Petya dubarova biography of donald

Petya Dubarova, you grew up in Burgas. I grew up in a port town. I grew taller and thinner by the sea buzzing with bluebottles every January. This is a kind of lamentation for thunder, manifestos, and my father the king-man, the Parisian rooftops of Picasso and Modigliani, Rilke, Hemingway and Salinger. Petya Dubarova, I say your name like we’re friends, or, something. The only thing that we have in common is that we are two female poets via Bulgaria and Africa. Like we went to school together, had sleepovers. Stuff. Shared our poetry with each other like homework instructions. I have known the experience of death in the asylum. Family pain. Philosophy poured out into verse. The exquisite fire-red lipstick of my sister. Dream and poetry. I was an actor on stage. The vanishing curve of my hip, hint of a smile on my lips I warmed to the audience. The words of Abigail George are words oblivious to empty love. The other truth. Diary of a poet. Of a misfit. My fragile mental health, how those words ring inside my head like the tune of a roman wedding. Women poets meet the light and the darkness. Poetry will never feed you, but it fed the plays of Sarah Kane. Giorgio Manganelli, Salvatore Quasimodo and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Alda Merini. And, me. My love, sexual desire, pain, torture both physical and psychological and death. Crave psychosis. That hand to God. Love me or kill me. The voice is all. The lonely victory. I say to it, come on out and join the dance. Grotesque and curious is the spider’s web. My childhood was a web too. Isolated, the business enterprise of impoverished loneliness. I have a secret brain disease. It is known as manic depression, or, the schizoid personality disordered female brain in society.

There is no male nor female mind. No dominant sex when it comes to the poets. I think of Petya Dubarova’s Burgas. Her sea. Behind the walls of the big house, you will find the sea and me. Both deceived by youth and forgiveness, sleep and memory

You grew up in Burgas. I grew up in Port Elizabeth.By the sea buzzing with bluebottles every January. This is a kind of lamentation for thunder, manifestos, and my father the king-man, the Parisian rooftops of Picasso and Modigliani, Rilke, Hemingway and Salinger. Petya Dubarova, I say your name like we’re friends, or, something. The only thing that we have in common is that we are two female poets via Bulgaria and Africa. Like we went to school together, had sleepovers. Stuff. Shared our poetry with each other like homework instructions. I have known the experience of death in the asylum. Family pain. Philosophy poured out into verse. The exquisite fire-red lipstick of my sister. Dream and poetry. I was an actor on stage. The vanishing curve of my hip, hint of a smile on my lips I warmed to the audience. The words of Abigail George are words oblivious to empty love.

The other truth. Diary of a poet. I am a misfit. My fragile mental health, how those words ring inside my head like the tune of a roman wedding. Women poets meet the light and the darkness. Poetry will never feed you, but it fed the plays of Sarah Kane. Giorgio Manganelli, Salvatore Quasimodo and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Alda Merini. And, me. My love, sexual desire, pain, torture both physical and psychological and death. Crave psychosis. That hand to God. Love me or kill me. The voice is all. The lonely victory. I say to it, come on out and join the dance. Grotesque and curious is the spider’s web. My childhood was a web too. Isolated, the business enterprise of impoverished loneliness. I have a secret brain disease. It is known as manic depression, or, the schizoid personality disordered female brain in society. There is no male nor female mind. No dominant sex when it comes to the poets.

I think of Petya Dubarova’s Burgas. Behind the walls of the big house, you will find the sea and me. Both deceived by youth and forgiveness, sleep and memory. The sea and me have known all restorat

✨ “drowned stars” by petya dubarova

from “here i am, in perfect leaf today”
translated from bulgarian to english by don d. wilson.

“Petya Dubarova is definitely the youngest among all eminent poets of Bulgaria. She was born on 25 April 1962 in the city of Bourgas, and her life ended on 4 December 1979, when, due to a series of personal and extra-personal reasons, she tragically chose to commit suicide.” (Elica Dubarova, translated by Prof. Dr. Vladimir Trendafilov)

Petya Dubarova is one of the artists of Bulgaria who will stay young forever. She has become one of the symbols of Burgas, with her original poems, impressions, fairy tales and short stories. Born in 1962, she was barely 17 when she took her own life. This tragic end, however, has not changed the way we feel towards Petya’s talent; she will stay forever not only in history but also in the hearts of the people of Burgas – with her work, which embodies the eternal human values – sea, summer, youth, love, poetry…

The “Petya Dubarova” House Museum is a natural result of the wish to experience the authentic spirit of the creative atmosphere of the poet. In the house where Petya used to live you can see different exhibits of scientific nature and the authentically recreated personal room of the poet.

The house is not just a museum though. It is also known for the numerous events it hosts throughout the cultural calendar of the city – “Petya Dubarova” National Literary Competition, Summer Workshop, during which young poets meet and work with some of the most eminent contemporary Bulgarian authors, etc. The house of Petya Dubarova is often visited by literary museums from around the country; it also hosts literary readings and newly published book presentations of contemporary Bulgarian poets and writers, as well as literary-scientific conferences.

If you wish to experience the authentic poetic spirit of Burgas, don’t miss a visit to the “Petya Dubarova” House Museum.