2013. november 30., szombat

Varró Dániel: {De mit vesződöm én}

De mit vesződöm én tevéled, édes, annyit?
A stressz, a félsz, a hiszti, a nyűgök, macerák…
Mind többször már a gond szívünkben ablakot nyit,
s a szó gégénkbe hátrál, akár egy pici rák.
 
Elég idült idill ez, még hogyha idill is.
A szíved az enyémmel nem kompatibilis.
Bőrünkből szikra pattan, ha megfogod kezem.
Nem illünk össze, drága, mit szépítsünk ezen.
 
De gomblukunkat mégis egymás hiánya lakja,
és elválásaink megannyi kis patakja
a visszaérkezés tavába fut be, lásd.
 
Elhagylak, s lépteim megint mögéd szegődnek.
Mert nem szerettem én még senkit így előtted,
és nem tudok utánad szeretni senki mást.

2013. november 29., péntek

Lang Leav: Three Questions

What was it like to love him? Asked Gratitude.
It was like being exhumed, I answered. And
brought to life in a flesh of brilliance.

What was it like to be loved in return? Asked Joy.
It was like being seen after a perpetual darkness, I
replied. To be heared after a lifetime of silence.

What was it like to lose him? Asked Grief.
There was a long pause before I responded:

It was like hearing every goodbye ever said to
me – said all at once.

2013. november 28., csütörtök

Mark Strand: The Coming Of Light

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

2013. november 27., szerda

2013. november 26., kedd

Hafiz: Stop Being So Religious

What
Do sad people have in
Common?
It seems
They have all built a shrine
To the past
And often go there
And do a strange wail and
Worship.
What is the beginning of
Happiness?
It is to stop being
So religious
Like That.

(Translated by Daniel Ladinsky)

2013. november 25., hétfő

Kim Visda: For Lack Of A Better Poem

The seventh page of my journal is missing,
savagely ripped out after a successful
attempt at describing your body with overused
metaphors: Broken ribcages. Falling asleep
inside the dip of your collarbones. Slivers
of light cutting through the cracks between
your individual vertebrae. It’s all been said
before and to use them again would be an
insult because your eyes are not pools of
ocean. Your lips are not flower beds and
you are not a temple. I could not capture you
even if the words were written in my own
blood because this skin can only hold so
much. Because I can no longer look at you
without burning. You are too painful for poetry
and too big for language. You are far too many
things I don’t know how to write about.

2013. november 23., szombat

Varró Dániel: Mozi

van úgy hogy tévedésből megszeretnek
és átkozódsz az isten tudja mér
van úgy hogy évek óta ezt kerested
de mégse mész be nincs pucádba vér

van úgy hogy reccs és nincs ki megragassza
kidől a kóla farmerodra szárad
van úgy hogy köpsz az ébredő tavaszra
és otthon ülsz egész nap mint az állat

van úgy hogy sörre gondolsz és perecre
plasztik babácskák szőkesége húz
van úgy hogy több az este mint a lecke
bedobsz egy ötvenest you win you lose

van úgy hogy állsz a könny meg mint a charleston
pereg pereg akár ha film a vásznon

2013. november 22., péntek

Lang Leav: A Photograph

This is our greatest moment,
time is mine and yours;
it is all I’ll ever long for,
beyond this perfect pause.

One day we may be different –
whatever we’ll become,
the moment I will wish for,
will be this very one.

When everything I ache for,
is standing at my side;
and the things my heart
may break for –
are yet to be realised.

2013. november 21., csütörtök

Margaret Atwood: We Are Hard on Each Other

i

We are hard on each other
and call it honesty,
choosing our jagged truths
with care and aiming them across
the neutral table.

The things we say are
true; it is our crooked
aims, our choices
turn them criminal.


ii

Of course your lies
are more amusing:
you make them new each time.

Your truths, painful and boring
repeat themselves over & over
perhaps because you own
so few of them


iii

A truth should exist,
it should not be used
like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?


iv

Does the body lie
moving like this, are these
touches, hair, wet
soft marble my tongue runs over
lies you are telling me?

Your body is not a word,
it does not lie or
speak truth either.

It is only
here or not here.

2013. november 20., szerda

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin: Szerettem Önt

Szerettem Önt: s talán e mély szerelmem
A lelkemben nem hunyt egészen el;
De békéjét ne dúlja már fel ez sem;
Nem búsítom önt már semmivel.
Szerettem önt, némán, reményvesztetten,
Voltam szelíd, majd féltékeny s irígy -
Mély áhitattal, gyöngéden szerettem,
Ég adja, hogy más is szeresse így.

(Franyó Zoltán fordítása)

Octavio Paz: Palpar

Mis manos
abren las cortinas de tu ser
te visten con otra desnudez
descubren los cuerpos de tu cuerpo
Mis manos
inventan otro cuerpo a tu cuerpo

2013. november 19., kedd

Kathryn Stripling Byer: Diamonds

This, he said, giving the hickory leaf
to me. Because I am poor.
And he lifted my hand to his lips,
kissed the fingers that might have worn
gold rings if he had inherited

bottomland, not this
impossible rock where the eagles soared
after the long rains were over. He stood
in the wet grass, his open hands empty,
his pockets turned inside out,

Queen of the Meadow, he teased me
and bowed like a gentleman.
I licked the diamonds off the green
tongue of the lead, wanting only
that he fill his hands with my hair.

2013. november 18., hétfő

Stephen Dunn: Connubial

Because with alarming accuracy
she’d been identifying patterns
I was unaware of — this tic, that
tendency, like the way that I’ve mastered intimacy
in order to conceal how I felt —

I knew I was in danger
of being terribly understood.

2013. november 16., szombat

Varró Dániel: Eszedbe jut, hogy eszedbe ne jusson

Eszedbe jut, hogy eszedbe ne jusson
valahogy mégis elfelejteni,
leírod, aláhúzod, kiragasztod
szamárfülecskét hajtogatsz neki,

kisímítod, odateszed a székre,
az ágy mellé, hogy szem előtt legyen,
leülsz, kötsz egy csomót a lepedőre,
elalszol, elfelejted, hirtelen

eszedbe jut, felugrasz, zsebre vágod,
a szíved közben összevissza ver,
sehogy sem hiszed el, hogy ott van nálad,

kihúzod, megtapogatod, de mindjárt
el is teszed, és ráhúzod a cipzárt -
mikor megnyugszol, akkor veszted el.

2013. november 15., péntek

Olav H. Hauge: Your Way

No-one has marked out the road
You are to take
Out in the unknown
Out in the blue.

This is your road.
Only you
Will take it. And there’s no
Turning back.

And you haven’t marked your road
Either.
And the wind smooths out your tracks
On desolate hills.

2013. november 14., csütörtök

Lorna Dee Cervantes: Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person, Could Believe in the War Between Races

In my land there are no distinctions.
The barbed wire politics of oppression
have been torn down long ago. The only reminder
of past battles, lost or won, is a slight
rutting in the fertile fields.

In my land
people write poems about love,
full of nothing but contented childlike syllables.
Everyone reads Russian short stories and weeps.
There are no boundaries.
There is no hunger, no
complicated famine or greed.

I am not a revolutionary.
I don’t even like political poems.
Do you think I can believe in a war between races?
I can deny it. I can forget about it
when I’m safe,
living on my own continent of harmony
and home, but I am not
there.

I believe in revolution
because everywhere the crosses are burning,
sharp-shooting goose-steppers round every corner,
there are snipers in the schools…
(I know you don’t believe this.
You think this is nothing
but faddish exaggeration. But they
are not shooting at you.)

I’m marked by the color of my skin.
The bullets are discrete and designed to kill slowly.
They are aiming at my children.
These are facts.
Let me show you my wounds: my stumbling mind, my
"excuse me" tongue, and this
nagging preoccupation
with the feeling of not being good enough.

These bullets bury deeper than logic.
Racism is not intellectual.
I can not reason these scars away.

Outside my door
there is a real enemy
who hates me.

I am a poet
who yearns to dance on rooftops,
to whisper delicate lines about joy
and the blessings of human understanding.
I try. I go to my land, my tower of words and
bolt the door, but the typewriter doesn’t fade out
the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage.
My own days bring me slaps on the face.
Every day I am deluged with reminders
that this is not
my land
and this is my land.

I do not believe in the war between races

but in this country
there is war.

2013. november 13., szerda

Elena Tamargo: Mar de mi patio

Y si llegaras mar
cuando mi cuerpo fuera tierra arada
y lloviera en mis ojos?
Alga y sal de prusia calentura
¿no te crecen las uñas?
Te veré frente a frente
presa en tus quemaduras, levantando las cejas
dejando ver los ojos con esa indiferencia.
Cómo tú eras cuando yo te elegí.
Diosa naciendo y destronando diosas
si tú al verme fijaras la mirada.
Ven hacia mí, no tardes
puedo perder las fuerzas.
Estoy sola bailando y en mi musgo
me pisan miles de pies desesperados.
Sácame este mareo
este jilguero tosco que custodia mi blanco
esta brújula adivinando el este.
Si te demoras se deshace mi estatua
este cuerpo que danza maravillosamente.
--¿Qué hora es que no llegas
perfumando las calles con tus pescados frescos?--
Mar de mi patio, mar atormentado
lo que me duele
es que mis días
se vuelvan más y más de tierra.

2013. november 12., kedd

Jo McDougall: The Phenomenological World

As I drive by my neighbor’s yard,
a swan I’ve mistaken daily for an ornament
raises a wing.

2013. november 11., hétfő

William Henry Davies: Ráérés

Mit ér annak  az élete,
aki nem bámészkodhat sohase?
                                
Ki nem mereng , bokrok tövén,
hosszan, mint a juh vagy  a tehén.

Nem nézi fák mókusait,
hogy rejtik a fűbe makkjaik.

Nem ér rá látni a patak
tükrén a nappali csillagokat.

S fordulni, ha villan a Szép,
s figyelni, hogy táncol, ha lép.

S kivárni, boldog ajkakra
hogy gyúl át  szeme mosolya.

Koldus annak az élete,
aki nem bámészkodhat sohase.

(fordító ismeretlen)

William Henry Davies: Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

2013. november 9., szombat

Utassy József: Fákat altat a szél

Fákat altat a szél,
álmos lombú fákat.
S én most ébredek rá:
nagyon szerethetlek,
ha már a sálam is
integet utánad.

2013. november 8., péntek

Anna Akhmatova: You Thought I Was That Type

You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.

2013. november 7., csütörtök

Nikki Giovanni: Winter

Frogs burrow the mud
snails bury themselves
and I air my quilts
preparing for the cold

Dogs grow more hair
mothers make oatmeal
and little boys and girls
take Father John's Medicine

Bears store fat
chipmunks gather nuts
and I collect books
For the coming of winter

Louise Glück: Eros

I had drawn my chair to the hotel window, to watch the rain.

I was in a kind of dream, or trance –
in love, and yet
I wanted nothing.

It seemed unnecessary to touch you, to see you again.
I wanted only this:
the room, the hair, the sound of the rain falling,
hour after hour, in the warmth of the spring night.

I needed nothing more; I was utterly sated.
My heart had become very small; it took very little to fill it.
I watched the rain falling in heavy sheets over the darkened city –

You were not concerned. I did the things
one does in daylight, I acquitted myself,
but I moved like a sleepwalker.

It was enough and it no longer involved you.
A few days in a strange city.
A conversation, the touch of a hand.
And afterward, I took off my wedding ring.

That was what I wanted: to be naked.

2013. november 6., szerda

Octavio Paz: Bajo tu clara sombra (I, II, III, IV, V)

I
Bajo tu clara sombra
vivo como la llama al aire,
en tenso aprendizaje de lucero


II

Tengo que hablaros de ella.
Suscita fuentes en el día,
puebla de mármoles la noche.
La huella de su pie
es el centro visible de la tierra,
la frontera del mundo,
sitio sutil, encadenado y libre;
discípula de pájaros y nubes
hace girar al cielo;
su voz, alba terrestre,
nos anuncia el rescate de las aguas,
el regreso del fuego,
la vuelta de la espiga,
las primeras palabras de los árboles,
la blanca monarquía de las alas.

No vio nacer al mundo,
mas se enciende su sangre cada noche
con la sangre nocturna de las cosas
y en su latir reanuda
el son de las mareas
que alzan las orillas del planeta,
un pasado de agua y de silencio
y las primeras formas de la materia fértil.

Tengo que hablaros de ella,
de su fresca costumbre
de ser simple tormenta, rama tierna.


III

Mira el poder del mundo,
mira el poder del polvo, mira el agua.

Mira los fresnos en callado círculo,
toca su reino de silencio y savia,
toca su piel de sol y lluvia y tiempo,
mira sus verdes ramas cara al cielo,
oye cantar sus hojas como agua.

Mira después la nube,
anclada en el espacio sin mareas,
alta espuma visible
de celestes corrientes invisibles.

Mira el poder del mundo,
mira su forma tensa,
su hermosura inconsciente, luminosa.

Toca mi piel, de barro, de diamante,
oye mi voz en fuentes subterráneas,
mira mi boca en esa lluvia oscura,
mi sexo en esa brusca sacudida
con que desnuda el aire los jardines.

Toca tu desnudez en la del agua,
desnúdate de ti, llueve en ti misma,
mira tus piernas como dos arroyos,
mira tu cuerpo como un largo río,
son dos islas gemelas tus dos pechos,
en la noche tu sexo es una estrella,
alba, luz rosa entre dos mundos ciegos,
mar profundo que duerme entre dos mares.

Mira el poder del mundo:
reconócete ya, al reconocerme.


IV

Un cuerpo, un cuerpo solo, sólo un cuerpo,
un cuerpo como día derramado
y noche devorada;
la luz de unos cabellos
que no apaciguan nunca
la sombra de mi tacto;
una garganta, un vientre que amanece
como el mar que se enciende
cuando toca la frente de la aurora;
unos tobillos, puentes del verano;
unos muslos nocturnos que se hunden
en la música verde de la tarde;
un pecho que se alza
y arrasa las espumas;
un cuello, sólo un cuello,
unas manos tan sólo,
unas palabras lentas que descienden
como arena caída en otra arena…

Esto que se me escapa,
agua y delicia obscura,
mar naciendo o muriendo;
estos labios y dientes,
estos ojos hambrientos,
me desnudan de mí
y su furiosa gracia me levanta
hasta los quietos cielos
donde vibra el instante:
la cima de los besos,
la plenitud del mundo y de sus formas.


V

Deja que una vez más te nombre, tierra,
y que mi lengua sepa a tu sustancia.
Mi tacto se prolonga
en el tuyo sediento,
largo, vibrante río
que no termina nunca,
navegado por hojas digitales,
lentas bajo tu espeso sueño verde.

Atado a este cuerpo sin retorno
te amo, polvo mío,
ámbito necesario de mi aliento,
ceniza de mis huesos,
ceniza de los huesos de mi estirpe.

En tu boca me planto,
a tu roca confío
aquello que me invade
y aquello que conquisto:
mi cuerpo, que me fija
y en sus huesos limita mi destino,
y el cuerpo que se abre
y en su tímida gracia me sostiene.

Tibia mujer de somnolientos ríos,
mi pabellón de pájaros y peces,
mi paloma de tierra,
de leche endurecida,
mi pan, mi sal, mi muerte,
mi almohada de sangre:
en un amor más vasto te sepulto.

Sepulto todo, tierra,
en tu fuego lo hundo alegremente:
tu misma esencia fiera
hostiga cada pulso.

Una vez más, sedienta tierra, canto;
canto de nuevo, siempre,
desnudo como tú,
ciñendo una cintura,
canto, cantamos
bajo tus anchas manos que nos llueven,
como dos hierbas puras,
como un árbol azul,
tal una sola flor que te resiste.

Octavio Paz: I (Bajo tu clara sombra)

Bajo tu clara sombra
vivo como la llama al aire,
en tenso aprendizaje de lucero

2013. november 5., kedd

Donald Hall: Safe Sex

If he and she do not know each other, and feel confident they will not meet again; if he avoids affectionate words;
if she has grown insensible skin under skin; if they desire only the tribute of another’s cry; if they employ each other
as revenge on old lovers or families of entitlement and steel—then there will be no betrayals, no letters returned unread,
no frenzy, no hurled words of permanent humiliation, no trembling days, no vomit at midnight, no repeated
apparition of a body floating face-down at the pond’s edge

2013. november 4., hétfő

Ambrose Bierce: Business

Two villains of the highest rank
Set out one night to rob a bank.
They found the building, looked it o’er,
Each window noted, tried each door,
Scanned carefully the lidded hole
For minstrels to cascade the coal—
In short, examined five-and_twenty
Short cuts from poverty to plenty.
But all were sealed, they saw full soon,
Against the minions of the moon.
"Enough," said one: "I’m satisfied."
The other, smiling fair and wide,
Said: “I’m as highly pleased as you:
No burglar ever can get through.
Fate surely prospers our design—
The booty all is yours and mine.”
So, full of hope, the following day
To the exchange they took their way
And bought, with manner free and frank,
Some stock of that devoted bank;
And they became, inside the year,
One President and one Cashier.
Their crime I can no further trace—
The means of safety to embrace,
I overdrew and left the place.

2013. november 2., szombat

Tóth Árpád: Lélektől lélekig

Állok az ablak mellett éjszaka,
S a mérhetetlen messzeségen át
Szemembe gyűjtöm össze egy szelíd
Távol csillag remegő sugarát.

Billió mérföldekről jött e fény,
Jött a jeges, fekete és kopár
Terek sötétjén lankadatlanul,
S ki tudja, mennyi ezredéve már.

Egy égi üzenet, mely végre most
Hozzám talált, s szememben célhoz ért,
S boldogan hal meg, amíg rácsukom
Fáradt pillám koporsófödelét.

Tanultam én, hogy általszűrve a
Tudósok finom kristályműszerén,
Bús földünkkel s bús testemmel rokon
Elemekről ád hírt az égi fény.

Magamba zárom, véremmé iszom,
És csöndben és tűnődve figyelem,
Mily ős bút zokog a vérnek a fény,
Földnek az ég, elemnek az elem?

Tán fáj a csillagoknak a magány,
A térbe szétszórt milljom árvaság?
S hogy össze nem találunk már soha
A jégen, éjjen s messziségen át?

Ó, csillag, mit sírsz! Messzebb te se vagy,
Mint egymástól itt a földi szívek!
A Szíriusz van tőlem távolabb
Vagy egy-egy társam, jaj, ki mondja meg?

Ó jaj barátság, és jaj szerelem!
Ó jaj az út lélektől lélekig!
Küldözzük a szem csüggedt sugarát,
S köztünk a roppant jeges űr lakik.

2013. november 1., péntek

Marie Howe: What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, 
some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, 
and the crusty dishes have piled up
 
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. 
This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, 
and the sunlight pours through
 
the open living-room windows because 
the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, 
the bag breaking,
 
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. 
And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, 
spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
 
I thought it again, and again later, 
when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. 
What you called that yearning.
 
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come 
and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—
we want more and more and then more of it.
 
But there are moments, walking, 
when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, 
and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
 
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat 
that I'm speechless:
I am living. I remember you.