Ady Endre: Éles szemmel

A világ az izmos butáké,

Kik hangulatban, hitben élnek,
A magamfajta nyomorékok
Csak vizsgálódnak és henyélnek,
Annyi édes, szines hazugság
Környékezi szegény szivünket,
Mért nem vagyunk hivõ buták mind,
Éles szemmel vajon ki büntet,
Nyomorékokat, bennünket?

Szamár hitben, dús hangulatban

Másoknak lelke, teste épül,
Minket vad kerubok ûztek ki
A hazugságok édenébõl,
Hitünk nincsen, hogy szebbnek várjuk
A jövõ percet, mint a tűntet
S a mult örökre hal meg nékünk...
Éles szemmel vajon ki büntet,
Nyomorékokat, bennünket?

Rita Dove: Flirtation

After all, there’s no need 

to say anything 

at first. An orange, peeled 

and quartered, flares 

like a tulip on a wedgewood plate 

Anything can happen. 

Outside the sun 

has rolled up her rugs 

and night strewn salt 

across the sky. My heart 

is humming a tune 

I haven’t heard in years! 

Quiet’s cool flesh— 

let’s sniff and eat it. 

There are ways 

to make of the moment 

a topiary 

so the pleasure’s in 

walking through.

William Stafford: An Afternoon in the Stacks

Closing the book, I find I have left my head

inside. It is dark in here, but the chapters open
their beautiful spaces and give a rustling sound,
words adjusting themselves to their meaning.
Long passages open at successive pages. An echo,
continuous from the title onward, hums
behind me. From in here the world looms,
a jungle redeemed by these linked sentences
carved out when an author traveled and a reader
kept the way open. When this book ends
I will pull it inside-out like a sock
and throw it back in the library. But the rumor
of it will haunt all that follows in my life.
A candleflame in Tibet leans when I move.

Csapó Angéla: nem leszek

Én nem leszek az arcodon árnyék,
nem leszek ránc a szemed alatt,
nem sajdulok néha aljasul beléd,
nem leszek nyílt seb, sem a varrat.

Nem költözöm szemedbe - bár szívesen tenném-

a mozdulataid is mind meghagyom neked,
nem leszek nyomasztó, vagy meghitt emlék,
se a sötét titkod, se a szégyened.

Miattam nyugodtan nézhetsz a tükörbe,

- ehhez értek- eltûnök nyomtalan,
miattam se szavad, se élted el nem véted,
a nyakkendõd is biztonságban van.

Két szavad közt a köz, a csend leszek,

úgy maradok meg, észre sem veszed.

Stephen Sondheim: Children Will Listen

How do you say to your child in the night

Nothing's all black, but then nothing's all white?
How do you say it will all be all right
When you know that it might not be true?
What do you do? 

Careful the things you say

Children will listen
Careful the things you do
Children will see and learn
Children may not obey, but children will listen
Children will look to you for which way to turn
To learn what to be
Careful before you say "Listen to me"
Children will listen

Careful the wish you make

Wishes are children
Careful the path they take
Wishes come true, not free
Careful the spell you cast
Not just on children
Sometimes the spell may last
Past what you can see
And turn against you
Careful the tale you tell
That is the spell
Children will listen

How can you say to a child who's in flight

"Don't slip away and I won't hold so tight?"
What can you say that no matter how slight
Won't be misunderstood?
What do you leave to your child when you're dead?
Only whatever you put in its head
Things that your mother and father had said
Which were left to them too
Careful what you say
Children will listen
Careful you do it too
Children will see
And learn, oh guide them that step away
Children will glisten
Tample with what is true
And children will turn
If just to be free
Careful before you say
"Listen to me"

Thomas Centolella: View #2

It was just one task to recover the taken-for-granted.

There were others. Such as: simply recover.

And then? And then consider

there's no time off for good behavior,

that the city was a carnival of incandescent streets
but also a dim labyrinth, that the beloved bridge

connecting two wonders of solid ground

provided as well a jumping-off point

for those who had lost heart.
That some roads, no matter how far

they take you, will double back.

And then? And then consult the window

for weather. Put on some clothes
and good intentions. Begin again.

Zilahy Péter: Egy angyal

akkor jön
hallani szárnysuhogását
biztos mozdulatokkal
húzza le a takarót
már tizenkilenc éve
hogy minden éjjel
feldúlja az ágyam
alaposan végigkutat
végül a hátamra ül
és töpreng
rakosgatja hideg lábait
ha megmozdulok elrepül
ha elrepül megmozdulok

Mark Nepo: Breaking Surface

Let no one keep you from your journey,
no rabbi or priest, no mother
who wants you to dig for treasures
she misplaced, no father
who won't let one life be enough,
no lover who measures their worth
by what you might give up,
no voice that tells you in the night
it can't be done.

Let nothing dissuade you
from seeing what you see
or feeling the winds that make you
want to dance alone
or go where no one
has yet to go.

You are the only explorer.
Your heart, the unreadable compass.
Your soul, the shore of a promise
too great to be ignored.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mario Benedetti: Canasta

Hoy salí con la canasta
para juntar estímulos de vida
pero no siempre ocurren
o concurren

el cielo es todo nubes
para qué voy a mirarlo
en los zaguanes no hay amantes
y en las miradas no hay preguntas

me siento solo como un islote
al que ni siquiera llegan náufragos

un poema ajeno me hace compañía
pero hay un hemistiquio que me molesta
y no me atrevo a sustituirlo
sería una falta de respeto

ni siquiera tengo una cámara
para fotografiar las esperanzas
las de los otros por supuesto

me enfrento ahora
con una copia de un pintor mío
y mansamente respiro azul

en un estante casi ausente
hay un Vivaldi y un Gardel
en algún soplo
despertaré sin mis temores
y podré entrar en esas tiendas
pero hoy no puedo

me siento casi sordomudo
para la música y las caricias
miro hacia abajo
hacia mis palmas
y la canasta sigue vacía

Mario Benedetti: Shopping Basket

Today I went out with my basket
to stock up on ways to lift my spirits
but they're not easy to come by
or come across

the sky is nothing but clouds
why bother looking up
in the entryways there are no lovers
in others' gazes no questions

I'm as lonely as a tiny isle
where not even castaways set foot

I've got someone else's poem for company
but there's a hemistich I find annoying
and I don't dare replace it
that would be rude

I don't even have a camera
to snap pictures of this or that hope
other people's of course

I'm face-to-face now
with a print by a favourite painter
and meekly I inhale its restful blues

on an almost nonexistent rack
I spot Vivaldi and Gardel
perhaps in a little while
I'll wake up without my gloom
then I can rummage through those shops
but today I can't

I feel almost like a deafmute
when it comes to music and caresses
I look down
at the palms of my hands
and my basket is still empty

--translated by Louise B. Popkin

Lackfi János: Ha negyvenéves

Ha negyvenéves elmúltál, egy éjjel
felriadsz, hogy most már aztán elég,
kabátba bújsz, fogsz pakli cigarettát,
s magad mögött hagysz házat és hazát,
a helyet, hol vécére sötétben kitaláltál,
hol ismerted a villanykapcsolókat,
villák, kések helyét szívben, fiókban,
s hol hozzád tartozók szuszogtak a sötétben,
s ha szerencsés vagy, van még pár jó éved,
használd ki hát, összehozhatsz simán
újabb lakást új villanykapcsolókkal,
helyet, hol vécére sötétben kitalálsz,
hol hozzád tartozók szuszognak a sötétben,
s kések rejtőznek szívben és fiókban,
s akkor egy éjjel felriadsz, hogy elég,
kabátba bújsz, fogsz pakli cigarettát,
magad mögött hagysz... és ez így megy tovább.

Nikki Giovanni: Nikki-Rosa

childhood remembrances are always a drag  
if you’re Black
you always remember things like living in Woodlawn  
with no inside toilet
and if you become famous or something
they never talk about how happy you were to have  
your mother
all to yourself and
how good the water felt when you got your bath  
from one of those
big tubs that folk in chicago barbecue in  
and somehow when you talk about home  
it never gets across how much you
understood their feelings
as the whole family attended meetings about Hollydale
and even though you remember
your biographers never understand
your father’s pain as he sells his stock  
and another dream goes
And though you’re poor it isn’t poverty that
concerns you
and though they fought a lot
it isn’t your father’s drinking that makes any difference  
but only that everybody is together and you
and your sister have happy birthdays and very good  
Christmases
and I really hope no white person ever has cause  
to write about me
because they never understand
Black love is Black wealth and they’ll
probably talk about my hard childhood
and never understand that
all the while I was quite happy

Kim Addonizio: Fine

You're lucky. It's always them and not you. The family trapped in the fire, the secretary slain in the parking lot holding her coffee and Egg McMuffin, the ones rushed to Emergency after the potluck. You're lucky you didn't touch the tuna casserole, and went for the baked chicken instead. Your friend with breast cancer that was detected too late, metastasized to the lymph nodes, the lungs, a few months to live, lucky there's no history in your family. Another friend's fiance, heart attack at forty-seven. You lie in bed at night, your head on your lover's chest, and you're grateful. Your teenaged daughter, unlike all her friends, hasn't become sullen or combative, addicted to cigarettes or booze. She's not in the bathroom with her finger down her throat to throw up dinner. You and your family are fine. You're happy. It's like you're in your own little boat, just you, sailing along, and the wind is up and nothing's leaking. All around you you can see other boats filling up, flipping over, sliding under. If you look into the water you can watch them for a while, going down slowly, getting colder and farther away. Soon, if nothing happens to you, if your luck holds, really holds, you'll end up completely alone.

Finy Petra: Béla szemei

Van egy nyiladék a gyertyánok
Ezüstbőrű törzsei alatt
Ott mindig omlós a föld
És annyira puha mint egy paplan

Az erdész ott lelt rá a kéttucat
Nyákos gumióvszerre
Nem tudta hogy irigykedjen
vagy undorodjon inkább

Az egyik kondom egy arra turkáló
Vaddisznó szemére tapadt
Aki minden fának vakon nekirontott
És ilyenkor a nyakcsigolyái úgy nyekkentek
Mint a kerti hintaágy
Ha alkonyatkor fáradtan belezuhan a szél

Egy nyugdíjas
Kirándulócsapat idős hölgytagja mellett is
Eltrappolt a vaddisznó
És az aszony ábrándozó tekintettel jegyezte meg:

"A kaucsuk pont úgy szorul
Az állat ijedten lüktető szemgolyóira
Mint a szürkehályog szegény
Bélám megfakult szemeire"

Mark Nepo: Three faces

I have carried three faces
across my life, though from within,
it’s clear, they have carried me:

a woman who can stare through
the leaves of any tree, who names the
tree by the birds who sing in it

a man who works hard at
clearing paths in order to stop
where the path ends, and listen

and a small child with the heart
of a horse, eager to sniff out any
thing alive and run to it.

Together, they have led who I
thought I was through openings
wide enough for only
what is essential.

Pablo Neruda: Ausencia

Apenas te he dejado,
vas en mí, cristalina
o temblorosa,
o inquieta, herida por mí mismo
o colmada de amor, como cuando tus ojos
se cierran sobre el don de la vida
que sin cesar te entrego.

Amor mío,
nos hemos encontrado
sedientos y nos hemos
bebido toda el agua y la sangre,
nos encontramos
con hambre
y  nos mordimos
como el fuego muerde,
dejándonos heridos.

Pero espérame
guárdame tú dulzura.
Yo te daré también
una rosa.

Pablo Neruda: Absence

I have scarcely left you
when you go in me, crystalline,
or trembling,
or uneasy, wounded by me
or overwhelmed with love, as when your eyes
close upon the gift of life
that without cease I give you.

My love,
we have found each other
thirsty and we have
drunk up all the water and the blood,
we found each other
hungry
and we bit each other
as fire bites,
leaving wounds in us.

But wait for me,
keep for me your sweetness.
I will give you too
a rose.

Fodor Ákos: Közmondás-változat

Amit ma letehetsz,
ne cipeld holnapig!

Judith Viorst: A whole other stage

I've reached the stage where my lawyer, my broker, my allergist, and my president are all significantly younger than I.
I've reached the stage where I recognize, when I'm byuing new living-room drapes or a new set of dishes, that they're likely to be the last ones that I'll ever buy.
And when I'm starting to tell my friends some really terrific story, and I ask them whether I've told them this story before, and no matter what story I've started to tell, they say yes,
I know I have reached a whole other stage.

I've reached the stage where I find that most of the spaces I used to park in are now too small for my car.
I've reached the stage where I'm no longer able to call myself middle-aged because that's what my children are.
And when going to see two movies at two separate theaters on the same day, followed by eating a sausage-and-anchovy pizza, is what I'm defining as orgiastic excess,
I know that I have reached a whole other stage.

I've reached the stage where a lot of the reading I'm doing is at the market checking salt-free and fat-free and expiration dates.
I've reached the stage where nobody bothers to look at my driver's license when I want to purchase tickets at senior rates.
And when I'm out of town and I phone my husband at six A.M., and I ring and ring but he doesn't answer the phone, and my first thought is not infidelity but cardiac arrest,
I know that I have reached a whole other stage.

I've reached the stage where the people with whom I once discussed Marcel Proust are discussing inheritance taxes and living wills.
I've reached the stage where I couldn't leave my house for twenty-four hours unaccompanied by eight different kinds of pills.
And when I have to admit that, offered the choice, I'd - unhesitatingly - give up a night of wilde rapture with Denzel Washington for a nice report on my next bone densitiy test,
I know that I have reached a whole other stage.

Nikki Giovanni: I Take Master Card (Charge Your Love To Me)

I've heard the stories
'bout how you don't deserve me
'cause I'm so strong and beautiful and wonderful and you could
never live up to what you know I should have but I just want to let you know:

I take Master Card

You can love me as much as your heart can stand
then put the rest on
account and pay the interest
each month until we get this thing settled

You see we modern women do comprehend
that we deserve a whole lot more
than what is normally being offered but we are trying
to get aligned with the modern world

So baby you can love me all
you like 'cause you're pre-approved
and you don't have to sign on
the bottom line

Charge it up
'til we just can't take no more
it's the modern way

I take Master Card
to see your Visa
and I deal with a Discovery but I don't want any American
Express 'cause like the Pointer Sisters say:  I need a slow hand.

Szabó T. Anna: A nő, az akkor nő...

A nő, az akkor nő, amikor lelkes,
ha táncra kész, de rögtön nem rohan -
pár trükköt előbb a férfitől elles,
mert hasznát veszi egyszer biztosan.

A nő, az akkor nő, amikor bírja
az ugratást, de nem ugráltatod,
mert az életét saját maga írja,
és nem úgy fütyül, ahogy akarod.

A nő, az hallgat minden okos érvre,
és hoztok együtt új törvényeket,
a nő meghallgat, hogy a szavad értse,
és engedhetsz is, hisz ő is neked.

A nő, az mindig tisztán látja célját,
de nem gátolja a te célodat,
a vak és önző törtetésen túllát -
egymásnak dőltök: ő is támogat.

A nő az akkor nő, ha sosem gyáva
szívvel érteni másokat s magát,
ha magán át a te arcod is látja,
mert te is látod őt magadon át.

A nő, az képes hallgatni a csendet,
és hordozni a legbelső magányt,
és meglátni a profánt és a szentet
a tiszta s torz tükörben egyaránt.

A nő...? Ez puszta szó. Csak puszta ketrec.
A nő: az ember. Más törvénye nincs.
Akkor kimondom, itt nincs már több kecmec:
nem a vagina teszi. A gerinc.

pleasefindthis: the world is better backwards

I never saw you again. You slammed the door as you came in. We yelled at each other about something that just shouldn't fucking matter but for some reason, it does. It happened. We spoke softly. We were in bed. I told you
"I love you."
You said the same. We went to movies and parties and friends and ate and drank and made love.
It all ended with my eyes meeting yours for the first time and the sudden, extreme  feeling of expectation.
And now, how can I miss what has never existed.

Anna Swir: Poetry reading

I'm curled into a ball
like a dog
that is cold.

Who will tell me
why I was born,
why this monstrosity
called life.

The telephone rings. I have to give
a poetry reading.

I enter.
A hundred people, a hundred pairs of eyes.
They look, they wait.
I know for what.

I am supposed to tell them
why they were born,
why there is
this monstrosity called life.

--translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan

Szabó T. Anna: A férfi akkor férfi...

A férfi akkor férfi, hogyha lelkes,
ha táncra kész, de rögtön nem rohan -
előbb pár lépést a nőtől is elles,
mert hasznát veszi egyszer biztosan.

A férfi akkor férfi, hogyha bírja
az ugratást - de nem ugráltatod,
mert az életét saját maga írja,
és nem úgy fütyül, ahogy akarod.

Az okos érvre mindig kész a férfi,
és hoztok együtt új törvényeket,
mert amit mondasz, nemcsak hallja: érti,
és engedhetsz is, hisz ő is neked.

A férfi mindig tisztán látja célját,
de nem gátolja a te célodat,
a vak és önző törtetésen túllát -
egymásnak dőltök: ő is támogat.

A férfi akkor férfi, ha nem gyáva
szívvel érteni másokat s magát,
ha magán át a te arcod is látja,
mert te is látod őt magadon át.

A férfi képes hallgatni a csendet,
és hordozni a legbelső magányt,
és meglátni a profánt és a szentet
a tiszta s torz tükörben egyaránt.

A férfi...? Ez csak szó. Csak puszta ketrec.
A férfi: ember. Más törvénye nincs.
Akkor kimondom, itt nincs már több kecmec,
hogy nem a pénisz teszi. A gerinc.

Mario Benedetti: Despabílate amor

Bonjour buon giorno guten morgen,
despabílate amor y toma nota,
sólo en el tercer mundo
mueren cuarenta mil niños por día,
en el plácido cielo despejado
flotan los bombarderos y los buitres,
cuatro millones tienen sida
la codicia depila la amazonia.

buenos días good morning despabílate,
en los ordenadores de la abuela onu
no caben más cadáveres de ruanda
los fundamentalistas degüellan a
extranjeros,
predica el papa contra los condones,
havelange estrangula a maradona

bonjour monsieur le maire
forza italia buon giorno
guten morgen ernst junger
opus dei buenos días
good morning hiroshima,

despabílate amor
que el horror amanece.

Mario Benedetti: Wake Up Love

Bonjour buon giorno guten morgen
wake up love and take note
in the third world alone
forty thousand children die each day
in the calm cloudless sky
bombers and buzzards are floating
four million people have AIDS
greed is stripping the amazon basin bald

buenos dias good morning better wake up now
on the computers of grandma UN
there's no room for all the corpses from rwanda
fundamentalists are slitting the throats of foreigners
the pope is preaching against condoms
havelange has the squeeze on maradona

bonjour monsieur la maire
forza italia buon giorno
guten morgen ernst junger
opus dei buenos días
good morning hiroshima

come on wake up love
horror's back with the dawn

--translated by Louise B. Popkin

Nikki Giovanni: Seduction

One day
you gonna walk in this house
and i'm gonna have a long African
gown
you'll sit down and say "The Black..."
and i'm gonna take one arm out
then you-not noticing me at all- will say "What about
this brother..."
and i'm going to be slipping it over my head
and you'll rap on about "The revolution..."
while i rest your hand against my stomach
you'll go on-as you always do- saying
"I just can't dig..."
while i'm moving your hand up and down
and i'll be taking your dashiki off
then you'll say "What we really need..."
and taking your shorts off
the you'll notice
your state of undress
and knowing you you'll just say
"Nikki,
isn't this counterrevolutionary...?"

Kemény Lili: Magasfeszültség

Van lágy téli szomorúság,
az hideg és szép és nincs oka,
és van sokkal szebb szomorúság is,
olyan, mint a hajamba gabalyodott varjú:
én magam vagyok a kalitkája.

régen csak egyszer-kétszer láttam messziről
de most már a fogkeféjét is nálam tartja

Mintha az a perc válna végtelenné,
amíg tíz túrakenu teljes csöndben
átsiklik a nagyfeszültségű távvezeték
alatt, ahol a folyó is megnémul,
és csak a drót ideges remegését hallani

ez a feszültség: ezer fekete madár
szárnysurrogása a drótban

Akkor réges-rég, még kisfiú voltál,
leestél a fáról miattam. Ott szorongattad
a kezedben a csupasz varjúfiókát,
akit aztán a hajamban neveltem
beteg öreg madárrá.

Charles Bukowski: sex

I am driving down Wilton Avenue
when this girl of about 15
dressed in tight blue jeans
that grip her behind like two hands
steps out in front of my car
I stop to let her cross the street
and as I watch her contours waving
she looks directly through my windshield
at me
with purple eyes
and then blows
out of her mouth
the largest pink globe of
bubble gum
I have ever seen
while I am listening to Beethoven
on the car radio.
she enteres a small grocery store
and is gone
and I am left with
Ludwig.

Kim Addonizio: Virgin spring

It’s a terrible scene, the two men talking to the girl who foolishly lets
them lead her away
from the road she’s taking to church, the men raping and killing her,
the young boy with them
watching, then left for a while with her body. But the film’s next scene
is more terrible
in some ways, the men and boy arriving at the house where the girl’s
parents live, but not
knowing, and the parents not knowing either, offering a meal, all of
them sitting together, breaking
bread at a long table—Is that the most awful, or is it when one man
tries to sell the mother
her murdered daughter’s clothes? — and she takes them, pretending to
consider. Though how
could she pretend at that moment, how control herself? Yet she does;
she goes outside,
locking them in the barn, and runs to her husband, to whom the task
of killing them falls.
So it goes on — rape, betrayal, murder, not even the boy is spared. And
what about the father,
swearing to build a church on the spot his daughter was killed, and the
miracle of water
gushing forth from the ground when they lift her body — Is that
enough, is there some sort
of balance now, good following evil, revenge annulled, the family
cleansed? What about
the other, dark-haired sister, the pregnant one, who had been a few yards
behind on the road
to church that morning, who had followed the men and watched from
a safe distance
while they erased the girl, her prettiness, her spoiled ways, her stupid
innocence —
I don’t know what to make of the sister. She’s the one who knows the
world is brutal
and goes on, scattering seed for the hogs, the one who says nothing,
the one who survives.

Kemény Zsófi: Hagyjál

Itt vagyok, teszem a dolgom,
ne szólj bele "az érdekemben",
nekem itt most valakinek
növelnem kell az önbizalmát,
a feladatom, az egyetlen, most ez.
Azonnal menni, ha menne,
azonnal mondani, ha mondja,
azonnal menni, ha mondja.
Mindent, amit csinál, megdicsérni,
nagyon akarni a dicséretét.
El kell érnem, hogy ő ne akarjon engem,
hogy csak alig akadjon bármilyen
velem kapcsolatos gondolata,
aztán végül egyáltalán ne is gondoljon rám.
Lefoglal, hogy ezt elintézzem,
így rád most nincs időm,
szóval ne ismételgesd a megaláztatás szót,
ezzel csak azt mutatod, hogy nem értesz,
és végül is te magad alázol meg,
hagyjál.

Ogden Nash: Old men

People expect old men to die,
They do not really mourn old men.
Old men are different. People look
At them with eyes that wonder when...
People watch with unshocked eyes;
But the old men know when an old man dies.

Stephen Dunn: Happiness

A state you must dare not enter
    with hopes of staying,
quicksand in the marshes, and all
the roads leading to a castle
    that doesn’t exist.
But there it is, as promised,
with its perfect bridge above
    the crocodiles,
and its doors forever open.

Istók Anna: a női lélekről

mint hajamból a vörös
úgy koptál ki belőlem
nem festettem négy hete
lenövés a töveknél — ez vagy te
tincsekbe zárt nosztalgia
kádban narancsos csík
akciós termék a dm-ben
egy szenvedélytelen szín

dédi mondogatta
úrinő mindig szépen felöltözik
mosat vágat szárít
kilencvenen túl is daueroltatott
sose tudod ki jön szembe az utcán
átfestem magamon emlékedet

Robert Bly: Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter

It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time.

Denise Levertov: Living

The fire in leaf and grass
so green it seems
each summer the last summer.
The wind blowing, the leaves
shivering in the sun,
each day the last day.
A red salamander
so cold and so
easy to catch, dreamily
moves his delicate feet
and long tail. I hold
my hand open for him to go.
Each minute the last minute.

Lackfi János: Az is egy olvasó

A gázóraleolvasó - az is egy olvasó
A cédéolvasó - az is egy olvasó
Öreganyám rózsafüzére - az is egy olvasó
Az indián nyomolvasó - az is egy olvasó
A béna sulis olvasónapló - az is egy olvasó
Aki az ágyon bambán hever - az is egy olvasó
Aki a buszon csak a könyvre figyel - az is egy olvasó
Aki a sulipadban könyvet rejteget - az is egy olvasó
Aki a kávézóban könnyeket ejteget - az is egy olvasó
Akinek antikváriumban keze remeg - az is egy olvasó
Aki kocsma helyett könyvtárba megy - az is egy olvasó
Aki fejben hős oroszlánvadász - az is egy olvasó
Aki itt ül, s közben páncélban csatáz - az is egy olvasó
Aki egyszerre sámán, űrlény, eszkimó, arab - az is egy olvasó
Akit bezárhatsz, akkor is szabad - az épp az olvasó

Ashley Anna McHugh: The Naturalist’s Last Love Poem

Nothing on earth
can last forever.
It’s become an art:
rain and the river
cut cliffs. Cold swings;
leaves fall with fervor.
Birds molt: their wings
lost feather by feather.
By increments,
tides slink like fever
from shore. Immense,
they drift out further.
So, when she leaves,
the world’s small favor:
I’ll forget, by degrees—
if over and over.

Shel Silverstein: Weird-Bird

Birds are flyin' south for winter.
Here's the Weird-Bird headin' north,
Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin',
Cold head bobbin' back 'n' forth.
He says, "It's not that I like ice
Or freezin' winds and snowy ground.
It's just sometimes it's kind of nice
To be the only bird in town."

Kurdi Imre: Shining

Nem, a fejsze nem
került elő. Mi rafináltabban, szubtilisabban
nyírtuk ki egymást, lassabban, jóllehet nem kevésbé
hatékonyan. Ráadásul mindvégig ott, még az elszabadult
szado-mazo fölött is ott tündökölt valami földöntúli
ragyogás, valami csalóka vagy inkább csalárd
visszfény, talán egy másik, talán egy – úgy hittük – lehetséges
életé. Úgyhogy mentségünk
akadt legalább. Ígéretnek hittük – úgymond –
a káprázatot, reménynek, mi több, egyenesen
zálogát véltük benne annak, hogy sikerülhet, hogy tényleg
sikerül, és hogy egyszer majd, ki tudja, mi lesz, mi lehet
majd még egyszer. Holott
lehettünk volna józanok is, hótt normálisak, és nyilván azok
lettünk volna, ha – de hát mégis, hogyan, ha beletörik
itt már a mondat is. Pedig könnyebb lett volna nyilván
akkor, még azon frissiben beismernünk
a vereséget, kinek-kinek a magáét, megbékélnünk
vele, egymással, magunkkal, és megvetni
a lábunkat szépen, abban
a szépséges semmiben.

Eileen Myles: our happiness

was when the
lights were
out

the whole city
in darkness

& we drove north
to our friend’s
yellow apt.
where she had
power & we
could work

later we stayed
in the darkened
apt. you sick
in bed & me
writing ambitiously
by candle light
in thin blue
books

your neighbor had
a generator &
after a while
we had a little
bit of light

I walked the
dog & you
were still
a little bit
sick

we sat on a stoop
one day in the
late afternoon
we had very little
money. enough for
a strong cappuccino
which we shared
sitting there &
suddenly the
city was lit.

Larry Schug: A Lesson in Mindfulness

A Buddhist monk
is trying to teach me
mindfulness

from a book
but my stomach
is too full of ice cream
for me to breathe properly.

Outside my window,
a hungry green heron,
perched perfectly still,
fully in his moment,
surveys the pond
for frogs and fish.
The teacher
has grown green wings,
the book having folded up
its feathers for the night.

Ayhan Gökhan: Lányok

A lányok olyanok,
mint a villámhárító,
ügyesen hárítják el
a fiúk bókjait, dicsérő
szavaik elől kitérnek, akár
egy éles kanyarban az autó-
versenyző az akadályok elől,
s a lányok néha maguk is
villámként viselkednek, megcsíp
a fiúkra szórt gúnyos megjegyzésük,
hogy ennek nagy a hasa,
az túl ronda,
az ott béna,
ez itt unalmas,
tehát
a lányok nem is olyan
kedvesek, szépek, aranyosak és
érzékenyek, ahogy azt otthon
a szüleim magyarázzák.

Howard Nemerov: Political Reflection

No bars are set too close, no mesh too fine
To keep me from the eagle and the lion,
Whom keepers feed that I may freely dine.
This goes to show that if you have the wit
To be small, common, cute, and live on shit,
Though the cage fret kings, you may make free with it.

Joyce Huff: The Hymn of a Fat Woman

All of the saints starved themselves.
Not a single fat one.
The words “deity” and “diet” must have come from the same
Latin root.
Those saints must have been thin as knucklebones
or shards of stained
glass or Christ carved
on his cross.
Hard
as pew seats. Brittle
as hair shirts. Women
made from bone, like the ribs that protrude from his wasted
wooden chest. Women consumed
by fervor.

They must have been able to walk three or four abreast
down that straight and oh-so-narrow path.
They must have slipped with ease through the eye
of the needle, leaving the weighty
camels stranded at the city gate.
Within that spare city’s walls,
I do not think I would find anyone like me.
I imagine I will find my kind outside
lolling in the garden
munching on the apples.

Horváth Előd Benjámin: Egy kávé elhagyása

nem fogom ezt elmagyarázni neked
túl sok a fekete túl sok a kék
nem én vagyok az a bizonyos egy
nem úgy alakul ahogy szeretnéd

nem foglak már kiinni sem
túl sok a sötét a közömbös szépség
magadra hagylak fázni neonfényben
ne kenj magadba mézet az istenér

ne rontsd el ez a legsötétebb péntek
ragyogj inkább és légy több ennél
halál és szabadság bögréje az enyém
neked is csak ennyi lehetek

ami ezen túl van az már ömlik
csak a vér a díszlet a szöveg
a foltok és a tövig szívott csikk
hogy jobban fájjon ha elvetik

Tony Hoagland: Windchime

She goes out to hang the windchime
in her nightie and her work boots.
It’s six-thirty in the morning
and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest
tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,


windchime in her left hand,
hammer in her right, the nail
gripped tight between her teeth
but nothing happens next because
she’s trying to figure out
how to switch #1 with #3.


She must have been standing in the kitchen,
coffee in her hand, asleep,
when she heard it—the wind blowing
through the sound the windchime
wasn’t making
because it wasn’t there.


No one, including me, especially anymore believes
till death do us part,
but I can see what I would miss in leaving—
the way her ankles go into the work boots
as she stands upon the ice chest;
the problem scrunched into her forehead;
the little kissable mouth
with the nail in it.

Caitlyn Siehl: it is not your job

when your little girl
asks you if she’s pretty
your heart will drop like a wineglass
on the hardwood floor
part of you will want to say
of course you are, don’t ever question it
and the other part
the part that is clawing at
you
will want to grab her by her shoulders
look straight into the wells of
her eyes until they echo back to you
and say
you do not have to be if you don’t want to
it is not your job
both will feel right
one will feel better
she will only understand the first
when she wants to cut her hair off
or wear her brother’s clothes
you will feel the words in your
mouth like marbles
you do not have to be pretty if you don’t want to
it is not your job

Gelencsér Milán: Konyha

A konyhádban láttalak utoljára.
Vártad, hogy kipattanjon egy
valószínűleg égett pirítós és
hogy az izzószálak felmelegítsék
az arcodat, ahogy föléjük hajolsz.
Szokatlan volt még ez az egész,
új lakás, költözés, a titkolózás,
meg hogy az a kigombolt ing rajtad
az enyém, de a friss barátod máris
odáig van érte, a balfasz. Majd
fontoskodni kezdtél, dolgokat
helyeztél ide-oda sajátos rendszer
szerint — hogy segítselek a
felnövésben, csak ültem ott,
ahova ültettél, csendben, mint
Isten a Bergman-filmekben,
és ámultam, hányféle szögből
tudsz hátat fordítani nekem.

A. E. Stallings: another lullaby for insomniacs

Sleep, she will not linger:
She turns her moon-cold shoulder.
With no ring on her finger,
You cannot hope to hold her.

She turns her moon-cold shoulder
And tosses off the cover.
You cannot hope to hold her:
She has another lover.

She tosses off the cover
And lays the darkness bare.
She has another lover.
Her heart is otherwhere.

She lays the darkness bare.
You slowly realize
Her heart is otherwhere.
There’s distance in her eyes.

You slowly realize
That she will never linger,
With distance in her eyes
And no ring on her finger.

Susan Browne: chance meeting

I know him, that man
walking- toward me up the crowded street
of the city, I have lived with him
seven years now, I know his fast stride,
his windy wheatfield hair, his hands thrust  
deep in his jacket pockets, hands
that have known my body, touched
its softest part, caused its quick shudders  
and slow releasings, I have seen his face  
above my face, his mouth smiling, moaning  
his eyes closed and opened, I have studied
his eyes, the brown turning gold at the centers,  
I have silently watched him lying beside me  
in the early morning, I know his loneliness,  
like mine, human and sad,
but different, too, his private pain
and pleasure I can never enter even as he comes  
closer, past trees and cars, trash and flowers,  
steam rising from the manhole covers,  
gutters running with rain, he lifts his head,  
he sees me, we are strangers again,  
and a rending music of desire and loss—
I don’t know him—courses through me,
and we kiss and say, It’s good to see you,
as if we haven’t seen each other in years  
when it was just a few hours ago,
and we are shy, then, not knowing  
what to say next.

Pion István: Siránkozó

látod-e esteledik
és nincs már sem szögesdrót sem tölgykerités
sem semmi sem sem minden sincs
csak az van amit itt hagytál
én
de azt is inkább vitted volna magaddal
föld alá ég fölé mindegy hová csak el
mert kifordultam önmagamból
a beleim vannak kint a bőröm bent
s láthatnád ahogy dobog a szívem
egyenletesen hiszen semmi sem zavarja
semmi sem izgatja fel semmi sem szomorítja
és nem is örül nem is repes
hiába röpködnek itt nyomorult kis puttók
lövöldözik csámpás nyilaikat
mind elsuhan a levegőben
aztán úgy állnak bele a földbe mint az elrontott dobáskor a gerely
himbálóznak még egy picit
végül vízszintesen dőlnek el a füvön
de a csámpás nyilakon és a nyomorult kis puttókon kívül
nem repül senki sehová
főleg haza nem hiszen éppen te nem vagy itthon
1752 kilométerre
vagyis 16 órára és 17 percre vagy
hegységek alföldek folyók és tenger választ el tőlem
ettől a hatalmas nehéz fejű bazsarózsától
és a szirmok alól üzenem neked
innen Kelet-Európa legnyugatibb csücskéből
hogy itt van a tavasz lásd itt van a nyakamon
de messze még a nyárvég
és csak siránkozom jaj hogy elhullnak szirmaim mire hazaérsz
útra kellene kelnem azt hiszem
legalább elindulni feléd mint ahogy a nap teszi
reggel felkel keleten azonban sohasem ér oda hozzád
ehelyett itthon ülök várlak a sötét konyhában
és üres előttem az asztal
mert úgy tűntél el mint forró leves fölül a gőz

Charles Simic: fear

Fear passes from man to man
Unknowing,
As one leaf passes its shudder
To another.
All at once the whole tree is trembling,
And there is no sign of the wind.

Tony Hoagland: I have news for you

There are people who do not see a broken playground swing
as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don’t interpret the behavior
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process.

There are people who don’t walk past an empty swimming pool
and think about past pleasures unrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings

do not send their sinuous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others’ emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half-inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?
There are some people, unlike me and you,

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as
unattainable as that moon;
thus, they do not later
have to waste more time
defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you—
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.

Bende Tamás: Minden reggel

Mezítláb megyek ki a körfolyosóra,
leülök az ablak alá, és nézem,
hogyan mozdul az árnyék a szemközti falon.

Amíg alszol, a korán kelők szótlanságával
készítem magam arra, ami jön,
ami elkerülhetetlen.

Mert minden ébredés felhasítja bennem,
amit gyerekkorom óta próbálok csitítani,
hogy végtére is én nem idetartozom.

A nyugtalanság lovait nem bírom féken tartani.

Újra és újra szétfutnak a négy égtáj felé,
átgázolnak összefércelt álmainkon,
és feldúlják az első évtized kertjeit.

Nehogy azt hidd, hogy ez valaha másképp lehet.
Minden reggel meg kell küzdenem azért,
hogy elinduljon a nap és felébreszthesselek.

Gwendolyn Brooks: To the Young Who Want to Die

Sit down. Inhale. Exhale.
The gun will wait. The lake will wait.
The tall gall in the small seductive vial
will wait will wait:
will wait a week: will wait through April.
You do not have to die this certain day.
Death will abide, will pamper your postponement.
I assure you death will wait. Death has
a lot of time. Death can
attend to you tomorrow. Or next week. Death is
just down the street; is most obliging neighbor;
can meet you any moment.
You need not die today.
Stay here–through pout or pain or peskyness.
Stay here. See what the news is going to be tomorrow. Graves grow no green that you can use.
Remember, green’s your color. You are Spring.

Wislawa Szymborska: Still

In sealed box cars travel
names across the land,
and how far they will travel so,
and will they ever get out,
don't ask, I won't say, I don't know.
The name Nathan strikes fist against wall,
the name Isaac, demented, sings,
the name Sarah calls out for water for
the name Aaron that's dying of thirst.
Don't jump while it's moving, name David.
You're a name that dooms to defeat,
given to no one, and homeless,
too heavy to bear in this land.
Let your son have a Slavic name,
for here they count hairs on the head,
for here they tell good from evil
by names and by eyelids' shape.
Don't jump while it's moving. Your son will be Lech.
Don't jump while it's moving. Not time yet.
Don't jump. The night echoes like laughter
mocking clatter of wheels upon tracks.
A cloud made of people moved over the land,
a big cloud gives a small rain, one tear,
a small rain--one tear, a dry season.
Tracks lead off into black forest.
Cor-rect, cor-rect clicks the wheel. Gladeless forest.
Cor-rect, cor-rect. Through the forest a convoy of clamors.
Cor-rect, cor-rect. Awakened in the night I hear
cor-rect, cor-rect, crash of silence on silence.

Bende Tamás: Merülünk

A gyerekkor tavaiban elburjánzott a békalencse.
A hínár már nem kiirtható. Beleakad a lábfejem,
és görcsbe rándul az izom. Elsüllyedek, akár a kavics.

Mint asztronauták az űrben, halak lebegnek mindenütt.
Távoli, idegen bolygókra gondolok, olyanokra,
amiknek még nem adtak nevet. Talán tudnánk ott is élni.

Mert nem lehet, hogy tényleg ennyire egyedül legyünk.
Agyonnyom a sötétség, a hideg, táguló anyag.

Egyszer téged is elveszítelek.
És akkor tényleg semmi sem marad.

Távol egymástól merülünk.

Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

 Whose woods these are I think I know,
 His house is in the village though.
 He will not see me stopping here,
 To watch his woods fill up with snow.

 My little horse must think it queer,
 To stop without a farmhouse near,
 Between the woods and frozen lake,
 The darkest evening of the year.

 He gives his harness bells a shake,
 To ask if there is some mistake.
 The only other sound's the sweep,
 Of easy wind and downy flake.

 The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
 But I have promises to keep,
 And miles to go before I sleep,
 And miles to go before I sleep.

U. A. Fanthorpe: Not my Best Side

 I

 Not my best side, I'm afraid.
 The artist didn't give me a chance to
 Pose properly, and as you can see,
 Poor chap, he had this obsession with
 Triangles, so he left off two of my
 Feet. I didn't comment at the time
 (What, after all, are two feet
 To a monster?) but afterwards
 I was sorry for the bad publicity.
 Why, I said to myself, should my conqueror
 Be so ostentatiously beardless, and ride
 A horse with a deformed neck and square hoofs?
 Why should my victim be so
 Unattractive as to be inedible,
 And why should she have me literally
 On a string? I don't mind dying
 Ritually, since I always rise again,
 But I should have liked a little more blood
 To show they were taking me seriously.

 II

 It's hard for a girl to be sure if
 She wants to be rescued. I mean, I quite
 Took to the dragon. It's nice to be
 Liked, if you know what I mean. He was
 So nicely physical, with his claws
 And lovely green skin, and that sexy tail,
 And the way he looked at me,
 He made me feel he was all ready to
 Eat me. And any girl enjoys that.
 So when this boy turned up, wearing machinery,
 On a really dangerous horse, to be honest
 I didn't much fancy him. I mean,
 What was he like underneath the hardware?
 He might have acne, blackheads or even
 Bad breath for all I could tell, but the dragon--
 Well, you could see all his equipment
 At a glance. Still, what could I do?
 The dragon got himself beaten by the boy,
 And a girl's got to think of her future.

 III

 I have diplomas in Dragon
 Management and Virgin Reclamation.
 My horse is the latest model, with
 Automatic transmission and built-in
 Obsolescence. My spear is custom-built,
 And my prototype armour
 Still on the secret list. You can't
 Do better than me at the moment.
 I'm qualified and equipped to the
 Eyebrow. So why be difficult?
 Don't you want to be killed and/or rescued
 In the most contemporary way? Don't
 You want to carry out the roles
 That sociology and myth have designed for you?
 Don't you realize that, by being choosy,
 You are endangering job prospects
 In the spear- and horse-building industries?
 What, in any case, does it matter what
 You want? You're in my way.

Darvasi László: Azért olvasok…

Azért olvasok, hogy ne féljek.
Azért olvasok, hogy otthon legyek.
Azért olvasok, hogy ne legyek otthon.
Én nem tudom, miért olvasok. Csak olvasok.
Én úgy olvasok, mintha engem is olvasnának.
Én azért olvasok, mert egy másik embert keresek.
Én azért olvasok, mert magamat keresem.
Én azért olvasok, hogy megtaláljanak.
Én azért olvasok, mert érdekel a múlt.
Én azért olvasok, mert érdekel a jövő.
Én azért olvasok,mert érdekel a jelen.
Én azért olvasok, mert szeretni akarok.
Én azért olvasok, mert keresek.

… és amikor olvasok, megtalálom.

E. B. White: Natural History

 The spider, dropping down from twig,
 Unfolds a plan of her devising,
 A thin premeditated rig
 To use in rising.

 And all that journey down through space,
 In cool descent and loyal hearted,
 She spins a ladder to the place
 From where she started.

 Thus I, gone forth as spiders do
 In spider's web a truth discerning,
 Attach one silken thread to you
 For my returning.

Fodor Balázs: rétegeink között

Az ajtó félúton megszorult,
hogy a kétkedés még épp beférjen,
de már csak indulattal kézen fogva
lépj át a küszöbön.
Hogy épp ez az indulat,
ez a vetemedés, ami nyikorogva
kulcsolja karját körém,
pont az egyedüllét álljon közénk,
mint egy harmadik,
gondolni se mertem volna korábban,
pedig mennyire kézenfekvő.
Ahogy évekkel ezelőtt,
amikor a lakást eláztattam,
minekutána az ajtó teleszívta
magát vízzel, de ahogy kiszáradt,
ezzel a hiánnyal megdagadva,
marasztalja az idelátogatót.

Raymond Carver: Simple

A break in the clouds. The blue
outline of the mountains.
Dark yellow of the fields.
Black river. What am I doing here,
lonely and filled with remorse?
I go on casually eating from the bowl
of raspberries. If I were dead,
I remind myself, I wouldn’t
be eating them. It’s not so simple.
It is that simple.

Tóth Judit: Neked

Tartozz hozzám, mint borsóhoz a héja,
s ahogy az almában benne van a mag.
Bízom benne, hogy nem jön a féreg,
s nem teszi kicsivé, ami kettőnkben nagy.

William Stafford: The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

Penny Harter: Relativity

As you sleep, the moon
pours itself into your palms
as if they were holes to be filled,
as if the night blue veins
that run inside your wrists
were rivers to the dark interior galaxy
where your moon floats, waxing and waning
in the cage of your ribs, shining on the organs
gravity has hung around your heart.

Nádasdy Ádám: Lassú sodrás, húsz ujj

A küszöböt rágtam. Sőt, egyik éjjel
fölébredtem ötkor, téli sötét volt még,
hogy hol lehet? Fölhívni nem volt szabad,
de különben is: szombat reggel ötkor?
Nekiálltam a frizsidert kitisztítani.
Alapos, minden részletre kiterjedő
munka volt, gyakorlatilag szétszedtem.
Kipattintottam polcokat, rugós
ajtókat feszítettem bénulásig.
Közben félóránként (többször nem volt szabad,
szigorú határt szabtam áradó
érzelmeimnek) levágtam a körmöt
egy újabb ujjamon. Az húsz ujj,
tíz órányi kitartás. Belebuktam.
A küszöböt rágtam. Nem is, hogy szeret-e,
mert persze, biztos. Hanem az, hogy hol van.
Egyszerűen hol van.

Jared Carter: Cutting Glass

It takes a long, smooth stroke practiced carefully
over many years and made with one steady motion.
You do not really cut glass, you score its length
with a sharp, revolving wheel at the end of a tool
not much bigger than a pen-knife. Glass is liquid,
sleeping. The line you make goes through the shee
like a wave through water, or a voice calling in a dream,
but calling only once. If the glazier knows how to work
without hesitation, glass begins to remember. Watch now
how he draws the line and taps the edge: the pieces
break apart like a book opened to a favorite passage.
Each time, what he finds is something already there.
In its waking state glass was fire once, and brightness;
all that becomes clear when you hold up the new pane.

Fady Joudah: Mimesis

My daughter
                    wouldn't hurt a spider
That had nested
Between her bicycle handles
For two weeks
She waited
Until it left of its own accord

If you tear down the web I said
It will simply know
This isn't a place to call home
And you'd get to go biking

She said that's how others
Become refugees isn't it?

Skobrák Máté: ha majd

te csak mész én meg csak
viszem utánad a hallgatásod

csak mész én meg
csak utánad

csak viszem és közben
arra gondolok
hogy a méltóságot
nem méterben mérik

s hogy ha majd
már nem foglak követni
biztos beszélni kezdesz

Sheri Hostetler: Instructions

Give up the world; give up self; finally, give up God.
Find god in rhododendrons and rocks,
passers-by, your cat.
Pare your beliefs, your absolutes.
Make it simple; make it clean.
No carry-on luggage allowed.
Examine all you have
with a loving and critical eye, then
throw away some more.
Repeat. Repeat.
Keep this and only this:
what your heart beats loudly for
what feels heavy and full in your gut.
There will only be one or two
things you will keep,
and they will fit lightly
in your pocket.

Sidney Hall, Jr.: Something about the Wind

There's something about the wind coming off
the ocean, the waves washing the rocks

that makes a person who is quickly annoyed
by cigarette smoke and men
putting nails into roofs

forgetful and unconcerned.

If you are easily disturbed
you need to get an ocean.

Can Togay János: Onkológia

— Mi az, galamb ott fent, a tetőn? —
kérdi a férfi hunyorogva a feleségétől
és a váróterem ablakán át
a szemközti házra mutat.
— Nem, csak egy kis csúcsocska az a háztetőn —
feleli az asszony.
De a férfi kitart, hunyorog: — Nem egy fehér galamb?
Most már a felesége is hunyorog:
— Nem, nem — ismétli.
— Csak mert úgy tűnt, mintha egy fehér galamb volna —
sóhajt a férfi. Mutatja, hová, hogyan képzelte a galambot.
Az asszony hallgat, pedig most már ő is majdnem
galambnak látja azt, amit a férje mutat, mintsem csak
egy kis fémcsúcsocskának a szemközti ház tetején.
Az onkológián átvilágításra várva.

Marina Tsvetaeva: I like it…

I like it that your heart aches not for me,
That not for you, my heart is sweetly aching,
And that this planet under our feet
Will never drift away, while turns it’s making.

I like that being funny has rewards,
Disbanded, too, – and not paying mind to words.
And, in a choking wave, I do not blush,
When our sleeves against each other brush.

I like it that you are in front of me
Embracing other women with no bother
And not predicting hell fire for me
To burn in just for kissing some another.

And also that my gentle name, my dear,
You never mention through the day and night – in vain,
That, in a calm church, never, we’ll appear,
And Hallelujah wouldn’t tie us, as the twain!

I’m grateful to you with my heart and hand
For loving me, while not so realizing,
For granting me nocturnal peacetime, and
For it isn’t us, together at stars gazing,

For moonlight strolls, predestined not to start,
And for that sun, which not for us is burning;
And not for me, alas, still longs your heart,
And not for you, alas, my heart is longing!

Rumi: Wean Yourself

Little by little, wean yourself.
This is the gist of what I have to say.

From an embryo, whose nourishment comes in the blood,
move to an infant drinking milk,
to a child on solid food,
to a searcher after wisdom,
to a hunter of more invisible game.

Think how it is to have a conversation with an embryo.
You might say, "The world outside is vast and intricate.
There are wheatfields and mountain passes,
and orchards in bloom.

At night there are millions of galaxies, and in sunlight
the beauty of friends dancing at a wedding."
You ask the embryo why he, or she, stays cooped up
in the dark with eyes closed.

Listen to the answer.

There is no "other world."
I only know what I've experienced.
You must be hallucinating.

Fekete Anna: Anya vacsorája

Bevágnak egy ajtót – ijedtében megrándul a hold.

Végigzuhan a folyosón egy elnyújtott ütem a Toscából:
lám-lám, nem vagyok egyedül, összekoccannak a porcelánok.
Emlék, igen. Egy régi színésznő hagyta itt, a csészéket
csak babaujjakkal szabad törölgetni. Micsoda készlet! Túlélt
három világháborút, két valóságosat és egy képzeletbelit.

Mi nem használjuk. Állva eszünk a hűtő előtt papírtányérból.

Dana Gioia: Summer Storm

We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.
We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.
The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.
To my surprise, you took my arm—
A gesture you didn’t explain—
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.
Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.
I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn’t speak another word
Except to say goodnight.
Why does that evening’s memory
Return with this night’s storm—
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?
There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won’t stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.
And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.

David Kirby: My favourite foreign language

"What's your favorite foreign language?" asks the cabbie,
                                 and when I ask why, he says he knows "butterfly"
            in 241 of them, so I say, "Okay, French!" and he says,
"Papillon!" and I say, "German!" and he says, "Schmetterling!"
                                 and I'm running out of languages I know, so I say,
            "Uh, Wolof!" because I'm reading a short story
where a woman speaks Wolof, and he says something in Wolof,
                                 and the professor-y part of me wants
            to say, You shouldn't call them foreign languages, you know,
because that means there's only one real language, but
                                 I'd be saying that to him in our common
            tongue, so it really wouldn't make sense unless I were chiding
him in, say, Wolof, a language in which he knows only
                                 one word and I none. What's the best country?
            Heaven, probably: as everyone knows, the cooks are French,
the mechanics German, the police English, lovers Italian,
                                 and it's all organized by the Swiss, whereas
            in Hell, the cooks are English, mechanics French, police
Germans, lovers Swiss, and everything is organized by the Italians,
                                 which leaves out the Spanish,
            though perhaps not, for the ancients say a man should speak
French to his friends because of its vivacity,
                                 Italian to his mistress for its sweetness,
            German to his enemies because it is forceful, and Spanish
to his God, for it is the most majestic of languages.
                                 Hola, Señor! Okay if I put my suitcase
            over here? Thank you for having me! Yes, I would
like to hear what they're saying in the other place, like "Dictators
                                 over here" and "Corporate polluters
            in this area" and "Aw, come on—another boring poet?"

Filip Tamás: Csönd

A kedves női hang
most egyszerre mondja
negyvenhét Opelben,
hatvanöt Fordban,
nyolcvankilenc Fauvében,
a többi autót nem sorolom,
megszámolhatatlanul sok van,
hogy a sofőr mit tegyen, és
magát megsokszorozva
mindegyiknek mást mond,
miközben már régóta
háziasszony, és csöndben főz,
mos és vasal, üzenőfüzetbe
ír tanárnak kis hazugságokat,
és mikor szeretkezik, akkor is
mindig csöndben marad.

James Tate: Dear Reader

I am trying to pry open your casket
with this burning snowflake.
I'll give up my sleep for you.
This freezing sleet keeps coming down
and I can barely see.
If this trick works we can rub our hands
together, maybe
start a little fire
with our idenification papers.
I don't know but I keep working, working
half hating you,
half eaten by the moon.

Kemény Lili: Kettőnk közül

Te vagy a város, a te égboltod nagyobb.
Pislog egyet légtered, ha repülő fúródik bele.
Folyódra papírhajókat bocsát egy ikerpár,
beleírták a kívánságaikat. Nem tudnak róla,
hogy már megint ugyanazt kívánták. Azt,
hogy ne kívánják ugyanazt többé, csak azt ne.
A várnegyededben bolyong két olasz lány
és egy kandúr. véletlenül hozta be egy vonat
Érdligetről, és nem talál haza. A lányok
is valahogy így kerültek ide.
Körutad óriáskígyó, duzzogva átkúszik
a Margitszigetre és összetekeredik.
Levedlett bőrében alszanak a villamosok.
A tereid gyorsan fiatalodó arcok.
Gyáraid teli tüdők, stadionjaid fülkagylók.
A plébánosaid dzsúdózni járnak, a nőjük
boszorkánytanfolyamra.
Tévéid néniknek udvarolnak.
Varjaid skizofrének, patkányaid radioaktívak,
galambjaid lába nyomorék.
Kettőnk közül te vagy a város,
a te éjszakád világosabb,
a te csönded zajosabb,
a te holdad halottabb,
a te nyájad éberebb,
a te óráid gyorsabbak,
a te vizeid lassabbak,
a te szemeid szürkébbek,
a te szíveid betegebbek,
te vagy a város, Apa, és remélem,
hogy ezer év múlva
én is város leszek.

Dékány Dávid: (szívfelirat)

"behajtani tilos"
írtam papírból hajtott
szívem csücskére.

Judy Sorum Brown: Fire

What
makes a fire burn
is space between the logs,
a breathing space.
Too much of a good thing,
too many logs
packed in too tight
can douse the flames
almost as surely
as a pail of water would.

So building
fires
requires attention
to the spaces in between,
as much as to the wood.

When we are
able to build
open spaces
in the same way
we have learned
to pile on the logs,
then we can come to see how
it is fuel, and absence of the fuel
together, that make fire possible.

We only
need to lay a log
lightly from time to time.
A fire
grows
simply because the space is there,
with openings
in which the flame
that knows just how it wants to burn
can find its way.

Sonia Sanchez: Haiku 1

i have died and dreamed
myself back to your arms where
what i died for sleeps.

Gyurkovics Tibor: Viszont

Én látom benne azt amit Isten is lát
megföllebbezhetetlen ragyogásának titkát
amelyben nincs titok csak annyi hogy szeretni
csak azt lehet aki nagyon tud visszaszeretni.

Bronwyn Lea: These Gifts

Days like these — cool afternoons
in late summer, a rain so delicate
you can sit in the backyard and let the mist
drizzle your face. There’s no grass
of course. A late heat wave has bleached
the lawn, burnt off the last of the tree ferns.
Just last week children and the elderly
were suffering from heatstroke. Yet
these gifts that arrive late season —
an apology you hadn’t dared hope for,
a rush of poems, an impromptu patience
with the world. You rest your head
against a silky oak, and by your cheek
two butterflies coupled in flight
sex it up. And the day has charmed you
with ephemera before you can object.

Jeffrey McDaniel: A csendes világ

Annak érdekében, hogy az emberek
többet nézzenek egymás szemébe,
és kedvezzenek a némáknak,
a kormány úgy döntött,
minden embernek kioszt pontosan
százhatvanhét szót naponta.

Amikor a telefon csörög, a fülemhez teszem
anélkül, hogy beleszólnék. Az étteremben
rámutatok a húslevesre metélttésztával.
Jól alkalmazkodtam az új rendszerhez.
Késő este felhívom a távoli szerelmemet, büszkén
újságolva, csak ötvenkilenc szót használtam ma.
A többit meghagytam neked.

Amikor nem válaszol,
tudom, hogy elhasználta az összes szavát,
így lassan azt suttogom, szeretlek,
harminckét és egyharmad alkalommal.
Utána csak ülünk,
és hallgatjuk egymás lélegzetvételét.

--Fordította: Ferencz Mónika

Michelle Dicinoski: Lexicon

I don’t love you
for your beauty
alone,
but also for your large
vocabulary.
When you say
emporium and
brouhaha instead of
shops and a
fistfight it
really turns me on.
Tell me all the synonyms
for smitten
and I’ll tell you what I am.

Lackfi János: Úgy kellene

Ahogy a sósan langyos áramlatban
együvé sodródó fodros algák,
ahogy az egymást ujjbeggyel
érintve összesúrlódó lombok,
ahogy a lassan kúszó,
kásás tűzzel mindent magába
ölelő lávafolyás pusztító lángja,
ahogy a csápos antennákkal
egymást birizgáló, bókoló
füvek, ahogy a légrétegek közé,
mint átlátszó tokba, akadálytalanul
csusszanó fecsketest, ahogy a
partra kéjesen kihemperedő,
gyöngyhabot bugyborékoló,
kocsonyás hullámok, ahogy a
terebélyesedő fák rostról rostra
izmosodó gyökér-markolása,
nekünk is úgy kellene
szeretnünk egymást,
lüktető türelemmel,
szöszölő szenvedéllyel,
hűvös izgalommal,
a folyó mélyíti ekképpen
medrét, eleinte emberi
kéznél nem sokkal hatékonyabban,
tétován kotorászva kavicsot,
karistolva földet, majd pillanatról
pillanatra morzsolva lassú
évszázadokat, az idő elmálló
tömbjeit kavargásba oldva,
tovasodorva, a kimélyült
talaj helyén töményen ásító
űr marad csak, két elkeveredő
anyag rezgő,
részegítő távlata.

Tóth Krisztina: Frizbi

Visszasírod majd, ez a múlt,
mondtad egyszer a lépcsőn vacsorázva,
mikor napok óta egy fehér frizbiből ettünk,
mert a tányérok becsomagolva álltak.
Néhány év múlva (tányérral-frizbizés után),
mikor a lépcsőn sírtam, vissza-
jössz-e? (becsomagolva álltál),
azt mondtad, elrepült,
jó dobás volt pedig,
de az idő nem kedvez, másfelé húz,
megálltam fehéren a levegőben:
a szívem félrehordott

Philip Booth: Talk about Walking

Where am I going? I'm going
out, out for a walk. I don't
know where except outside.
Outside argument, out beyond
wallpapered walls, outside
wherever it is where nobody
ever imagines. Beyond where
computers circumvent emotion,
where somebody shorted specs
for rivets for airframes on
today's flights. I'm taking off
on my own two feet. I'm going
to clear my head, to watch
mares'-tails instead of TV,
to listen to trees and silence,
to see if I can still breathe.
I'm going to be alone with
myself, to feel how it feels
to embrace what my feet
tell my head, what wind says
in my good ear. I mean to let
myself be embraced, to let go
feeling so centripetally old.
Do I know where I'm going?
I don't. How long or far
I have no idea. No map. I
said I was going to take
a walk. When I'll be back
I'm not going to say.

Moya Cannon: Introductions

Some of what we love
we stumble upon —
a purse of gold thrown on the road,
a poem, a friend, a great song.

And more
discloses itself to us —
a well among green hazels,
a nut thicket —
when we are worn out searching
for something quite different.

And more
comes to us, carried
as carefully
as a bright cup of water,
as new bread.

Kipke Tamás: (a valóság talaján)

néztél már a talpam alá?
a talpam és a föld közé?
láttad már a keskeny rést?
nem könnyű úgy tennem
mintha a földön járnék

Larry Schug: Threading the Needle

To find (or lose) yourself
seek the place
you go where you go
when you thread a needle;
to the timeless, seamless place
where there exists only
the fingers on your one hand
holding the thread,
wetted in your mouth,
twisted to a point;
the fingers on your other hand
holding a needle
eye to eye,
breathless.
Only when the thread
passes through the needle’s eye
do you return
to your turbulent, breathing life.

Ralph Murre: What is given

The likelihood of finding strawberries
tiny and wild and sweet
around your ankles
on any given day
in any given place
is not great
but sometimes
people find strawberries
right where they are standing
just because it is their turn
to be given a taste
of something wild and sweet

Ladik Katalin: Mese

a kertben egy gyerek
sárga papucsot ültetett
s a papucsfán termett sok papucsvirág
az ágakon pedig sok papucsmadár
meglátta ezt a hold egy éjjelen
fájt a lába hát kapta magát
leszedte a sok papucstojást
és a lábára rakta fel
azóta a hold sárga papucsban jár
a kisgyerek pedig
egy kis ezüstcipőt is elültetett

Todd Boss: This Morning in a Morning Voice

  to beat the froggiest
of morning voices,
  my son gets out of bed
and takes a lumpish song
  along—a little lyric
learned in kindergarten,
  something about a
boat. He’s found it in
  the bog of his throat
before his feet have hit
  the ground, follows
its wonky melody down
  the hall and into the loo
as if it were the most
  natural thing for a little
boy to do, and lets it
  loose awhile in there
to a tinkling sound while
  I lie still in bed, alive
like I’ve never been, in
  love again with life,
afraid they’ll find me
  drowned here, drowned
in more than my fair
  share of joy.

Billy Collins: Insomnia

After counting all the sheep in the world
I enumerate the wildebeests, snails,
camels, skylarks, etc.,

then I add up all the zoos and aquariums,
country by country.

By early light I am asleep
in a nightmare about drowning in the Flood,
yelling across the rising water
at preoccupied Noah as his wondrous
ark sails by and begins to grow smaller.

Now a silhouette on the horizon,
the only boat on earth is disappearing.

As I rise and fall on the rocking waves,
I concentrate on the giraffe couple,
their necks craning over the roof,
to keep my life from flashing before me.

After all the animals wink out of sight
I float on my back, eyes closed.
I picture all the fish in creation
leaping a fence in a field of water,
one colorful species after another.

Kemény István: Remény

Láttam az egészet, és tudtam, hegyen állok,
a részletek halkan zúgtak odalent,
idefenn most egyik se hiányzott.
Kérdezni jöttem fel, de a jósnő
hazament a lázas kisfiához.

A kérdésemet lepöcköltem a szakadékba,
pattogva tűnt el, pedig nagy volt:
a törhetetlen üveg maradéka.
Csak a szívem kérdezgette halkan:
kedves vérem, hova lesz a séta?

Azelőtt ilyenkor kétségbeestem,
mert innen már csak lefelé van út,
és idáig nem jár le az Isten.
De most itt volt, és ő kísért le később:
egy szó nélkül ballagtunk le ketten.

De ez a végén lesz, itt még csak állok,
és érzem, ahogy elkezdek nevetni:
hogy lettem én ennyire magányos,
és hogy teljes képtelenség, félreértés,
de ez mégse lesz már soha máshogy.

Edith Södergran: Forest Lake

I was alone on a sunny shore
by the forest’s pale blue lake,
in the sky floated a single cloud
and on the water a single isle.
The ripe sweetness of summer dripped
in beads from every tree
and straight into my opened heart
a tiny drop ran down.

David Budbill: The Three Goals

The first goal is to see the thing itself
in and for itself, to see it simply and clearly
for what it is.
No symbolism, please.

The second goal is to see each individual thing
as unified, as one, with all the other
ten thousand things.
In this regard, a little wine helps a lot.

The third goal is to grasp the first and the second goals,
to see the universal and the particular,
simultaneously.
Regarding this one, call me when you get it.

Wisława Szymborska: Photograph from September 11

They jumped from the burning floors—
one, two, a few more,
higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,
and now keeps them
above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,
with a particular face
and blood well hidden.

There’s enough time
for hair to come loose,
for keys and coins
to fall from pockets.

They’re still within the air’s reach,
within the compass of places
that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—
describe this flight
and not add a last line.

Simonyi Imre: Ami csodaszép volt

Mert mindíg ami csodaszép volt
mindíg az múlik el
Szentisten! Hát már nem is emlékeztek,
ahogy kiszántották egy barbár napon
azt a játszóteret
a nyargalászó gyermekkor alól?

S ahogy abba az egyetlen
és örökkévaló ölelésbe
szinte beleölelhetett máris a következő?
— És nem is egyetlen!

S hogy az után a gyönyörű és halni-érdemes
és végérvényes szomorúság után
még képesek voltunk arcpirulás nélkül
tovább élni és még örülni is?
— Ám ezt sem végérvényesen.

Hát nem szorul ökölbe a markotok:
hogy mindíg az múlik el
ami csodaszép volt?
És sose gondoltatok még arra
hogy talán
nem is mi örülünk barátaim

s nem is mi vagyunk tán szomorúak
hanem csupán megtörténik velünk
az öröm is meg a szomorúság is
meg az ami olyan csodaszép?

Meg az hogy elmúlik

Sandra Alland: Lost While Translating

There’s this woman I’m reading.
No, that’s not right.
There’s a woman –
open like a book.
Still not it.
Her heart an ancient text.
My heart the devouring eyes.
No.
There’s a woman,
she has words like no one,
sentences like never,
a woman I lost like a train
for a faraway land.
Not what I mean.
In English, you say,
What are you reading?
Rarely who.
There was a woman,
and I kept reading
what I’d been reading before.

Margaret Atwood: Variation On The Word Sleep

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

Jónás Tamás: Álom

Átszalad a folyón a híd.
Látom mozdulni tagjaid.
Zörög a villamos, megáll.
Ott vársz a híd túloldalán.

Szaladok most a hídon át.
Átfutottam a fél Dunát.
Egyszerű, nyári kis ruha.
Nem érinthetlek meg soha.

*

Nem elég csak mosolyognod:
meg kell lopnod, kirabolnod.

Nem elég csak jónak lenned!
Engedd, hogy csalódjam benned!

Túl-sok-szépséged sem elég:
hadd ússzak s fulladjak beléd.

Nem elég, ha tudod nevem:
feledkezz meg rólam velem!

Oscar Wilde: On The Sale By Auction Of Keats' Love Letters

These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant's price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet's heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangle for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God's wonder, or His woe?

Mark Strand: Journey (excerpt)

A journey continues until it stops
A journey that stops is no longer a journey
A journey loses things on its way
A journey passes through things, things pass through it
When a journey is over, it loses itself to a place
When a journey remembers, it begins a journal
Which is a new journey about an old journey
A journey over time is different from a journey into time
An actual journey is into the future
A reflective journey is into the past

***
A journey always begins in a place called Here
Pack your bags and imagine your journey
Unpack your bags and imagine your journey is done

***
If you're afraid of a journey, don't buy shoes

Fodor András: Tested kenyerén

Hogy tested fehér kenyerét
megosztottad velem,
ne legyen adományod,
ne legyen érdemem.

Legyen eleve rendelés,
a sors bocsánata,
amért a pusztulás elől
kitérnünk nincs hova.

Mert nem ott volt a kezdet,
hogy megtaláltalak,
te nyitottad ki értem
magányosságodat,

és nem lopás, nem önzés
ha magam rád fonom,
bőrömön átparázslik
minden tulajdonom.

Mig ujjad fűzfarácsa
tarkóm kosárként óvja meg,
a hanyatló erő is
hozzád visz közelebb.

Bár fölsebez a hajnal,
megalvadt csönd az éj,
míg testünk kettős vérköre
forog, szoríts, ne félj.

Mit ér a léten-túli hit,
a vak remény mit ád?
Utazunk egymás áramán, - nekünk
már nem kell más világ.

Ted Kooser: Father

May 19, 1999

Today you would be ninety-seven
if you had lived, and we would all be
miserable, you and your children,
driving from clinic to clinic,
an ancient, fearful hypochondriac
and his fretful son and daughter,
asking directions, trying to read
the complicated, fading map of cures.
But with your dignity intact
you have been gone for twenty years,
and I am glad for all of us, although
I miss you every day — the heartbeat
under you necktie, the hand cupped
on the back of my neck, Old Spice
in the air, your voice delighted with stories.
On this day each year you loved to relate
that at the moment of your birth
your mother glanced out the window
and saw lilacs in bloom. Well, today
lilacs are blooming in side yards
all over Iowa, still welcoming you.

Anele Rubin: A Man on the Subway

A man on the subway is wearing a t-shirt
with New York City Mental Institute
stenciled on the front.
For a moment I think it’s real.
Then I realize it’s supposed to be funny.
Ha, ha, asshole, I say.
He is smugly reading his paper.
I am so tired of being sad.

Ladányi Mihály: Huszonhat sor a szerelemre

Most kellene elmondani,
mennyit jártam utánad, most, amikor
ismerős már a visszeres lábak tétovasága a lépcsők előtt,
ismerős a megromlott hétköznapok szaga vasárnap reggelenként,
ismerős a pénztelenség
az éttermek
pörköltszagú bejáratánál,
ismerős a gyávák hazudozása,
a sarokbaszorítottak megalázkodása,
és ismerős az álmodozás,
hogy egy sohase-összeizzadt ágyon
tiszta ingben várakozik rám valaki-
Most kellene elmondani:szeretlek,
most kellene mindent elmondani rólad,amikor
ismerős a penge a csuklón,
s a keserű orvosság-íz
az összefogdosott poharakban,
ismerős,ahogy szorongástól
vibrálnak az erek
lehangolt gitárhúrjai,
ismerős,ahogy szorongástól
a végső nekifutás alatt-
Most kellene elmondani:
egyetlen szerelem vagy,
mert az összes magányt ismerem általad.

Carl Sandburg: Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Lao Tzu: Some say that my teaching is nonsense

Some say that my teaching is nonsense.
Others call it lofty but impractical.
But to those who have looked inside themselves,
this nonsense makes perfect sense.
And to those who put it into practice,
this loftiness has roots that go deep.
I have just three things to teach:
simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest treasures.
Simple in actions and in thoughts,
you return to the source of being.
Patient with both friends and enemies,
you accord with the way things are.
Compassionate toward yourself,
you reconcile all beings in the world.

-- translated by Stephen Mitchell

Tóth Krisztina: Anyai lista

Galambra légpuskával sose lőj.
Ne találj halat üres kádban.

Süket telefont ne szorongass,
fülkében hajnal ötkor sose állj.

Ne láss sündisznót fején fémdobozzal.
Mit még. Ablak közt fáradó legyet se.

A lélek szarszagát azt kár megúszni.
Ne szedj pontokba semmit: hülyeség.

Veszítsd csak el az öniróniád,
sírjál nyugodtan, használj papírzsepit.

És ha valaha azt mondom neked, hogy
szedd össze magad, menj. Vissza se nézz.

Christopher Poindexter: To Jane

Sometimes,
the universe is
much too
beautiful for
my own good.

Sometimes;
you are
the universe.

James Fenton: The Ideal

 This is where I came from.
 I passed this way.
 This should not be shameful
 Or hard to say.

 A self is a self.
 It is not a screen.
 A person should respect
 What he has been.

 This is my past
 Which I shall not discard.
 This is the ideal.
 This is hard.

Szabó Márton István: Kötött minta

Azt álmodtam, hogy megkérem a kezed.

És te igent mondtál, pedig mindketten tudjuk,
hogy nem fogsz hozzám jönni, hogy nem én veszlek el,
hogy bonyolult kötésminta szerint
vagyunk elrendezve, és hogy kezdettől fogva
vagyunk egymás anyagában ősi motívum,
hogy te utazhatsz délre, én pedig északra,
mert tudom, hogy nem egyedül az enyém vagy,
hogy csak az önzetlenség van, vagy semmi, és viszont,
mert ugye a lovakat mindig lelövik,
a madarak pedig egyszercsak kirepülnek,
de mi akkor is maradunk egymásba kötött
sormintája az örök szívszövetnek.

James Tate: It Happens Like This

I was outside St. Cecelia’s Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There’s
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. “It’s not my goat,”
I explained. “It’s the town’s goat. I’m just taking
my turn caring for it.” “I didn’t know we had a goat,”
one of them said. “I wonder when my turn is.” “Soon,”
I said. “Be patient. Your time is coming.” The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. “That’s a mighty
fine goat you got there,” he said, stopping to admire.
“It’s the town’s goat,” I said. “His family goes back
three-hundred years with us,” I said, “from the beginning.”
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. “Mind if I pat him?” he asked.
“Touching this goat will change your life,” I said.
“It’s your decision.” He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, “What’s his name?” “He’s
called the Prince of Peace,” I said. “God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there’s mystery
and wonder. And I’m just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry.” “We forgive you,
Officer,” I said. “And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince.” The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.

Wislawa Szymborska: Some People

Some people fleeing some other people.
In some country under the sun
and some clouds.

They leave behind some of their everything,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now sees itself reflected.

On their backs are pitchers and bundles,
the emptier, the heavier from one day to the next.

Taking place stealthily is somebody's stopping,
and in the commotion, somebody's bread somebody's snatching
and a dead child somebody's shaking.

In front of them some still not the right way,
nor the bridge that should be
over a river strangely rosy.
Around them, some gunfire, at times closer, at times farther off,
and, above, a plane circling somewhat.

Some invisibility would come in handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or even better, non-being
for a little or a long while.

Something else is yet to happen, only where and what?
Someone will head toward them, only when and who,
in how many shapes and with what intentions?
Given a choice,
maybe he will choose not to be the enemy and
leave them with some kind of life.

--translated by Joanna Trzeciak