2014. július 31., csütörtök

2014. július 30., szerda

Nicanor Parra: Let's cut the bullshit

In Chile we have never had democracy
And never will:

They are all dictatorships, my dear friend
The only thing that we're allowed
Is to elect
Between their dictatorshiop & ours

Lenin was damn right:
Go on being poor & honest, ol' pal
Just don't be an asshole

Nicanor Parra: Dejemonos de pamplinas

En Chile nunca ha habido democracía
Ni la habrá:

Todas son dictaduras amigo lindo
Lo único que nos está permitido
Es elegir
Entre la de ellos & la de nosotros

Lenin dixit
Sea pobra & honráo compadre
Pero no sea nunca hueón

2014. július 29., kedd

Robert Currie: My Poems

My poems
are slim bombs
craving explosion
Their fuses lie
dark on the page
awaiting your arrival with a light.

2014. július 28., hétfő

Yehuda Amichai: An Arab Shepherd Is Searching For His Goat On Mount Zion

An Arab shepherd is searching for his goat on Mount Zion
And on the opposite hill I am searching for my little boy.
An Arab shepherd and a Jewish father
Both in their temporary failure.
Our two voices met above
The Sultan's Pool in the valley between us.
Neither of us wants the boy or the goat
To get caught in the wheels
Of the "Had Gadya" machine.

Afterward we found them among the bushes,
And our voices came back inside us
Laughing and crying.

Searching for a goat or for a child has always been
The beginning of a new religion in these mountains.

2014. július 26., szombat

Vjakošlav Majer: Egy szerelem vége

Halkan, ahogy könyv csukódik be,
meghalt újra egy szerelem:
mi benne volt – már elolvastatott.
Elõbb gyógyul a sebezett
szárny mindig, mint fájdalma,
– tudhatod.

(Fordította: Cseh Károly)

2014. július 25., péntek

Robert Graves: Love Without Hope

Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher
Swept off his tall hat to the Squire’s own daughter,
So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly
Singing about her head as she rode by.

2014. július 24., csütörtök

Ed Ochester: Note for Door

Today when I woke
you were gone
and I
was like a salesman
in a small-town hotel room
drunk on loneliness
and listening to laughter
next door
and I was
a boy scout marooned
in a dry-rotted cabin
by the greatest snowstorm
ever seen in northern Vermont
listening to strange birds
scratching the roof
and I was
a man coming home
to his house full of children
and finding nothing there
but the echoes of his scream.
I am going out now
to look at
the green ducks
paddle nowhere
on the river
but if you should return
while I’m out marking time
this is to tell you
I’m home.

2014. július 23., szerda

Nicanor Parra: Yup!

The greatest truths of the twentieth century
Can't be found on books

You can read them
On the bathroom walls

Vox Populi                   Vox Dei

This, of course, I read in a book

(antitranslated by Liz Werner)

Nicanor Parra: Si pueh!

Las grandes verdades del siglo XX
No están en los libros:

En las paredes de los bańos públicos

Vox populi                           Vox Dei

Claro ques esto lo leí en un libro

2014. július 22., kedd

Tom Clark. Poem

Like musical instruments
Abandoned in a field
The parts of your feelings

Are starting to know a quiet
The pure conversion of your
Life into art seems destined

Never to occur
You don’t mind

You feel spiritual and alert
As the air must feel
Turning into sky aloft and blue
You feel like

You’ll never feel like touching anything or anyone
And then you do

2014. július 21., hétfő

Pleasefindthis: The truth behind glass mountains

This isn't torture.
Torture happens in small, dark rooms in countries with names you struggle to spell.
This is just mildly unpleasant.
This isn't heroism.
Heroism happens in churches that are also schools, performed by teachers with no names and no place to stay.
This is just a good deed for the day.
This isn't loss.
Loss happens on fields with poppies, in hospitals buzzing with flies, in distant deserts and late at night when there's no good reason for the phone to ring.
This is just longing.
This isn't important.
Important happens on bended knees and is breathed on last breaths with hands clutched tight, hearts tighter.
This is just a distraction.

Matthew Sweeney: Gold

After the murder, I called a meeting
to see if we were happy. I declared
I was not — I said I liked the man
we shot. You all disagreed with this.
I asked if you knew him, his wife,
none of you did. “Kill me, then,”
I said. You all stared at me. “Why,
Bernard? Of course we won’t.”
“Why not?” I said. “He was a good
man, a better man than me. And
look at what I’ve brought you — 
rubbish, dodgy tales, dross.”
“Easy to dismiss that,” you said.
“We appreciated it all. And you
wandered the wild paths to bring
it back to us — your songs, your
legends, magic stories, your gold.”
I thanked you, but shook my head.
The good man was dead. I didn’t care
what I’d brought you. I needed to go.
I packed up my sagas, my song lyrics,
my alchemy potions, my gold, and
I disappeared.

2014. július 19., szombat

Matthew Sweeney: A megingás

Félúton a mélység felett
ezrek szemeláttára,
millió tévénéző előtt:
megingott, s majdnem lezuhant.
Tán a sóhaj tartotta meg
egykerekű biciklijén:
meglendítette lábait
s végül a túlpartra elért.
És amíg az ünneplő tömeg
hordozta diadalmasan,
végig a megingásra gondolt,
ahogy húzta a szakadék
mélyére, ökörcsont közé,
és hallotta az ordítást,
s tömeg döbbent moraját,
és azt is, ahogy vége lett -
és arra kérte hordozóit:
vigyék vissza a szakadékhoz,
köteléhez, mely ott feszült -
és fogta egykerekűjét,
és megpörgette a pedált,
és visszalökte, üresen -
döbbenten figyelt a tömeg -
és íme, éppen félúton
a gép zörögve lezuhant.

(fordította: Szabó T. Anna)

2014. július 18., péntek

Leigh Hunt: Jenny Kissed Me

Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad;
Say that health and wealth have missed me;
Say I’m growing old, but add –
Jenny kissed me!

2014. július 17., csütörtök

Maya Angelou: Men

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street.
Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pause,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.


2014. július 16., szerda

Thomas Lux: A Little Tooth

Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It’s all
over: she’ll learn some words, she’ll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It’s dusk. Your daughter’s tall.

2014. július 15., kedd

Federico García Lorca: El Amor Duerme En El Pecho Del Poeta

Tú nunca entenderás lo que te quiero
porque duermes en mí y estás dormido.
Yo te oculto llorando, perseguido
por una voz de penetrante acero.

Norma que agita igual carne y lucero
traspasa ya mi pecho dolorido
y las turbias palabras han mordido
las alas de tu espíritu severo.

Grupo de gente salta en los jardines
esperando tu cuerpo y mi agonía
en caballos de luz y verdes crines.

Pero sigue durmiendo, vida mía.
¡Oye mi sangre rota en los violines!
¡Mira que nos acechan todavía!

2014. július 14., hétfő

Shel Silverstein: Messy Room

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

2014. július 12., szombat

Kiss Judit Ágnes: Szó

Hazádból, hogyha még bírod,
Ne menj el, ó, magyar.
Hogy menekülj, lesz mindig ok,
És mindig, hogy maradj.

Itt áldozat, s vajon mi ott?
Bevándorló lehetsz,
Nem tudhatod, végül melyik
A súlyosabb kereszt.

Ez a föld régóta ugar,
Terméketlen, sivár,
De van még, ki zenét szerez,
És színházat csinál,

Szeret és harcol semmiért,
Mert másként nem tehet.
Hogy itt vagy, erőt ad nekik,
S ők itt vannak veled.

Lehet, hogy nem jön jobb soha,
Ki itt él, mélyrepül.
Megúszhatják a vétkesek,
S te bűnhődsz vétlenül.

Míg annyi jóval tele
A másik serpenyő,
Ha baj van, ki ne mentené,
Ami még menthető?

De itt van szükség rád nagyon,
Sötétben lenni fény,
Hogy fölemeld, ki megrogyott,
És bátorítsd, ki fél.

Maradj, mert meg kell védeni,
Kinek nincs is hova,
Legyen szegény, hajléktalan,
Zsidó, meleg, roma,

Vagy bárki más, aki alól
Kihúzták a talajt.
Légy fül, ha semmit nem tehetsz,
Ki hallja még a jajt.

Ez frontvonal, ez harcmező,
S még így is otthonod,
Rád simul minden rég bejárt
Tered, kamaszkorod.

Taposhatnak röhögve mind
Az összes elveden,
De szétolvadnak a szavak
Az anyanyelveden.

Ne hidd, hogy semmi eszközöd,
Fegyver vagy te magad,
Mind különleges ügynök az,
Ki mégis itt marad.

Maradj, tövisnek bőr alatt,
Ha bírod még, magyar,
Légy viszkető seb, mit a kéz
Álmában is vakar.

Itt áldás is, másutt csak egy
Bevándorló lehetsz.
Ki mondja meg, végül melyik
A súlyosabb kereszt.

2014. július 11., péntek

Sara Teasdale: A Prayer

Until I lose my soul and lie
Blind to the beauty of the earth,
Deaf though a shouting wind goes by,
Dumb in a storm of mirth;
Until my heart is quenched at length
And I have left the land of men,
Oh, let me love with all my strength
Careless if I am loved again.

2014. július 10., csütörtök

Mairead Byrne: Friends

I have ah a lot of friends. Yeah. Friends friends friends. Friends for every day of the week I guess.  I'm never stuck. On Monday I can't remember exactly but I probably did something with my friend.  On Tuesday I met my friend and we had some sort of zingers. On Wednesday I met my friend for coffee. On Thursday I met my friend for calamari and Pinot Noir. Pretty sophisticated right.  Then on Friday (I nearly wrote Frienday) my friends stayed over and we did a streaming video thing on Saturday morning. And Sunday is a day of rest and I'm writing this (oh yeah and last Sunday I kinda went swimming with my friend).  Then tomorrow it begins all over again.

2014. július 9., szerda

Judith Viorst: The blissful couple

They laugh together.
Read together.
Dance together.
Paint together.
Listen to music together.
Walk, holding hands, together.

They love exchanging

He rushes to greet her,
His arms outstretched,
Joyfully calling her name,
When he sees her arrive.

Who, you are wondering,
Is this blissful couple?
She is his grandma.
He is almost five.

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer: Rima XXXVIII

A sóhaj szellő, és elszáll a széllel.
Vízcsepp a könny, és a tengerbe fut.
Mondd, kedvesem, ha a szerelem meghal,
tudod-e, hova jut?

(Simor András fordítása)

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer: Rima XXXVIII

Los suspiros son aire y van al aire.
Las lágrimas son agua y van al mar.
Dime, mujer, cuando el amor se olvida,
        ¿sabes tú adónde va?

2014. július 8., kedd

Gabriel Gadfly: Life and Death and Knowledge

You have only these hours and days.

When you accept them,
you have no need of
afterlives or priorlives.
You have the single empty box
of a life and all the universe
to fill it with.

Live like this: there is an end to you.
Don’t fear it. Don’t wallow.
Flowers wilt. Rivers dry up.
Even the stars extinguish themselves.
Have your time and then let it go.

Do not shy from your ending
with mad horse eyes.

Allow the box of your life,
when you have filled it,
to have its spaces.
Resist the temptation
to stuff the gaps with gods
who do not know you.

Pull Uncertainty into your arms
and kiss her on the lips:
too many neglect her,
but she is an eager lover,
and desires only your attention.
Let her teach you how to say
“I don’t know, and that is beautiful.”

You have only these minutes and years.

2014. július 7., hétfő

Dorothea Grossman: The Two Times I Loved You the Most In a Car

It was your idea
to park and watch the elephants
swaying among the trees
like royalty
at that make-believe safari
near Laguna.
I didn’t know anything that big
could be so quiet.
And once, you stopped
on a dark desert road
to show me the stars
climbing over each other
like insects
like an orchestra
thrashing its way
through time itself
I never saw light that way

2014. július 5., szombat

Sárhelyi Erika: A világ vége

Egyszer elmennék a világ végére.
Csak hogy tudjam végre, le tudok-e
Ülni a szélére. Megnézném, milyen
Onnan a kilátás, s elvész-e a kiáltás,
Vagy egy másik világból megjön
Rá a felelet. Elvégre meglehet,
A világ vége csak egy másik kezdet.
Talán egy híd is vezet oda át.
Már látom, ahogy sok óriásplakát
Hirdeti: „Last minute ajánlat, vissza
Nem térő alkalom, megnézheti
- Most akciós áron – mi van odaát,
A másik oldalon!” Ha a hídon túl
Nagy lenne a forgalom, fizetnék egy
Révészt, aki átvisz. S ha sokat nem is,
De maradnék néhány röpke órára,
S kipróbálnám, milyen egy másik
Világból fütyülni erre a világra.

2014. július 4., péntek

Nazim Hikmet: Lion In An Iron Cage

Look at the lion in the iron cage,
look deep into his eyes:
like two naked steel daggers
they sparkle with anger.
But he never loses his dignity
although his anger
comes and goes
goes and comes.

You couldn't find a place for a collar
round his thick, furry mane.
Although the scars of a whip
still burn on his yellow back
his long legs
stretch and end
in the shape of two copper claws.
The hairs on his mane rise one by one
around his proud head.
His hatred
comes and goes
goes and comes ...

The shadow of my brother on the wall of the dungeon
up and down
up and down.

2014. július 3., csütörtök

Mary Oliver: The Fist

There are days
when the sun goes down
like a fist,
though of course

if you see anything
in the heavens this way
you had better get

your eyes checked
or, better still,
your diminished spirit.
The heavens

have no fist,
or wouldn't they have been
shaking it
for a thousand years now,

and even
longer than that,
at the dull, brutish
ways of mankind -

heaven's own
Instead: such patience!
Such willingness

to let us continue!
To hear,
little by little,
the voices -

only, so far, in
pockets of the world -
suggesting the possibilities

of peace?

Keep looking.
Behold, how the fist opens
with invitation.

2014. július 2., szerda

Nicanor Parra: Chimbarango the Cat

Won't bat an eyelash @ a bowl of milk
It has 2b ham or something like that
Service á la carte
                          Yes sir
+ just listen to this:
He won't have anything to do with mice
He'd rather die of starvation
Than return to mother nature
A cat so corrupt as this one? Nowhere
+ a more pampered tiger?
                                       No way

(antitranslation by Liz Werner)

Nicanor Parra: El gato chimbarango

No le da bola al arroz con leche
Tiene que ser jamón o algo x el estilo
Servicio a la carta
                           Sí seńor
& lo + scandaloso de todo:
De ratones no quiere saber nada
Antes muerto de hambre
Que regresar a la naturaleza
Gato + depravado que éste no hay
Tigre + regalón

2014. július 1., kedd

Antonio Machado: Proverbs and Folk Songs 1, 8, 10


The eye you see is not
an eye because you see it;
it is an eye because it sees you.


Form your letters slowly and well:
making things well
is more important than making them.


Beyond living and dreaming
there is something more important:
waking up.