2015. december 31., csütörtök

Jane Hirshfield: The Promise

Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.

Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.

Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.

Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.

Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.

Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always.

2015. december 30., szerda

Kemény Lili: Ő

Mikor belépett és letette a kardját,
és körbehordozta a tekintetét és figyelt,
és odament a pulthoz és koccintott
(az nem látszott, hogy kivel),
és levette a kalapját és megrázta,
és két vízcsepp esett a padlóra,
és kéményseprőt látott és gombot csavart,
és fagyöngy volt fölötte és kilépett alóla,
és lovagolt és átugratott egy szénaboglyán,
és arra gondolt, rohadt alak lett-e,
és nevetett, mert persze tényleg az lett,
és nyílpuskával lőtt a feszületre,
és szinkronizálta Zeuszt, mert pösze volt,
és megkérdezte, mi értelme csalni,
és negyvenévesen fogszabályzót tetetett föl,
még nem tudta, hogy meg fog halni.

2015. december 29., kedd

Stephen Dunn: Sweetness

Just when it has seemed I couldn’t bear
one more friend
waking with a tumor, one more maniac

with a perfect reason, often a sweetness
has come
and changed nothing in the world

except the way I stumbled through it,
for a while lost
in the ignorance of loving

someone or something, the world shrunk
to mouth-size,
hand-size, and never seeming small.

I acknowledge there is no sweetness
that doesn’t leave a stain,
no sweetness that’s ever sufficiently sweet ....

Tonight a friend called to say his lover
was killed in a car
he was driving. His voice was low

and guttural, he repeated what he needed
to repeat, and I repeated
the one or two words we have for such grief

until we were speaking only in tones.
Often a sweetness comes
as if on loan, stays just long enough

to make sense of what it means to be alive,
then returns to its dark
source. As for me, I don’t care

where it’s been, or what bitter road
it’s traveled
to come so far, to taste so good.

2015. december 28., hétfő

Alex Dimitrov: Radiance

I keep a note
a friend left in a book of photos:

lavender light over the snow flats –

and I wonder if he used it in a poem,
or if seeing, if the pleasure, was enough?

Now that you and I aren’t lovers,

I notice how the light at times
will race up your obedient body,

and reveal the flame I looked for –

the life I said I saw,
and hoped would be enough.

2015. december 26., szombat

Kányádi Sándor: Felemás őszi ének

építsd föl minden éjszaka
építsd föl újra s újra
amit lerombol benned a
nappalok háborúja

ne hagyd kihunyni a tüzet
a százszor szétrúgottat
szítsd a parazsat nélküled
föl újra nem loboghat

nevetségesen ismerős
minden mit mondtam s mondok
nehéz nyarunk volt itt az ősz
s jönnek a téli gondok

már csak magamat benned és
magamban téged óvlak
ameddig célja volna még
velünk a fönnvalónak

2015. december 25., péntek

Mary Mackey: The Kama Sutra of Kindness: Position Number 3

It's easy to love
through a cold spring
when the poles
of the willows
turn green
pollen falls like
a yellow curtain
and the scent of
Paper Whites
clots
the air

but to love for a lifetime
takes talent

you have to mix yourself
with the strange
beauty of someone
else
wake each morning
for 72,000
mornings in
a row so
breathed and
bound and
tangled
that you can hardly
sort out
your arms
and
legs

you have to
find forgiveness
in everything
even ink stains
and broken
cups

you have to be willing to move through
life
together
the way the long
grasses move
in a field
when you careen
blindly toward
the other
side

there's never going to be anything
straight or predictable
about your path
except the
flattening
and the springing
back

you just go on walking for years
hand in hand
waist deep in the weeds
bent slightly forward
like two question
marks
and all the while it

burns
my dear
it burns beautifully above
you
and goes on
burning
like a relentless
sun

2015. december 24., csütörtök

Váci Mihály: Nehéz a szívünk

Az arcodat ne mutasd szomorúnak.
Ne lássa senki, mi az, amit eltűrt.
Jobban kellene szeretni magunkat,
hiszen mi már nagyon kiérdemeltük.

A szíveink egymásra zúzva hulltak,
eggyé forrasztó sors zuhog felettünk.
Sebeinkért szeretjük már a múltat;
és a jövőt: - lesz mit felemlegetnünk.

Most itt ülünk. Kedves, Te szomorú vagy.
Az arcom nem mutatja, amit eltűrt.
Nehéz a szívünk, mert nem könnyű búnak
ütése alatt ragyog a szerelmünk.

Egymást szeressük már - ne csak magunkat
Hiszen mi már nagyon megérdemeljük.

2015. december 23., szerda

Ady Endre: Ki várni tud

(Küldöm, ki érti.)

Tartsd magad,
Sors, Élet és Idő szabad
S ki várni érez, várni tud.

Várni tud,
Kinek ön-énje nem hazug
S nem hord össze hetet s havat.

Tartsd magad,
Mert most az a leggazdagabb,
Ki várni érez, várni tud.

2015. december 22., kedd

Kellam Ayres: Practice

You must make this mistake once—
pour boiling liquid into a blender, then pulse it.
Watch the steam blow the lid straight off.
When you see your burned hands, you’ll scream.
Other mistakes you repeat, finding yourself
in a familiar place, but worn out, like pigeons
circling a roof, the flock growing bigger,
then smaller. It will be this way with love.
Your neighbor plays something on the accordion,
starting and stopping before seeing it through,
but it’s not what you expected. It’s not even
about getting it right. You think it’s about
protecting yourself, and eventually you will—
not by learning how to love, but how to do so less often.

2015. december 21., hétfő

Yehuda Amichai: Near the Wall of a House

Near the wall of a house painted
to look like stone,
I saw visions of God.

A sleepless night that gives others a headache
gave me flowers
opening beautifully inside my brain.

And he who was lost like a dog
will be found like a human being
and brought back home again.

Love is not the last room: there are others
after it, the whole length of the corridor
that has no end.

2015. december 19., szombat

Weöres Sándor: A társ

Keverd a szíved
napsugár közé,
készíts belőle
lángvirágot,
s aki a földön
mellén viseli
és hevét kibírja,
ő a párod.

2015. december 18., péntek

Wislawa Szymborska: Life-while-you-wait

Life While-You-Wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without alterations.
Head without premeditation.

I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it's mine. I can't exchange it.

I have to guess on the spot
just what this play's all about.

Ill-prepared for the privilege of living,
I can barely keep up with the pace that the action demands.
I improvise, although I loathe improvisation.
I trip at every step over my own ignorance.
I can't conceal my hayseed manners.
My instincts are for happy histrionics.
Stage fright makes excuses for me, which humiliate me more.
Extenuating circumstances strike me as cruel.

Words and impulses you can't take back,
stars you'll never get counted,
your character like a raincoat you button on the run ?
the pitiful results of all this unexpectedness.

If only I could just rehearse one Wednesday in advance,
or repeat a single Thursday that has passed!
But here comes Friday with a script I haven't seen.
Is it fair, I ask
(my voice a little hoarse,
since I couldn't even clear my throat offstage).

You'd be wrong to think that it's just a slapdash quiz
taken in makeshift accommodations. Oh no.
I'm standing on the set and I see how strong it is.
The props are surprisingly precise.
The machine rotating the stage has been around even longer.
The farthest galaxies have been turned on.
Oh no, there's no question, this must be the premiere.
And whatever I do
will become forever what I've done.

2015. december 17., csütörtök

Conchitina Cruz: Memory

I can't remember his name
but I recall the way he didn't
forget things easily -- what dress I wore
to class three days ago, phone numbers of rooms
for rent on bulletin boards, the crops
of local regions we're made to memorize
in grade four. I never asked him
if he meant to keep these memories he had
no use for, and by choice or not, if he thought it a burden,
his power to remember
and remember well. After all, it meant too
that he always knew the right formulas to use
in exams, and if he forgot (which he never did),
he had all these other alternatives
in mind. I never did bother to wonder
if it was this same sharp memory that made
him know his losses well, from his missing pen
down to the girlfriend who left him, whom he spoke of
in few words but mentioned often.

As for me, I just long for the day when I need
not bluff my way out of a conversation
with -- what's his name? -- an acquaintance
from college, perhaps, or a regular
in my favorite restaurant. If there's one thing
I'm bound never to forget, it's how it feels
to wonder, once I'm out of the house,
if I was able to turn all the lights off, or worry
that I didn't unplug the iron. I've said hello
to actors down the street without being sure
who they are, certain only that their faces
seem familiar. It doesn't even dawn on me
until much later that I'm acquainted
with their nonexistent selves, their characters
in movies I've seen, the titles of which,
well, I can't seem to remember.

I think of the one who sat next
to me in Physics class, the one I envied so,
and I realize I might not even recognize
him if we see each other
now. I wonder who, between us,
is luckier: is it he, with all his recollections
and no way out
of his memory, or is it me, with my guilt
as I gaze at the past,
growing anonymous behind me?

2015. december 16., szerda

Szabó Lőrinc: Kár

Kár elrontani, kár,
buta kis életünket,
úgyis ritka az ünnep,
úgyis jön a halál.
Mind, ami konc, ami érdem,
ami lehet, be kicsi!
Maga az ember, ahogy van,
túlhitvány valami.

Sír bennünk az igaz szív
s éppúgy sír a komisz;
kár, hogy túlsokat ártunk
fölöslegesen is.
Pénz, hiuság, becsület: mind
szánalmas csatatér,
s csábit a szó, hogy a lélek
nyugalma többet ér.

Csábit a szó, de a béke
ahogy jön, megy is a perccel;
(könnyü annak,
aki helyett más a gazember!)
Tűnik a perc, s az örök föld
bestiái miatt
meggyűlöljük az égi
prédikátorokat.

Kár elrontani, mégis
rontjuk az életünket,
pedig ritka az ünnep
s úgy is jön a halál.
Küzdünk, sírva, vagy árván,
mint kit a cél megúnt,
s mindegy a cél, az eszközökért
együtt lakolunk.

2015. december 15., kedd

Richard Jones: White Towels

I have been studying the difference
between solitude and loneliness,
telling the story of my life
to the clean white towels taken warm from the dryer.
I carry them through the house
as though they were my children
asleep in my arms.

2015. december 14., hétfő

Robert Graves: Symptoms of Love

Love is a universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.
Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns;
Are omens and nightmares—
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:
For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.
Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?

2015. december 12., szombat

Csorba Győző: A magam szinházában

A magam színházában
itt a legnehezebb

Itt kellenek a legsokoldalúbb
legszínesebb színészek
itt ül a legértőbb közönség
a legszigorúbb kritikusi gárda
itt játszódnak le a
legrejtélyesebb (legrejtjelesebb)
jelenetek
itt történnek olyasmik amiket
szívesen titkolnék magam előtt is
olyasmik is
amikben
akkora az öröm
hogy nem fér már belém
kiömlik (olykor látni is)

A magam színházában
egyetlen szó sem hangzik el
De napi huszonnégy
órán át életre-halálra
folyik
a vértelen
non-stop előadás

2015. december 11., péntek

Wayne Myers: three pieces of string

three pieces of string go into a bar
one approaches the counter
"three pints of lager and three packets of crisps please."
"are you a piece of string," says the barman.
"no," says the piece of string.
"ok," says the barman, pulling the drinks.
"that'll be eight pounds please."

2015. december 10., csütörtök

Anya Krugovoy Silver: French Toast

Pain perdu: lost bread. Thick slices sunk in milk,
fringed with crisp lace of browned egg and scattered sugar.
Like spongiest challah, dipped in foaming cream
and frothy egg, richness drenching every yeasted
crevice and bubble, that's how sodden with luck
I felt when we fell in love. Now, at forty,
I remember that "lost bread" means bread that's gone
stale, leftover heels and crusts, too dry for simple
jam and butter. Still, week-old bread makes the best
French toast, soaks up milk as greedily as I turn
toward you under goose down after ten years
of marriage, craving, still, that sweet white immersion.

2015. december 9., szerda

Pilinszky János: Majd elnézem

Majd elnézem ahogy a víz csorog,
a tétova és gyöngéd utakat,
a fájdalom és véletlen közös
betűvetését, hosszú-hosszú rajzait -
halott köveken, élő arcokon -

elnézem őket, mielőtt
a feledést kiérdemelném.

2015. december 8., kedd

Shinji Moon: Here’s What Our Parents Never Taught Us

You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.

You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.

You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It’s okay.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.

You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.

All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.

You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.

One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.

Molt.
Don’t be afraid.

Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out
against the windowpane.

You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass will break through often.

But it’s okay. I promise.

Remember,
a stranger once told you that the breeze
here is something worth writing poems about.

2015. december 7., hétfő

Kay Ryan: Bitter Pill

A bitter pill
doesn’t need
to be swallowed
to work. Just
reading your name
on the bottle
does the trick.
As though there
were some anti–
placebo effect.
As though the
self were eager
to be wrecked.

2015. december 5., szombat

László Noémi: Mondd el nekem

Mondd el nekem,
miért nem vagy idegen,
mozdulataid
honnan ismerem,
miért tudom rólad,
amit még te sem?
Mondd, meddig tűröd
azt, hogy olvasom,
mit ír a ránc
tűnődő arcodon,
hogy szótlanságod
értem, hallgatom?
Tanulod-e mi az,
amitől félek,
hol nyitott ajtót
testemen a lélek,
mit mondanék,
amikor nem beszélek?
Végül csak annyit:
vigyázol-e rám,
ha nem jut már
eszembe a szezám,
leszel-e testvérem,
anyám, apám?
Tudod-e, amit én
nem tudhatok,
amiről holdtöltekor
álmodok,
emlékszel-e, ha
el vagyok feledve,
s velem vagy-e,
amikor nem vagyok?
Álmomban, egyszer,
súgva-settenkedve
eljössz-e velem
sétálni a csendbe,
és engeded-e majd,
ha megfagyok,
hogy eltemessenek
a tenyeredbe?

2015. december 4., péntek

Galway Kinnell: Two Seasons

I
The stars were wild that summer evening
As on the low lake shore stood you and I
And every time I caught your flashing eye
Or heard your voice discourse on anything
It seemed a star went burning down the sky.
I looked into your heart that dying summer
And found your silent woman’s heart grown wild
Whereupon you turned to me and smiled
Saying you felt afraid but that you were
Weary of being mute and undefiled

II
I spoke to you that last winter morning
Watching the wind smoke snow across the ice
Told of how the beauty of your spirit, flesh,
And smile had made day break at night and spring
Burst beauty in the wasting winter’s place.
You did not answer when I spoke, but stood
As if that wistful part of you, your sorrow,
Were blown about in fitful winds below;
Your eyes replied your worn heart wished it could
Again be white and silent as the snow.

2015. december 3., csütörtök

Mark Halliday: Before

Before you were you,
before your bicycle appeared under the street-lamp,
before you met me at the airport in a corduroy jacket,

before you agreed to hold my five ballpoint pens
while i ran to play touch football,
before your wet hair nearly touched the piano keys

and in advance of how your raincoat was tightly cinched
when you asked about nonviolent anti-war activity
and before you said "Truffaut,"

before your voice supernaturally soft sang
"I aweary wait upon the shore,"
before you suddenly stroked my thigh in the old Volvo,

when you had not yet said "Marcus Aureliius at 11:15"
and before your white shirt on the train,
before Pachelbel and "My Creole Belle"

and before your lips were so cool under that street-lamp
and before Buddy Holly in Vermont on the sofa
and Yeats in the library lounge,

prior to your denim cutoffs on the porch,
prior to my notes and your notes
and before your name became a pulsing star,

before all this
ah safer and smoother and smaller was my heart.

2015. december 2., szerda

Jónás Tamás: Végtelen befejezés

Mint kávés csésze alján sűrű zacc,
hiába kergetlek el: megmaradsz.
Vagy túl hangos rockkoncertek után
a fülcsengés -- némán tátog a száj.
Levágott láb után a fantomfájdalom,
mindig ott sétálsz a másik oldalon.
Illatodtól, lomha hónapok, ha múlnak,
a lusta izmok, vágyak megvadulnak.
Egy hajszálad a kényes porcicák között.
Te ott leszel, bárhová költözök.

2015. december 1., kedd

Denise Levertov: Adam’s Complaint

Some people,
no matter what you give them,
still want the moon.

The bread,
the salt,
white meat and dark,
still hungry.

The marriage bed
and the cradle,
still empty arms.

You give them land,
their own earth under their feet,
still they take to the roads

And water: dig them the deepest well,
still it’s not deep enough
to drink the moon from.

2015. november 30., hétfő

Lemn Sissay: Flowers in the kitchen

On buying her flowers
she said

"There's no food in the kitchen
and we can't eat flowers."

On buying her food
she said

"You don't buy flowers any more."

2015. november 28., szombat

Varró Dániel: [Nem illünk össze, drága, mit szépítsünk ezen…]

Nem illünk össze, drága, mit szépítsünk ezen.
A pletykarovatot te, a sporthíreket én.
Te pontban akkor ott vagy, én késve érkezem.
Én két cukorral kérem, te pedig feketén.

Te mondod is, nekem gondolni hosszan át kell.
Ha érvelek, te sírsz, elvágva disputánk.
Te este vagy bujós, nekem meg reggel áll fel.
Én gyereket szeretnék, te inkább kiskutyát.

Te szabályosan írod, én egy essel mi két es.
Bumfordi medveárnyék az én árnyékom, édes,
szökell mellette árnyad tünékeny lányalakja.

Bugyrok közt járok én beszívva felcsapó ként,
te meetingekre jársz HR-tanácsadóként.
De gomblukunkat mégis egymás hiánya lakja.

2015. november 27., péntek

Eleanor Brown: Bitcherel

You ask what I think of your new acquisition;
and since we are now to be 'friends',
I'll strive to the full to cement my position
with honesty. Dear - it depends.

It depends upon taste, which must not be disputed;
for which of us does understand
why some like their furnishings pallid and muted,
their cookery wholesome, but bland?

There isn't a law that a face should have features,
it's just that they generally do;
God couldn't give colour to all of his creatures,
and only gave wit to a few;

I'm sure she has qualities, much underrated,
that compensate amply for this,
along with a charm that is so understated
it's easy for people to miss.

And if there are some who choose clothing to flatter
what beauties they think they possess,
when what's underneath has no shape, does it matter
if there is no shape to the dress?

It's not that I think she is boring, precisely,
that isn't the word I would choose;
I know there are men who like girls who talk nicely
and always wear sensible shoes.

It's not that I think she is vapid and silly;
it's not that her voice makes me wince;
but - chilli con carne without any chilli
is only a plateful of mince...

2015. november 26., csütörtök

Lou Lipsitz: My Father's Girlfriends

From time to time
        he slept with one who had
        what he called "real class,"
who knew how to dress.
Maybe she'd spent time in Europe
        and developed a taste for luxury.
She worked for some specialty store
and would watch cooly
as my father--
        stylish, darkly Mediterranean,
        recently manicured,
        the sleeves of his shirt
rolled up on his forearms,
colorful tie loosened---
         showed her the lastest in sportswear.
And then
         asked her to dinner,
         business of course (though
she understood).
         A sleek brunette, maybe,
with great legs.
         Next day, he'd send flowers
and a romantic note.
"Women," he told me,
         "crave attention."

From time to time, it
was a prostitute.
        Nothing tawdry,
not the tough whores he
        and his buddies used to drive
up to Albany for
when they were eighteen.
        Nothing extravagant
either. A small, neat West Side
apartment. Curtains in the bedroom
like home. She'd never
make him rush. He could take
        the full hour if he wanted to.
"They're the only
ones," he told me, "who really know
how to please a man."

But mostly, the women
were like him,
        Jews or Italians out
of Brooklyn or the Bronx, one step
from the ethnic ghettos, trying
        not to smell of pastrami
or spaghetti sauce, or talk
with an accent;
        dressed to kill, slick and ready
with a joke---good-looking, youthful
women who glanced in the mirror
        a lot and wore
fashionable clothes;
        were determined above all
        not to be old-fashioned;
who'd discovered quickly
        what marriage could offer,
and what it couldn't; who could
keep their mouths shut
        and not tell other people
        what they didn't need
to know anyway.
They liked to gamble, but
not too heavily.

The way I imagine it,
        only once in twenty-five years
did any woman come close.
        He was nearing fifty
and watching the gray make its steady advances
        like a disorganized guerilla army
through the countryside
        of his thinning hair.

She was fifteen years younger
from a department store in some
        small midwestern
town, and something
        about her shyness
cut way into him.
        They had sex twice, but he was
haunted. She never asked
for anything,
        and he was afraid he
couldn't forget her.
        He knew what it would mean
if this ever got out---
        what would happen to the family,
        what his sisters would say.
He wasn't someone
        to throw it all away
        on one spin of the wheel.
So he let it die out: watching TV, tossing
        the football with me
in the street.

Somewhere in his mid-fifties
he got friendly with a seamstress
        who worked in his shop---
        a motherly woman
with a sick husband.
They worked late.
and she made him dinner
        He gave her extra money,
quietly, just relaxed and
let it happen.
        Only his wife couldn't
see it. She was fond of saying
over and over:
        "Jack worships
the ground I walk on."

Sundays, twice a year, he and I
went to the cemetery where
        his father was buried.
We mumbled the
Hebrew prayer for the dead and,
        keeping with tradition,
put a small rock on the gravestone
to show we'd come.
        Usually, we went home
without a word,
but once, when I was twenty,
        I saw him wipe away tears,
and he started to talk about
my grandfather:
        "He was the sweetest guy.
Everybody loved him. But I'd hear
my mother yelling at him
in the back room.
        And he never yelled back.
Because everything
        she said was true:
        he ran around and gambled
and..." He stopped.
        "Just once
I wanted to hear him
yell back at her:
        "Yes, I"m foolish, but
you don't know me and you
never will."

2015. november 25., szerda

Finy Petra: Tavasz

Olvad a táj
Egy sánta szarka elszomorító nyugalommal
Botorkál a sárrá híguló télben
Megáll méreget
Ismét megáll és megint méreget
Figyeli a hólé mélységét
Keresi
Hol tudna biztosan belefulladni

2015. november 24., kedd

Leslie Harrison: The Day Beauty Divorced Meaning

Their friends looked shocked—said not
possible, said how sad. The trees carried on
with their treeish lives—stately except when
they shed their silly dandruff of birds. And
the ocean did what oceans mostly do—
suspended almost everything, dropped one
small ship, or two. The day beauty divorced
meaning, someone picked a flower, a fight,
a flight. Someone got on a boat.
A closet lost its suitcases. Someone
was snowed in, someone else on. The sun
went down and all it was, was night.

2015. november 23., hétfő

Courtney Kampa: Self-Portrait By Someone Else

The afternoon we traced our 2nd grade bodies
with poster paint, legs V-shaped on paper
like the outlines of victims at a crime scene,
I was the only girl stuck partnered with a boy—
his fists filthy from prying back scalps
of onion grass, bug shells crushed up in his teeth
because he’d liked the sound. He refused
all paint-colors but blue. Leaned over me,
complaining loudly to his friends. Then his lip,
heavy with focus. And the red wing
of his tongue. Dragging his paintbrush
like a match in a room of gasoline. The week before
Debbie Kaw passed a note saying babies
came from standing too close to a boy,
or if one sweat on you, or spat
in your direction. So the girls called it brave, what I did,
letting one trace me. And I let them think so—
let them run ahead in the carpool line,
the blood still returning to my knees.
Let my mother hang it full length on the refrigerator.
The white space something I’d stepped from.
Its thick blue line sort of wobbly
between my thighs, where his hands shook.
In the mornings my little sister would stand
on one foot, looking at it. Her groggy pajamas.
Her hands playing in her lunatic hair.

2015. november 21., szombat

Kemény Zsófi: Most eldől

Megmentem egy tűzvésztől a világot,
de legalábbis elfújok egy gyertyát.
Hagyok egy kis meleget azért,
hogy ne fázzon a kombinémodell a plakáton.
Feltámadt a szél, de nem baj,
elnyomja a fölösleges
napsütés hangját.
Itt jön most egy szakadék,
úgyhogy fölfelé is, lefelé is indulhatok,
mert mindenképp leesek.
Most az a pillanat van,
mikor kizárok mindent,
és most a szélnek sincsen hangja.
Ha vége, majd talán sírok is.
Vagy nevetek. Vagy ordítok,
még nem tudom, épp most dől el.

2015. november 20., péntek

Nikki Giovanni: Poem for Flora

when she was little
and colored and ugly with short
straightened hair
and a very pretty smile
she went to Sunday school to hear
'bout nebuchadnezzar the king
of the jews

and she would listen

shadrach, meshach and abednego in the fire

and she would learn
how god was neither north
nor south east or west
with no color but all
she remembered was that
Sheba was Black and comely

and she would think

i want to be
like that.

2015. november 19., csütörtök

Cecilia Woloch: On Faith

How do people stay true to each other?
When I think of my parents all those years
in the unmade bed of their marriage, not ever
longing for anything else — or: no, they must
have longed; there must have been flickerings,
stray desires, nights she turned from him,
sleepless, and wept, nights he rose silently,
smoked in the dark, nights that nest of breath
and tangled limbs must have seemed
not enough. But it was. Or they just
held on. A gift, perhaps, I've tossed out,
having been always too willing to fly
to the next love, the next and the next, certain
nothing was really mine, certain nothing
would ever last. So faith hits me late, if at all;
faith that this latest love won't end, or ends
in the shapeless sleep of death. But faith is hard.
When he turns his back to me now, I think:
disappear. I think: not what I want. I think
of my mother lying awake in those arms
that could crush her. That could have. Did not.

2015. november 18., szerda

Simon Márton: Kínai

A kirakatban lévő asztalhoz ültünk
végül. Üres egyébként ez az egész.
Az étel ehető, de inkább csak
beszélünk, így hárman:
mi ketten meg a tulaj, aki tőlünk nem
messze járkál és egy érthetetlen
nyelven hadar a mobiljába.
A falon tükrök kirakva, körben,
mintha öröm lenne magunkat nézni;
és nem történik semmi, ha kérdik,
majd azt mondjuk, beszélgettünk;
te elmesélted, hogy Keleten
valahol, nem tudod pontosan, hol,
úgy kell enniük a nőknek, hogy nem érhet
étel az ajkaikhoz. Ott arrébb átjött a
felhők résein a nap, szemembe süt,
de mindegy, sokáig csak nézlek aztán;
vajon tényleg nem vetted észre, hogy
két napja nem értem hozzá a szádhoz?
Beszédünk mögött valaki egy
érthetetlen nyelven hadar,
szembenálló koszos tükrökben
egy közhely, meg mi ketten.
Ha már nem kellett, legalább
mondd meg, mi volt ez.
Tudjam, miért fizettem.

2015. november 17., kedd

Charles Bukowski: Throwing Away the Alarm Clock

my father always said, “early to bed and
early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy
and wise.”

it was lights out at 8 p.m. in our house
and we were up at dawn to the smell of
coffee, frying bacon and scrambled
eggs.

my father followed this general routine
for a lifetime and died young, broke,
and, I think, not too
wise.

taking note, I rejected his advice and it
became, for me, late to bed and late
to rise.

now, I’m not saying that I’ve conquered
the world but I’ve avoided
numberless early traffic jams, bypassed some
common pitfalls
and have met some strange, wonderful
people

one of whom
was
myself—someone my father
never
knew.

2015. november 16., hétfő

Ronald Koertge: The Ubiquity Of The Need For Love

I leave the number and a short
message on every green Volvo
in town
Is anything wrong?
I miss you.
574-7423
The phone rings constantly.
One says, Are you bald?
Another, How tall are you in
your stocking feet?

Most just reply, Nothing’s wrong.
I miss you, too.

Come quick.

2015. november 14., szombat

Petri György: És persze dolgozom

Tudod, társnőm, az ember
olyan tétova, zavaros képződmény,
még a magamfajta eszélyes lény is.
Hol fatalista, hol csak
szeszélyes és gyenge,
lökdösik pillanatszülte vágyak.
Közben fél is, amolyan
fedett félelem ez, elfedik
feladatok, közeli célok, mert az ember
tervező állat. A tervezés reflex
– mint a nyálkiválasztás vagy a
pupilla szűkülése-tágulása
a fényviszonyoknak megfelelően.
És persze dolgozom: köddarabokat
dolgozok át jéggé.
A fordítás egy szabadabb neme ez:
az ősz lágy, nyirkos impresszionizmusát
eltolom a tél rideg realizmusa felé.
Úgynevezett színházi fordítás ez
a saját belső színpadom számára,
hol én vagyok a rendező,
s nemkülönben az összes szereplő is.
Más aspektusból nézve
már ami a költő és a vers,
úr és szolga viszonyát illeti,
a szolga én voltam.

2015. november 13., péntek

Frances Mayes: Sister Cat

Cat stands at the fridge,
cries loudly for milk.
But I've filled her bowl.
wild cat, I say, Sister,
look, you have milk.
I clink my fingernail
against the rim. Milk.
With down and liver,
a word I know she hears.
Her sad miaow. She runs
to me. She dips
in her whiskers but
doesn't drink. As sometimes
I want the light on
when it is on. Or when
I saw the woman walking
toward my house and
I thought there's Frances.
Then looked in the car mirror
to be sure. She stalks
the room. She wants. Milk
beyond milk. World beyond
this one, she cries.

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves ...
Don't search for the answers,
which could not be given to you now,
because you would not be able to live them.
And the point is, to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps then, someday far in the future,
you will gradually, without even noticing it,
live your way into the answer.

2015. november 12., csütörtök

Marshall Davis Jones: [You got a good heart kid...]

You got a good heart kid
Eh, it’s a rental

Mine is at the chop shop.
Been there for the last few years.

Got tired of taking it back
To the last mechanic
Not sure if I trust this one

Love is like that
Like a bad mechanic
The one who you give your heart to
And they snap something
Twist another
Keep you coming back
To the same mistake

2015. november 11., szerda

Paul Verlaine: Álmodom egy nőről

Álmodom egy nőről, akit nem ismerek,
forró és különös, áldott, nagy Látomás,
aki sohasem egy, s aki sohase más,
aki engem megért, aki engem szeret.

Mert ő megért. Neki, ó jaj, csupán neki
bús, áttetsző szívem többé már nem talány,
sápadt homlokomnak verejték-patakán
frissítve omlanak az ő szent könnyei.

Barna, szőke, vörös? Ó, nem tudom én, nem.
A neve? Emlékszem: lágyan zendül, mélyen
mint kedveseinké ott lenn, a sírba, lenn.

Nézése hallgatag szobrokénak mása,
szava messziről jön, komoly, bús, fénytelen:
mint elnémult drága szavak suhanása.

(Ady Endre fordítása)

2015. november 10., kedd

Nikki Giovanni: The World is Not a Pleasant Place to Be

the world is not a pleasant place
to be without
someone to hold and be held by

a river would stop
its flow if only
a stream were there
to receive it

an ocean would never laugh
if clouds weren’t there
to kiss her tears

the world is not
a pleasant place to be without
someone

2015. november 9., hétfő

Jenna Fletcher: Reservations

Across the table,
in lands untold,
you stare back at me
from above the lip of your water glass.
Cold.

Three feet, but infinite distance lays between us;
a mass of oak,
and it’s grains attempting to fill the space.

Feiging interest,
I explore jungles with my fork,
examining the bottom of my bowl,
attempting—
hoping—
to find a rabbithole in which to lose myself.

Various on-lookers might observe
a quiet meal shared between lovers or friends—
sipping on their ice water and tea,
while I—
unbeknownst to them—
may as well sip gasoline.

We are resigned to eat in silence…
inwardly willing the check to come.

A quiet meal between friends, yes.

But if I laid my hand upon the table,
yours would not meet mine in return.

And if my eyes wandered to your plate,
you would not offer to share.

And when the check comes (AT LAST!),
we will pay our seperate fees,
and go our seperate ways.

So no, no,
this isn’t a quiet meal between lovers.
Not today.

2015. november 7., szombat

Mihail Jurjevics Lermontov: Így, ilyen forrón

Így, ilyen forrón, nem téged szeretlek,
szépséged énrám hiába ragyog;
elmúlt ifjúság, árnnyá hűlt napok:
régi sebeim sajdúlnak tebenned.

Nézlek: szép vagy, gyönyörű szenvedély,
és szemem hosszan a szemedbe mélyed;
álmodozva, tudom, veled beszélek,
fájó lelkem mégse hozzád beszél:

egy lányhoz beszél, aki vesztve rég:
arcodban őt keresem - arca mását,
csókodban - egy elmaradt csók varázsát,
szemeidben - két kihúnyt szem tüzét.

(Szabó Lőrinc fordítása)

2015. november 6., péntek

Brian Fish: At Two…

I will say no when I mean yes,
I will say no when I mean no.
When you answer the phone,
I will spit out my water and play in it.
When you write an email I will demand to be on your lap.
Oh, and trust me everything tastes better when it comes from your plate.
At two I will be contrary just because I can…
Yet at two,
I will learn to dance, Even when people are looking.
I will sing and, applaud myself.
I will give you hugs and kisses so full of love they will make you cry.
I will smile and try to tell you about my day.
I will always be excited when you come home.
Two comes only once…
At two I will sing, I will count, I will have fits.
At two I know I love you, and I know you love me.

2015. november 5., csütörtök

Sarah Lindsay: Origin

The first cell felt no call to divide.
Fed on abundant salts and sun,
still thin, it simply spread,
rocking on water, clinging to stone,
a film of obliging strength.
Its endoplasmic reticulum
was a thing of incomparable curvaceous length;
its nucleus, Golgi apparatus, RNA
magnificent. With no incidence
of loneliness, inner conflict, or deceit,
no predator nor prey,
it had little to do but thrive,
draw back from any sharp heat
or bitterness, and change its pastel
colors in a kind of song.
We are descendants of the second cell.

2015. november 4., szerda

Gyóni Géza: Memento

Kit megálmodtál egyszer magadnak,
Hajad selymével kösd le a párod!
Források mentén nimfák kacagnak -
Hinár karokkal rája tapadnak…
S ha soká késel, majd nem találod.

Tárd ki karod, míg hófehér, hamvas,
Bontsd le hajad, míg hullámos ében.
Irígy vénekre csak sose hallgass!
Majd jön a bánat, a rút, unalmas,
Majd jön a bánat még idejében.

A szerelemben nincsenek évek,
A szerelemben csak csókok vannak.
A szerelemben jaj a fösvénynek!
A szerelemben csak azok élnek,
Kik szerelemből mindent odadnak.

2015. november 3., kedd

Donna Hilbert: Credo



I believe in the Tuesdays
and Wednesdays of life,
the tuna sandwich lunches
and TV after dinner.
I believe in coffee with hot milk
and peanut butter toast,
Rose wine in summer
and Burgundy in winter.

I am not in love with holidays,
birthdays—nothing special—
and weekends are just days
numbered six and seven,
though my love
dozing over TV golf
while I work the Sunday puzzle
might be all I need of life
and all I ask of heaven.

2015. november 2., hétfő

Mindy Nettifee: 7 Things I Never Told My Older Sister Because I Know Better, in Reverse Chronological Order

1. if you ever feel like leaving him, renting a rich blue convertible and becoming someone else somewhere in the desert, i’ll go with you


2. thank you for all the horrible and/or dangerous things you did first, so i could learn from your mistakes. specifically: getting herpes, dropping out of school, getting a trendy dream catcher tattoo.


3. i dropped acid with your ex-girlfriend.


4. remember back during your chunky crystals and channeling spirits phase, when you told me in the back seat of a Ford Taurus that you had spoken with my higher self and she was “really worried about me”? i haven’t trusted myself since.


5. i took French in school because you did, and i thought we would be able to have top secret conversations about sex and drugs and rated R films in front of mom. why didn’t we do that?


6. i was the one that destroyed your Black Crowes tape, not the dog.


7. every time you ran away from home, i followed you.

2015. október 31., szombat

Váci Mihály: Valami nincs sehol

Süvítnek napjaink, a forró sortüzek,
      – valamit mindennap elmulasztunk.
Robotolunk lélekszakadva, jóttevőn,
      – s valamit minden tettben elmulasztunk.
Áldozódunk a szerelemben egy életen át,
      – s valamit minden csókban elmulasztunk.

Mert valami hiányzik minden ölelésből,
      – minden csókból hiányzik valami.
Hiába alkotjuk meg s vívunk érte naponta,
      – minden szerelemből hiányzik valami.
Hiába verekszünk érte halálig: – ha miénk is,
      – a boldogságból hiányzik valami.

Jóllakhatsz fuldoklásig a gyönyörökkel,
      – az életedből hiányzik valami.
Hiába vágysz az emberi teljességre,
      – mert az emberből hiányzik valami.
Hiába reménykedsz a megváltó Egészben,
      – mert az Egészből hiányzik valami.

A Mindenségből hiányzik egy csillag,
      – a Mindenségből hiányzik valami.
A Világból hiányzik a mi világunk,
      – a Világból hiányzik valami.

Az égboltról hiányzik egy sugár,
      – felőlünk hiányzik valami.
A Földből hiányzik egy talpalatnyi föld,
      – talpunk alól hiányzik valami.

Pedig így szólt az ígéret a múltból:
      – „Valahol! Valamikor! Valami!”
Hitették a bölcsek, hitték a hívők,
      – mióta élünk, e hitetést hallani.
De már reánk tört a tudás: – Valami nincs sehol!
      – s a mi dolgunk ezt bevallani,
s keresni azt, amit már nem szabad
      senkinek elmulasztani.

Újra kell kezdeni mindent,
      – minden szót újra kimondani.
Újra kezdeni minden ölelést,
      – minden szerelmet újra kibontani.
Újra kezdeni minden művet és minden életet,
      – kezünket mindenkinek újra odanyújtani.

Újra kezdeni mindent e világon,
      – megteremteni, ami nincs sehol,
de itt van mindnyájunkban mégis,
      belőlünk sürgetve dalol,
újra hiteti, hogy eljön
      valami, valamikor, valahol…

2015. október 30., péntek

Hal Sirowitz: Wedged


You were the one who followed me
into the elevator & asked
for my phone number, she said.
I didn't lead you on. In fact,
I tried discouraging you.
I told you I had lots of problems.
I was used to being alone. But now
that you've wedged yourself into my life,
don't think leaving me will be as smooth
as our first elevator ride. It'll be
like walking up a flight of stairs.