Dream Time, the magazine of the International Association of the Study of Dreams, published an interview with Katia Mitova on Dream Diary in its Spring 2013 issue. Click HERE to read the interview.
Just published! Mark Strand in Bulgarian, under the title A Piece of the Storm. Translated by Katia Mitova & Kristin Dimitrova. Sofia, Bulgaria: Fakel Express. 312 pages.
The THIRD ISSUE is out! Beautiful! Kudos to all contributors!
Let’s go beyond jealousy! This lecture is an invitation to consider Shakespeare’s tragedy Othello (1603) as an intellectual play about the ambiguities of self-knowledge. While acknowledging the influence of philosophical skepticism, exemplified by the character of Iago, we will focus on the non-skeptical characters. The female characters in the play exhibit radical suppression of doubt before it has reached conscious awareness. Othello, on the other hand, epitomizes active fear of doubt – he is unable to tolerate disbelief and uncertainty and strives for an immediate, radical resolution. We will explore how the tension between passive and active fear of doubt contributes to the paradoxical plausibility of the play.
If you have already seen Moby-Dick at Chicago’s Lookingglass Theatre or plan to see it before or on Sunday, July 12, please come for the post-matinee discussion of the play on July 12, 4:30 PM. I’m honoured to participate in a panel with Dr. Janna Henning and the theatre’s artistic director, Andrew White. The topic is “Obsession, Revenge, Fanaticism and Madness in Moby Dick.”
Join us for HEALING THROUGH POETRY
Three international poets – Joanna Kurowska, Katia Mitova, and Stella Radulescu – present their poems and talk about alienation, crossing cultures, and recovery by the force of poetry.
Please note that this event coincides with Hyde Park’s 57th Street Art Fair and the University of Chicago Alumni Weekend. While this may provide additional incentives for visiting Hyde Park, parking in proximity to the Seminary Co-Op Bookstore may not be available.
When was the last time you wrote a letter to someone and mailed it – you know, just the regular old way of mailing, in an envelope, with a stamp? When was the last time you received a letter? If you feel nostalgic for the old times of letters and envelopes, this anthology of epistolary poems is for you. If you belong to the generation that never used this ancient mode of communication, push the envelope! In the words of the editor, Jonas Zdanys, these poems “continue a long letter writing tradition, some two thousand years old, and […] gather together distinctive voices and personal explorations of the form.” Check it out HERE.
My contributions to the anthology – a letter and an envelope:
LETTER FROM MOTHERLAND
My Faraway Daughter,
A good thing you’ve decided to write the story of your life
and to start with your first winter. What was it like?
you ask. I remember
I’d wake up at five and stare at the nightlight. I’d study
the mist of my breath, feel the formidable cold
of the stove.
Not a stove – a block of black ice that has invaded us
through the chimney, an informer, ensconced in a dark
overcoat, writing down the colors of dreams.
A stove so like the stocky man who took away your father
for owning a degenerate capitalist record:
Elvis’ Christmas Album.
This happened on a strangely warm day, like spring:
December 13, 1957.
Then temperatures dropped by 60 degrees.
Cloaked in a blanket, I’d descend to the basement.
Back with a bucket of coal. Feed the stove.
But the matches would break. Some would just smoke
Finally, the damp, unread newspaper caught fire.
The splinters screamed but didn’t wake you up.
Only when the fire began to hum
your gray eyes opened huge
to the stove’s red riot, its round lid jumping up.
I’d extract you from Grandma’s embroidered coverlets
warm and wet. The day began
with your tiny, sharp fingernails on my swollen breast.
The robust certainty of your lips: you will not starve.
Your bottom – washed, dried, talcumed, kissed
almost sitting on a cloth nappy warmed by the stove.
Your toothless grin. My vow to spare you
true stories, false friends, and the wearing of black.
As the day unbundled its face, I’d go about my chores
thinking up answers to the questions
you’ll start asking soon
after you eat from another tree.
Will write again.
ENVELOPE FROM A LEAP YEAR
I open the wax-sealed envelope: a day of summer towards the end
of a long winter. Father and I on a yellow tandem. We pedal quickly
but are not moving. I like this. My brother in the garden, still a baby
crawling toward a blue-green caterpillar, never reaching it.
A tawny puppy perpetually chasing its tail. My mother on the porch
at her sewing machine. She is hemming a length of white cotton
without thread, without making any noise. We are happy. Suddenly
a buzz. An invisible bee hitting a window pane. Am I the only one
who hears it? I jump off the bike and follow the noise. It leads me
to the window of my room. The pane is all iced save for a small opening
scratched by the bee. I look through this peephole: inside, winter continues.
I step back, slowly fold the day, put it back in the envelope, moisten
the glue on the flap with my tongue and seal Being & Becoming together.