Public Republic

Dimiter Kenarov Translated from the Bulgarian by Dimiter Kenarov Photo: Dave Kleinschmidt Neck legs skin stomach liver kidneys heart lard bristle intestines: a dictionary we cut into pieces on the table, chew on its words, clueless about their bloody etymology. The tongue only knows what is sweet, the eye enjoys the shape of the dish, […]

Sabina Karleva Translated from Bulgarian by Bozhil Hristov Photo: Untitled blue today I confess my contempt of death. you can chain me to the bedside you can give me a golden goblet you can pour salty water into a silver vessel and summon the slaves who gather oranges in the garden to come, to deck […]

Milena Valkanova Photo: alicepopkorn Killing black crows Never makes for Lost albino hopes

Aksinia Mihailova Photo: scotthudson Many nights in a row he has been coming back to the terrace of my dreams, mounting its crumbling steps – a silent shade like an abandoned house, he seeks his face in the empty eyes of weathered window sills, a bandana of fading colors with a bundle of parched cornflowers […]

By Mariana Velichkova Photo: derekGavey To E. The guitar untouched stands in the corner filled with unheard music galaxy of notes The guitar untouched stands in the corner dreaming of soft fingers, a heart without knots The guitar untouched stands in the corner Through the open window pierced with rays of hope

As a poet, novelist, playwright, journalist and musician, Bulgarian writer Toma Markov needs no introduction. If you haven’t read his latest book – the romance novel “Luizza Hut” – make sure to do it, and if you have – don’t miss his next collection of poems – “ANTI-KURT-COBAINIAN DEEDS” . Photo: Sofia Pavlova Can a […]

Vladimir Levchev Photo: Andesine My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun – . . . . . . . For I have but the power to kill, Without–the power to die— Emily Dickinson Like Medusa I petrify with my fiery eyes lovers, minutes, streets, houses and trees. Like Medusa I turn the mortal into […]

Sabina Karleva Photo: fdecomite The portable sunrise That’s opening a bitter eye over the most lonesome sea I transferred to the edge of the possible I’m putting my finger deep inside the flower That’s blooming with big and heavy F l e s h y leaves In the reddest desert…

Bozhana Apostolova Photo: apesara Everywhere turds, turds, turds… It takes time to become manure. Translated from Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev and Donna Martell

Kristin Dimitrova Photo: Pink Sherbet Photography Everywhere nets of people support each other and allow no leaks. The impulse runs in closed figures and looks good, but it isn’t.

Maria Lipiskova Translation by Ludmila Yordanova Photo: woodleywonderworks To bring bombs to certain places. Slowly. Descending into deep crevices. Slowly. Filling them up with your hands. And exitting. Slowly. Placing words. At certain places. While shielding yours eyes. And walking away. Slowly. To hear the explosions?

Mariana Velichkova Photo: Niffty.. We are honest and decent reasonable, chaste again frigidly faithful almost sterile burdened by rules and pain

Dimana Ivanova Translated from Bulgarian to English by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer Photo: wili I want to weave you in my hair, pack you in my skin, slip you on my finger, like a wound from a wedding ring.

Kristin Dimitrova Photo: mikebaird No, he wasn’t fat or skinny, tall or short, he wasn’t good or evil, but only neutral, like a geometric point – no mass, but how it pierces the sheet.

Aksinia Mihailova Photo: bslmmrs When you leave pieces of yourself in the bodies of other women and try desperately to find yourself complete in the words, I see our home like a ghost boat floating against the current of the river; but the boatman is not there and the night is falling I recollect only […]

Roumen Leonidov Photo: Stuart Chalmers At Central Station in the center of the snack joint the drunk railwaymen are drinking their twentieth beer… Boys that hang around are hitting on Diddy once again, Diddy, the beauty behind the buffet; time and again they raise their glass trumpets blowing them ardently, then at the cash register […]

Roumen Leonidov Photo: Anosmia Because my straitjacket armor was a bit too short they shod me in a pair of knights’ boots, they pulled a helmet over my eyes, my hands they chopped off, just in case. And because it’s only knights I’ve met since then, I rush to handshake them, rush to handshake them, […]

Kerana Angelova Photo: HaPe_Gera Caterpillars wriggle And creep fluffily It’s difficult to believe Their mother is the butterfly With oriental eyes Her wings made of ashes and beams of light Her flight above oval meadows As aslant as the dance of souls Butterflies have such a lot of Sky to fly And What a lot […]

Roumen Leonidov From The Night of the Salesman Photo: DerrickT In an empty room a little boy is sitting cross-legged With its back to us. The child is naked, it is obvious he is resting his chin On an elbow, thinking. The square of the floor rises Into a cone, the room turnes into a […]

Roumen Leonidov Photo: Mira Dimova Every morning I tear away the tip of my tongue so that I can lick so that I can lick and I lick and I lick tranquilly the fishbone of tranquility. Who can keep me from licking I was ordered to lick my lips I was ordered to lick my […]