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Posts Tagged ‘Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi’

You don’t know real loneliness
if you don’t know closeness.
The road to great solitude
passes through great love
— Dimitrova, from Scars(English text Ludmilla G. Popova-Wightman

Dear friends and readers,

This week two friends introduced me to the poetry of Blaga Dimitrova; she is not well known among western readers: a Bulgarian poet, novelist, essayist, politically active woman. Here is a photo of Dimitrova and on-line interview by a Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi, a poet, essayist, and editor who has translated Dimitrova’s poetry into Farsi. You will find that Blaga answers Farideh’s questions with poems. There are images of both women’s books.

Last night I entered into her “Introduction to the beyond” because she captured something of what I felt when Jim lay dying in my arms and his great courage:

Expiring fully conscious,
you mustered enormous strength
to die peacefully,
without any cry, or moan, or shiver-
so I’d have no fear.

Carefully, your hand
grew cold in my hand
and imperceptibly led me
into that beyond to death
just to introduce me.

In the past, and as carefully,
you used to hold my small hand
and lead me through the world,
show me life –

so I wouldn’t be afraid.
I’ll follow you
with the trust of a child
to that silent country
where you went first,
so I wouldn’t feel strange there.

And I won’t be afraid.
(1966) (English text Brenda Walker)

Another

I will go
and the space I used to take
will be filled with air —
a liberation —
invisible and spacious.
A silent presence,
form which someone else,
unconsciously will take a big breath.

She seems to me deeply alive in these poems:

Touch

Two people touching each other
    doomed to love one another,
    is wounding.

Repelling each other
    is scratching the wound
    till it bleeds.

Whatever they do
    to each other out of love
    hurts.

This binds them together blindfolded
    And the only remedy
    is the pain.

I know only too well.
(March 88) (the above and this English text Ludmilla G. Popova-Wightman)

Dimitrova’s poems to her mother seem to me especially “emotionally intelligent” (a phrase I found in an review of her work I can’t copy and paste here), one of which I’m going to use to introduce a review of a good film, My Old Lady.

Sylvia

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