Literary Evening with Professor Vladimir Levchev

19:00h
“Sofia” Gallery

Presentation of Vladimir Levchev’s new publication, ” The Refugee”

Special guest: Professor Vladimir Levchev

Vladimir Levchev graduated from the English language high school in Sofia in 1976 and received his BA in Art Studies from the Art Academy in 1982. Between 1982 and 1989 he has worked as an editor in the publishing house “Narodna Kultura”. He is the publisher of the independent magazine for literature and politics call “Voice”, which was illegal before the 10th of November 1989. He has been the vice editor in chief of the “Literary Newspaper” (1991-1994). He is a member of the managing committee of “Eco Voice” and the chief coordinator of the Free Poetry Society.

He moves to the United States in 1994, as he wins a Fulbright scholarship. Until he begins working as a teacher he has performed numerous jobs such as being a baker and a postman. In 1996 he received his MFA in Creative writing. Between 1996 and 2007 he taught literature and creative writing in the University of Maryland, Montgomery College, George Washington University and the American University (Wahington), American literature in a high school in the outskirts of Washington and Bulgarian Language in the preparatory centre, part of the National department.

Since the autumn of 2007, he teaches literature and creative writing in the American University in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria.

THE REFUGEE

1.

Every minute
has its countless cities
and skies,
briefly illuminated clouds,
windows lit by the sunset. . . .
Every minute
has its secret corridors
leading to dark rooms.

Who lives there?
What would we have said to each other?
How would we have lived there?
I don’t know.

Every minute I pass
endless doors
to eternal life. . . .

2.

My soul,
we have guilty knowledge
of our loneliness, of the end.
And our guilt keeps us
from Paradise.

The clock is that cherub
with two swards
which guards
the paths of minutes
we might have traveled
to Eternity.

NO MAN IS AN ISLAND
( 9/11/2001)

“No man is an island entire of itself. . .”
We all live in Manhattan. . .
At 8:45 in the morning
I was walking downtown.
The streets went murky, the towers stood bright,
the House was deserted, the wind slammed a door. .
A radio kept singing: “Downtown, downtown. . .”
Then I saw the tower of the world,
the sunny double tower.
And I saw the airplane hijacked by a dream,
I saw the swift shadow of the Unconscious,
I saw the archangel of death
sink in the mirror,
sink in the sunny high tower
downtown. . .
?hen the blast of bad dreams…
Then the late summer snow
of a million silenced letters and pictures,
the delicate snow of memories
pouring over the world. . .

“Flood-tide below me! I see you face to face!
Clouds of the West –– sun there half an hour high –– I see you also face to face. . .
Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta! stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn!”

. . . a snow of letters, pictures and shoes
falling, falling on Mannahatta.
Then I saw the black wall,
the hundred and ten storied wall of depression
approaching on the narrow streets,
midnight approaching at noon
downtown,
I met the midnight of global madness. . .
“ if it be possible, let this cup pass away from me. . .”
Then the night passed away and I saw
Durer’s St. Anne with swollen big eyes
in a nurse’s green dress
walking through the rubble,
through dusty asbestos ambulances and wind . . .
I saw the faces of the dead and the faces of the living
walking together downtown.
I saw the faces of the world.
I saw your faces.
“And death shall have no Dominion.”

FIVE YEARS AFTER 9/11
For Rainna
It’s been like in those dreams:
you are at the beach,
in August, in high school,
green airy waves and laughter
of girls and seagulls.
And the snow begins to fall:
slow letters and shirts
from a heavenly explosion.
And the smiling faces
of teachers and kids
morph into monsters.
Later black kites and ravens
fly by low
over the leaden ocean.
And you realize
that your dream has come true:
you have grown up.
And you can’t wake up anymore
back in that warm other country.
9/11/2006

EXILE

After the rain
a pyramid of sunlight
fell on the floor of my dark room.
I looked through the window
?nd saw a rainbow in the east.

This pyramid of light
is where I want to live.
This bridge in the sky
is the way
to my home in another country.

“Vladimir Levchev’s work has been for several decades an important poetic bridge between Bulgaria and the US. This book will surely strengthen that reach.”
—Elizabeth Kostova

“These spare, beautiful poems—so imaginatively rich and expertly distilled—vibrate with a restless brilliance, reminding us, as Levchev writes in The Refugee, that ‘every minute/ has its secret corridors/ leading to dark rooms.’ Reading them, I felt as if I could hear the silences from which they are made now begin to gather themselves into these true and necessary words.”
—Richard McCann,
author of “Mother of Sorrows”

“Vladimir Levchev’s poetry: An original voice, wise beyond its years. A dark vision, but beautiful all the same.”
—The late William Meredith,
Poet Laureate of the United States

“His poetry is a place you’ll never want to leave. We are in the presence of a large spirit who writes in the greatest tradition of European masters. The world of literature is lucky to have him.”
—Grace Cavalieri,
Prooducer/Host “The Poet and the Poem from the Library of Congress”