home,” which includes “Sus-toss” and “ET and I Phone Home,” another poem directly about being disconnected from what you consider your own world. It’s a humorous poem, and despite ET not at all cheesy, and also sad.
The last section is “The Apple Who Wanted to Be a Pinecone.” This had some strong, surreal poems. My favourite was “A Dream” –
At my feet – a stack of fish scales.
One by one I pick them up
and glue them to my body.
I resemble a half-done
3-D puzzle of a fish.
I think I may be a trout.
Why, in the world, are you doing this?
A passerby cries.
I open and close,
open and close,
open and close
my mouth.
Of the surreal poems, I also really liked “Potato,” which opens the book. You can watch/hear the poet read it on the Good Reads page for this book.
For the reasons mentioned, I’m very happy to have this book. I should mention, too, that there were a number of poems that came off more flat to me. In some cases they used dead-pan endings that didn’t have the right punch for me. It could be a cultural thing.
All the poems appear in English and Bulgarian, and the publisher has produced a gorgeous book – the paper is gorgeous and textured, the design and colors are gorgeous, even the size is slightly different and strikes me to be exactly the right size for a book.
I found very appealing that it’s written by an ex-pat who obviously suffers from the same brand of homesickness and associated alienation I do. I definitely felt that connection and that understanding, and, reading the poem “Sus-toss,” it wasn’t long before I was crying in my noodles.
“Sus-toss is a word in the Hopi language to describe the disease that people suffer when they move to live on in new lands.”
Sus-toss is a disease that makes you not want the things you want.
It makes you not want to think about the things you want to think about.
It makes you not want to talk to your friends.
It makes you not want to have any friends.
It is the disease of living in a walnut shell
and spending all your strength to keep it closed…
On the surface, those first lines could be about anything, yet they struck me immediately as what the poet intends – the transplant’s limbo, trying to forget things you’ve always loved, the turning away from what would make you happy because acknowledging it would make you happy makes you unhappy. Anyway, I took it very personally, and there I was in the noodle shop, a little less alone for a few pages.
“Sus-toss” was the longest poem in the book. The others were much shorter, rarely more than a page, and sometimes just a few lines.
The book’s title, for example, refers to a poem called “How to Write a Poem,” which simply says “Catch the air / around the butterfly.”
The book is separated into three sections. The first – “My Mother Was Going to War” – is about a mother’s death by cancer. The second is about the alienation of living abroad – “e.t. and I phone home,” which includes “Sus-toss” and “ET and I Phone Home,” another poem directly about being disconnected from what you consider your own world. It’s a humorous poem, and despite ET not at all cheesy, and also sad.
The last section is “The Apple Who Wanted to Be a Pinecone.” This had some strong, surreal poems. My favourite was “A Dream” –
At my feet – a stack of fish scales.
One by one I pick them up
and glue them to my body.
I resemble a half-done
3-D puzzle of a fish.
I think I may be a trout.
Why, in the world, are you doing this?
A passerby cries.
I open and close,
open and close,
open and close
my mouth.
Of the surreal poems, I also really liked “Potato,” which opens the book. You can watch/hear the poet read it on the Good Reads page for this book.
For the reasons mentioned, I’m very happy to have this book. I should mention, too, that there were a number of poems that came off more flat to me. In some cases they used dead-pan endings that didn’t have the right punch for me. It could be a cultural thing.
All the poems appear in English and Bulgarian, and the publisher has produced a gorgeous book – the paper is gorgeous and textured, the design and colors are gorgeous, even the size is slightly different and strikes me to be exactly the right size for a book.
February 4, 2010
I've never liked reviewing poetry, each stanza personal to both reader and writer. And really, it almost always comes down to perspective...those exact words, at that exact time, at that exact place and filled with all the intent and emotion you lacked the ability to convey yourself.
With that said, I did win this one from First Reads Giveaway.
Hospital Room
If only these walls could talk they would say,
"If only this nightstand could talk it would say,
"If only this pillow could talk it would say,
"If only this bedpan could talk it would say,
"If only Death could talk he would say,
"I don't kiss and tell."
Though, upon first look, Katerina Stoykova's poems can appear simplistic, I ask you to look again. On these pages you'll find a life exposed in bittersweet revelations overflowing with pain, ecstasy, suffering, and contentment. And done so in a sometimes witty, sometimes melancholic way, but always with passion and intelligence.
Nobody Made Soup
My father and I were
drinking coffee, arguing
while Mom was coming out of surgery.
"You make her soup."
"No, you make her soup."
My only complaint? The author, herself, didn't sign it. That's okay, though. The author has a new book coming out and hopefully, I can get her to sign that one.
With that said, I did win this one from First Reads Giveaway.
Hospital Room
If only these walls could talk they would say,
"If only this nightstand could talk it would say,
"If only this pillow could talk it would say,
"If only this bedpan could talk it would say,
"If only Death could talk he would say,
"I don't kiss and tell."
Though, upon first look, Katerina Stoykova's poems can appear simplistic, I ask you to look again. On these pages you'll find a life exposed in bittersweet revelations overflowing with pain, ecstasy, suffering, and contentment. And done so in a sometimes witty, sometimes melancholic way, but always with passion and intelligence.
Nobody Made Soup
My father and I were
drinking coffee, arguing
while Mom was coming out of surgery.
"You make her soup."
"No, you make her soup."
My only complaint? The author, herself, didn't sign it. That's okay, though. The author has a new book coming out and hopefully, I can get her to sign that one.
January 12, 2015
Spare but full, spacious but intimate, expansive but tightly focused, funny but full of sorrow, home but away, all heart and all body, cloud and stone. It won't take you long to read this book and then you'll want to read it again.
November 26, 2009
Filled my head and body with resounding verses. So sad, so true, so beautiful.
July 25, 2011
This is a book of poetry. Katerina uses simple, clear language and images. She has a breathtaking ability to use the last line to punctuate and deepen the meaning of the whole poem.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews