New Poems for Old Houses
New Poems for Old Houses
The end. Applause. A bow.
Another puppet performance within the festival has just become part of history. I rise from my seat in the hall and I see him. He stands at the door, smiling at me in white, beckoning me to follow.
A crowd. A street. A crosswalk.
I cross and head toward “The Architect’s House.” As I step onto the road, I glance left and hear the horn of a large white van rushing past. Instinctively I step back, and only when the danger has passed do I look ahead again.
Festival. Autumn. Pierrot.
He is still there. The spirit of the festival, with a whitened face and a black beret. With his ethereal presence, Pierrot wants to tell me something. But what? Our eyes meet, and I see a faint smile flicker across his sad face. Then comes a wink, and the magic happens.
Timelessness. September. Sava Silov Street.
Where have all the festival guests gone? Suddenly it is so quiet. The only thing I hear is the soft whisper of the wind. September 24 is a very peculiar day. It is the home of two seasons that cannot agree with one another. Summer has not yet gathered the seashells from the shelves, while autumn has already unpacked its chilly gusts.
Poetry. Houses. Life.
“Houses sigh in the darkness and dream of years gone by” [1] — someone whispers. I turn abruptly, but no one is behind me.
“And the house smelled of dreams, of empty books, and of earlier whispers.” [2]
At that moment, verses begin to resound all along the street. Silence comes alive at once. The linden trees sway in rhythm, and from their soft branches dozens of leaves take flight. Embraced, they dance their graceful pirouettes and gently kiss the earth at the end of their dance.
Stara Zagora. Opening. Poems for Old Houses.
“Poetry is the house we live in,” I hear somewhere in the distance — the voice of Gergana Dimitrova, founder of the project Dobratа Stara (“The Good Old One”), which aims to create an archive and support the preservation of the old houses in Stara Zagora.
Today, 46 large panels are waiting to sing their poems and tell the stories of their houses. This morning I heard that more festival guests encountered Pierrot. If not today, perhaps in the days to come he may appear to you too, for along the street by the Puppet Theatre verses still come to life — and will continue to be lived.
Lachezar Yordanov
[1] Houses in Darkness, Maria Doneva
[2] Your House, Maya Dalgacheva
