Brian Bilston: Santa Claus is Coming Around*

He better watch out. He better comply.
He better not flout. I'm telling you why -
Santa Claus is coming around

He's making a list but he hasn't got far,
It needs to be in line with GDPR -
Santa Claus is coming around

He doesn't see you when you're sleeping - no more CCTV

You can opt out of presents any time - he's big on privacy

He's trademarked his name. He's protecting his brand.

He's building new grottos with the regs to expand -

Santa Claus is coming around

He's hiring today, with improvied D&I,

You don't have to be an elf if you'd like to apply - 

Santa Claus is coming around

And his band of little helpers, with all the toys they make,

Receive health and safety tarining, and guaranteed tea breaks

The bullying's gone. He's cracked down on those

Who picked on the reindeer with the red nose -

Santa Claus is coming around

He wants to go green and get there in haste,

A sustainable business with minimum waste -

Santa Claus is coming around

He's got a set of valid visas to deliver wherever he may.

He's paid his import tariffs and he's MOT'd his sleigh.

Now he's all packed. He's up in the sky.

He won't drink your sherry but he'll eat the mince pie - 

Santa Claus is coming...

Santa Claus is coming...

Santa Claus is coming around

*to the realisation he needs to tighten up some of his business practices

Rudy Francisco: Skin II

When you are the only black man
in the whole neighborhood,

your skin is that one friend who

meets everyone before you do.

It wears a wife beater

and house shoes,

it knocks over the 

neighbor's mailbox,

it cusses in front of the kids

and plays the music too loud,

but you actually don't do

any of those things.

It's 7 pm.

It's Wednesday

and you are just

walking home.

Tóth Krisztina: A mégegyszer-út

Tandori Dezsőnek

Ez a fekete égbolt rád vár.
Vonuló füst vagy, seregélyfelhő.
Üres egészen ez a táj már:
mit akarhattál. Mit akarsz még?

Nyugi, nem múlt el, csak az élet.
Csak ez a földút, ez fogyott el.
Kerítéslécek, kerítéslécek,
türelem közt a gaz kihajtott.

Hulló dió a szemhatáron,
sötét burokban gördülő nap.
Átkiabál a gyulladt torkú
álom a tarlón. Ugye, hallod?

Brian Bilston: Musical Statues (variation)

when the music stops,
find a statue

of a slave trader or tyrant

and topple it

cheer and dance

then move on to the next

the game ends

when all such statues

lie rusting and broken

at the bottom 

of the ocean

(2nd December: International Day fo the Abolition of Slavery)

Brian Bilston: This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the chocolates

that were in

your calendar

and which

you were probably

saving

for each day of advent

Forgive me

they were delicious

so bittersweet

and so Christmassy

Turi Tímea: A légypapír

Mindenki elmegy, miközben én
magamra zárom ennek az országnak
a szárnyas ajtaját. Mint egy folyóba vetett
vasgolyó. Mindegy, hogy véletlen vagy szándékkal
hajították belé: íme, megérkezett.

Egy ezer éve süllyedő hajó.
Számon tartott, hány nemzedék óta nem mentünk el
mi, akik az utolsó pillanatban nem váltják ki a vízumot.
Akik családtörténete egy szabásmintatérkép,
és akik élete az ígéretek fakó sormintája.

Mi azok vagyunk, akik vigyáznak a házra.
A többiek elmennek, ők a boldog könyvelők,
és mi boldogtalanok leszünk, és könyvelők, de itthon.
Olyan nyelvet beszélnek, amit mi nem is értünk,
és olyan nyelven szólunk, amihez nincs közük.

Mi azok vagyunk, akik nem raknak rendet, de akiket mégis
rendben tartanak. Akik tanácsot kapnak és kinőtt ruhát
Nyugatról. Mi azok vagyunk, akik olyan országból várnak hívást,
amelynek nem ismerik a körzetszámait.

A mondatokban lakunk, a történeteinkben,
ha más nem beszél rólunk, az egy utazás -
és mi nem szeretünk utazni.

Nem voltunk, nem leszünk, de itt vagyunk.
Jó tudni, hogy kik fognak elfelejteni.

Michael Lavers: The Happiest Day of Your Life

You wake up and hear rain. You wake up
and think there’s not enough rain, not enough
songs about rain or memories of rain.
Of being numbed or warmed by rain.

You wake up. Your eyes are open.
Lilies in a moss-green bowl. Elms through
the window moving their hands like cellists.
Books exist. And paintings. And pillows.

Blue Mountain and Saddle Mountain.
Abundance Creek. Alpha Centauri. Delft.
The woman in your dream was putting down
a crate of oranges, but then you woke up

remembering there is custard.
There is Verdi, there is smoke-filled
late-fall air. And even joy in what
it feels like to grieve. Wanting to sleep

instead of bear what you must.
Like finishing the best book in the world.
You wake up, wanting to try.
You try. Here in the swirling eddies,

in the dark river of time and decay.
There is rain. There is this day. There is
this day and no other. Praise it with trumpets
and zithers. Praise it however you can.