Poetry Store

Ana As a Poet

What is the source of poetry? From what spring does language flow? These questions are as old as cave paintings or the stories told around a communal fire...Like sparks rising on the warm air, Gergana's poems illuminate the night sky, becoming stars that arc toward God. In ancient times the communal fire was a place of safety and sharing, and in this poetry one feels the connection and affirms, as the 14th century mystic Julian of Norwich wrote, "All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well." Gergana's poetry is not just beautiful language or insightful metaphor. It is more. It comes from her soul's journey of hope and longing, and reaches depths that leave one feeling both quietly human, and vibrantly eternal. Perhaps this is the heart of poetry: the extension of the human spirit into the vast unknown, where all knowing, all being is formed.

Poetry is the story of journey, of exploration. As T. S. Eliot wrote, "We shall not cease from exploration." As we explore sometimes in the valley of the shadows, sometimes on the high peaks of joy, we sing, we write, we dance. Gergana knows this and sings, writes, dances. Her soul is a spark circling up from the human fire. It is light burning in the night sky, joining the countless lights that show the way home...Gergana's poetry gives dignity to our struggles and helps us walk into the heavens without fear. Her words gladden my heart.

Revered Russell O'Neal Clay
West End Poetry Press, New York City
from preface to "Here's To You"

 

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Poetry

This Road

This road i walk on is narrow and hidden.
My bear body covered with thorns.
My mouth ever so dry.
Bloody drops drip from my small feet,
smear the soil and stones.
i meet others who travel,
wandering why i wish to walk here. Not there.
When all i could do is make a small step, change my direction.
Why do i only eat seeds,
when i could feast 'round the big human fires.

Why? Why? Why?
i don't know.
Maybe i'm in love with a Bird
who's tripping around, singing:
follow me, follow me,...and you shall find.
Yes, i do bleed.
Yet something inside me
pushes me forward, waters my mouth.
Maybe i ought to be crazy
when seeing the trails of my blood,
i hysterically laugh,
for it shows me that i am alive!

This road i walk on is narrow and hidden.
Here, you must learn to feed from the soil,
and drink from the lakes.
Here, you can shower with rain,
and shelter your body with blankets of leaves.
Here, you can talk to the plants,
and play with the beasts.
 And when your heart tells you a poem at midnight,
you may ask the Moon kindly, she'll lend you her light.

This road i walk on,
so narrow and hidden,
is just what i've searched for
since the day i was born.

 G. V. 2004
from "Here's To You"

 
 

Am I a Mystic


Am I a mystic,
or is it rather mysterious what has come into me?
To walk the streets like a ghost with eyes shut yet to see?
Only dust in the wind, passing clouds, sand in the hand..

I own nothing but a heart pumping love.
Its a bottomless well, you can drink from it, but...
Like flowers arranged in a beautiful vase,
intentions are fragrant... yet dust in the hand!
Yes, my skin and face pretty,
my songs angel's prayers..yet...
dust in the wind, sand in the hand.

God's words wash us clean every morning and eve
but His call is to feel them and watch how we live.
If I count all the minutes breathing in vain,
all the doubts, the complaining what will I get?
Only dust in the wind, sand in the hand...

 My beautiful friend what else can I say?
Lets simply live what we pray for and do what we say.
Lets grow wings and feathers, and fly to His door,
then bow to His Essence and kiss Him hello.

G.V. 2005
The Things I Like

you know this feeling when you really like a thing,
and you want to have it, now and more and always?
and this urgent longing burns you like a sting
madly scratching up and down and sideways?

like the thing of love for oysters
on a plate with lemon juice
or the moss that grows on cloisters
you can dance on with out shoes.

like the noise of rocks and pebbles
washing gently on the beach
or the smell of morning bagels
when you order one of each.

like the dream of distant places
that you wish to visit soon
or to look at foreign faces
humming strange and simple tunes.

like a night of chanting prayers
sitting calmly on a dune
with a heart attuned with flair
underneath an orange moon.

like the taste of cream and berries
that is good, you must admit,
or a pie with sour cherries,
someone said: "forget the pits!"

like a kiss in summer midnight,
hiding in a lilac tree
like a workout during twilight
or swimming naked in the sea.

oh, those things are so delicious,
and I want to have them all,
but, I know, I'm too capricious,
so ill stop!...and say no more. 

photo of Gergana and mom taken by Vesselin Velinov. poem by G.V. April 30, 2010