2017. november 23., csütörtök

Richard Shelton: If I Were a Dog

I would trot down this road sniffing
on one side and then the other
peeing a little here and there
wherever I felt the urge
having a good time what the hell
saving some because it’s a long road


but since I’m not a dog
I walk straight down the road
trying to get home before dark

if I were a dog and I had a master
who beat me I would run away
and go hungry and sniff around
until I found a master who loved me
I could tell by his smell and I
would lick his face so he knew

or maybe it would be a woman
I would protect her we could go
everywhere together even down this
dark road and I wouldn’t run from side
to side sniffing I would always
be protecting her and I would stop
to pee only once in awhile

sometimes in the afternoon we could
go to the park and she would throw
a stick I would bring it back to her

each time I put the stick at her feet
I would say this is my heart
and she would say I will make it fly
but you must bring it back to me
I would always bring it back to her
and to no other if I were a dog

2017. november 22., szerda

Simon Márton: Dal helyett II

ha egyszer a konyhaasztalra dőlve
majd mélyen és üresen végre alszom
váratlan fáradva el ahogy legjobban szeretek
és majd csak a tévé ami lenémítva villog
mintha álmodna helyettem és hírek lesznek benne
valahol megint partra vetette magát
néhány bálna de majd nem nézi senki
ahogy a kép előterében a magányos riporter tátog
szürke víz mögötte tanácstalan környezetvédők
jól látszik hogy valaki lefekszik az egyik bálna mellé
szinte hozzábújik mint aki aludni készül
átlagos éjszaka lesz alszom én is végre
mert többé semmi sem jut eszembe rólad
csak marad a megírhatatlan szándék
hogy kéne de már nincs mit
így marad meg végül minden amit nem tudok
a bálnák se tudják miért csinálják csak kell
az érzések meg egyformák mint az állatok
ott a nagyobb vizek íze áll majd kék csomagolásban
az asztalon könyökömnél de eszembe sem jut többé
milyen sós is egy test látod már az is nevetség
ha csak vers marad belőled de akkor írni sem tudok már
fekszem csak hirtelen fáradva el mintha úszás után
mellettem hatalmas kék sötétség
és a parton kinn a vizek lakói mind
tehát a mélyben immár semmi sincs

2017. november 21., kedd

Kait Rokowski: A Good Day


Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.”

2017. november 20., hétfő

Várady Szabolcs: A halottakkal

A halottakkal óvatos vagyok.
Nem tudom, tudják-e, hogy nincsenek.
Ahogy bejössz az ajtón, rám köszönsz –
hát nem ilyenek a kísértetek.
Mégis: nem csak én vagyok elfogódott.
Úgy teszünk, mintha. Mint a nagybeteg
az ágyban és az ágy szélén kuporgó
próbálja egymást megsegíteni:
oly hitelesen hiteltelenek!

Mennyi időd van? Mennyi van nekem?
Még ugyanolyan őszinte a szájad,
üdvözlő csókját nem csak mímeli.
Valamiképpen vágyhattam utánad.
A hóesésben elveszetten álltunk.
Milyen hideg van. Nem kel még a nap.
Szeretlek. Egyszer azt mondtad: szeretlek.
A hó elolvadt, téged eltemettek,
ez megmarad.

2017. november 18., szombat

Ady Endre: Megöltem egy pillangót

Megölök egy pillangót,
Óh, áldott isteni perc,
Szent kéje az ölésnek:
Minden gyűlöletemért
Hal meg e szines féreg.
Ki várja a holnapot:
Igy várja azt a holnap.
Vágjon elé a halál
Minden boldog mosolynak,
Szakadjon meg az erő,
Kezdetén nagy vívásnak,
Ne legyen víg lakoma
Az élet mindig másnak.
Tűz legyen minden arany,
Minden boldog csók méreg.
Szárnyad van, csapkodsz, örülsz?
Hát ezért öllek én meg.
S boldog vagyok, mert öltem.

2017. november 17., péntek

Charles Bukowski: this kind of fire

sometimes I think the gods
deliberately keep pushing me
into the fire
just to hear me
yelp
a few good
lines.

they just aren’t going to
let me retire
silk scarf about neck
giving lectures at
Yale.

the gods need me to
entertain them.

they must be terribly
bored with all
the others

and I am too.

and now my cigarette lighter
has gone dry.
I sit here
hopelessly
flicking it.

this kind of fire
they can’t give
me.

2017. november 16., csütörtök

Mary Oliver: Hurricane (and how to help those affected by Hurricane Harvey)

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.