Robert Frost: Dust Of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Váci Mihály: Ha elhagynál...

Ha elhagynál engemet, - jobban
mi fájna?
hiányod, vagy a szív megdobbant
magánya?
A csalódás kínjától félek,
vagy féltlek?
Szerelmünket szeretem jobban,
vagy Téged?

Miroslav Holub: The Door

Go and open the door.
Maybe outside there's
a tree, or a wood,
a garden,
or a magic city.

Go and open the door.
Maybe a dog's rummaging.
Maybe you'll see a face,
or an eye,
or the picture
of a picture.

Go and open the door.
If there's a fog
it will clear.

Go and open the door.
Even if there's only
the darkness ticking,
even if there's only
the hollow wind,
even if
nothing
is there,
go and open the door.

At least
there'll be
a draught.

-- Translated by Ian Milner

Linda Gregg: Lessening

Without even looking in the album
I realized suddenly, two months later,
you had stolen the picture of me,
The one in color in the Greek waves.
After you had hurt me so much,
how could you also take the picture
from me of a time before I knew you?
When I was with Jack.
Steal the small proof that once
I lived well, was loved
and beautiful.

B. Radó Lili: Lehiggadni…

Le kellene higgadni végre,
nem sírni többet, megnyugodni kissé,
s nem gondolni annyit a szerelemre,
mint a hogy ősszel nem idézi senki
az eper ízét, mert elmúlt évszak gyümölcse.

Le kellene higgadni végre,
nem várni már a nagy csodára,
és nem gondolni semmi szomorút,
ha a kislányunk táncolni tanul
vagy a fiunk későn jön haza este.

Le kellene higgadni végre.
Hátrafésülni simán a hajunk,
s gyakorolni a szelíd bólogatást,
mely azt jelenti fiatalok láttán:
"Bizony, bizony, elmúlik az idő."

Le kellene higgadni végre,
megszokni azt a mozdulatát a kéznek,
mellyel a csészét ingatjuk körbe, lassan,
hogy kávénk alján olvadjon a cukor,
s megtanulni egy könnyű patienceot.

John Bennett: Still Alive

My son sends a photo of him standing behind a sign that says “Bennett Cemetery.” He’s way off, has a beard, but I can’t make out his face. I pull the magnifying glass from the drawer for a closer look–yes, there he is.
My granddaughter, who has come to live with me, is there when this photo arrives–neither of us has seen him in years. She looks at the picture and shrugs. “Who needs him?” she says, and goes into her room.
On the back of the picture he’s scrawled: Still alive. He mailed it to a mutual friend and had him carry it over to me. His reasoning, if I knew him, and I know him like the palm of my hand, was to keep me from reading the postmark and getting a bead on his location. But his friend delivered the sealed envelope in the envelope in which it had arrived–he’s in North Carolina.
A year ago he was in Orlando. Then Atlanta. He’s moving up the eastern seaboard.
I give warning to my relatives in Virginia via email and then go sit on the porch. My granddaughter comes out with her roller blades on, kisses me on the cheek, and goes gliding down the sidewalk, all thirteen years of her.
I have long since lost the illusion of having control over anything.

Billy Collins: Advice To Writers

Even if it keeps you up all night,
wash down the walls and scrub the floor
of your study before composing a syllable.

Clean the place as if the Pope were on his way.
Spotlessness is the niece of inspiration.

The more you clean, the more brilliant
your writing will be, so do not hesitate to take
to the open fields to scour the undersides
of rocks or swab in the dark forest
upper branches, nests full of eggs.

When you fiind your way back home
and stow the sponges and brushes under the sink,
you will behold in the light of dawn
the immaculate altar of your desk,
a clean surface in the middle of a clean world.

From a small vase, sparkling blue, lift
a yellow pencil, the sharpest of the bouquet,
and cover pages with tiny sentences
like long rows of devoted ants
that followed you in from the woods.

Kányádi Sándor: Bántani én nem akarlak

Bántani én nem akarlak,
szavaimmal betakarlak,
el-elnézlek, amíg alszol.
Én sohasem rád haragszom,
de kit bántsak, ha nem téged,
az én vétkem, a te vétked,
mert akarva, akaratlan,
halálom hordod magadban,
s a fiammal, akit szültél,
halálom részese lettél,
és történhet már akármi
történhető, evilági,
oldhatatlanul köt hozzád
e magasztos bizonyosság;
világrészek, galaktikák
távolából is mindig rád
emlékeztet ez a vétked.
Kit szeressek, ha nem téged.

e. e. cummings: i like my body

i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite a new thing.

muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body. i like what it does,

i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling-

firm-smooth ness and which I will

again and again and again

kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh...And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new.

Mrs. Rose Milligan: Dust if you must

Dust if you must.
But wouldn’t it be better,
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed?
Ponder the difference between want and need.
Dust if you must.
But there is not much time
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb!
Music to hear, and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must.
But the world’s out there
With the sun in your eyes,
the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come round again.
Dust if you must.
But bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go, and go you must,
You, yourself, will make more dust.

Finy Petra: Csempetánc

egyik este történt ez, fontos, hogy mikor,
mert az ember nem kerülhet bármikor a padlóra,
szükséges kiválasztani az ideális napszakot,
épp csúsztam le a kanapéról,
mert ülni nehéz volt, feküdni pedig kényelmetlen,
tehát gondoltam, a földre gurulok,
és majd csak lesz valami szokatlan,
vagy legalábbis nem annyira megszokott,
mint a kifli ottfelejtett csücske, ahogy koppan a járólapon,
vagy a vajazásra használt kenyérvágókés margarincseppjei,
a csempe hidege biztos, mutat majd valami újat,
gondoltam, mert a kanapé mindig csak ölelni tud,
soha nem lök el, vagy vág hátba rendesen,
a csempe az más, az tudja, milyen fontos a halál,
és mekkora fitty az élet,
meg hogyan kell abbahagyni a sírást percre pontosan,
vagy temetés után rántani egyet a válladon könnyedén,
tudja, milyen viccet kell mondani, ahhoz hogy végképp elkeseredj,
tudja, hogy a bizalom a szellemi gyengülés első jele,
és, hogy minden mosoly vicsorgás, ha közelebbről megvizsgálod.
lecsúsztam hát a csempére,
gerinckoccanós érkezéssel, és levettem magamról mindent,
ami a boldogsághoz kötött.

Eibhlin Nic Eochaidh: How To Kill A Living Thing

Neglect it.
Criticize it to its face.
Say how it kills the light,
traps all the rubbish,
bores you with its green.

Continually
harden your heart,
then
cut it down close
to the root as possible.

Forget it
for a week or a month.
Return with an axe.
Split it with one blow.
Insert a stone

to keep the wound wide open.

Karen Haight: God Says Yes To Me

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is Yes Yes Yes

Konsztantyin Szimonov: Várj reám

Várj reám s én megjövök,
hogyha vársz nagyon,
várj reám, ha sárga köd
őszi búja nyom;
várj, ha havat hord a szél,
várj ha tűz a nap,
várj ha nem is jön levél
innen néhanap;
várj, ha nem vár senki ott
haza senki már,
s ha nógat is bárki, hogy
nem kell várni már.

Várj reám, s én megjövök.
Fordulj daccal el,
ha áltatják ösztönöd,
hogy: feledni kell...
ha lemondtak rólam már
apám s lányom is,
s jóbarát már egy se vár-
... szinte látom is:
borral búsul a pohár,
s könnyet ejt szemük,
rám gondolva. De te várj
s ne igyál velük.

 Várj reám! ó, átkelek
minden vészen én.
Aki nem várt, rám nevet:
"Szerencsés legény."
Nem tudhatja senki sem,
te meg én csupán,
hogy te jártál ott velem
öldöklő csatán,
s te mentettél meg, de hogy?
Egyszerű titok:
várni tudtál rám, ahogy
senki sem tudott.

-- Lányi Sarolta fordítása

Catherine Doty: Yes

It's about the blood
banging in the body,
and the brain
lolling in its bed
like a happy baby.
At your touch, the nerve,
that volatile spook tree,
vibrates. The lungs
take up their work
with a giddy vigor.
Tremors in the joints
and tympani,
dust storms
in the canister of sugar.
The coil of ribs
heats up, begins
to glow. Come
here.

Richard Jones: Wan Chu's Wife In Bed

Wan Chu, my adoring husband,
has returned from another trip
selling trinkets in the provinces.
He pulls off his lavender shirt
as I lie naked in our bed,
waiting for him. He tells me
I am the only woman he'll ever love.
He may wander from one side of China
to the other, but his heart
will always stay with me.
His face glows in the lamplight
with the sincerity of a boy
when I lower the satin sheet
to let him see my breasts.
Outside, it begins to rain
on the cherry trees
he planted with our son,
and when he enters me with a sigh,
the storm begins in earnest,
shaking our little house.


Afterwards, I stroke his back
until he falls asleep.
I'd love to stay awake all night
listening to the rain,
but I should sleep, too.
Tomorrow Wan Chu will be
a hundred miles away
and I will be awake all night
in the arms of Wang Chen,
the tailor from Ming Pao,
the tiny village down the river.

Torjay Attila: Jó éjt

Jó éjt és álmodj szépeket,
vidám és kellemes képeket,
szerelmet, gyermeket,
csodákkal tele termeket.
És azt amire nagyon vársz,
ha útelágazásnál jársz:
az igaz utat.
Tudással teli kutat.
És azt amit csak jó:
frissen esett hó,
fenyőkkel határolt tó.
Néhány igaz, tiszta szó.

Nicanor Parra: You want me to emphasize the good?

To leave what's problematic in the dark?
Sweep the dirt underneath the rug?
Socialist realism all over again?
Would have to think about it twice

Sarah Pemberton Strong: A Story

On the street of my childhood
a boy kept a pet boa constrictor.

The boa ate live mice, one per month.
The boy left home and left his mother

in charge of the feedings.
The mother, unaware

the boa had just eaten, dropped a second mouse
into the glass terrarium.

The boa was already full and not interested.
The mouse huddled in a corner, terrified.

After several days the mouse began to starve:
no mouse food in the terrarium.

The mother, unhappy in her role
as procurer for a snake,

kept as far away from the terrarium as possible
and did not notice

anything. Eventually
hunger grew stronger than terror

and the mouse
took a bite of the boa constrictor.

I won’t prolong this.
The bite became infected and the boa died.

Eventually the mother noticed.
When the son came back

he found the palatial glass cage
inhabited by a single mouse.

When I think about this story now,
I think most often of all the life I’ve spent

being the huddled mouse,
in such danger, I felt,

but not.
It is harder to see that I have also been the snake.

And the mother. Too many times
the mother.

But today when I thought of it,
I was the boy,

staring in amazement at a life
I would not have thought possible

had I not been there to witness,
firsthand, the blindness of the body

and the persistence of the body
and the circumstances

of the body among others,
the body that needs and needs

and forgets absolutely nothing.

Anna Akhmatova: A szerelem

Hol mint kígyó, lopakodik,
bűvöl-bájol, szívünkbe surran,
hol szelíd galamb, napokig
burukkol fehér ablakunkban,

violaillatként repül,
vagy csillanó szép jégciráda…
De vezet rendületlenül,
egy nyugtalan, nehéz világba.

Hegedű húrján sír-nevet…
S a szíved elszorulva dobban,
ha hirtelen fölismered
egy először–látott mosolyban.

Bernard Lionel Einbond: Haiku

the white of her neck
as she lifts her hair for me
to undo her dress

Naomi Shihab Nye: Valentine for Ernest Mann

You can't order a poem like you order a taco.
Walk up to the counter, say, "I'll take two"
and expect it to be handed back to you
on a shiny plate.

Still, I like your spirit.
Anyone who says, "Here's my address,
write me a poem," deserves something in reply.
So I'll tell you a secret instead:
poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them.

Once I knew a man who gave his wife
two skunks for a valentine.
He couldn't understand why she was crying.
"I thought they had such beautiful eyes."
And he was serious. He was a serious man
who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly
just because the world said so. He really
liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them
as valentines and they became beautiful.
At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding
in the eyes of skunks for centuries
crawled out and curled up at his feet.

Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.

Szabó T. Anna: [A macsó, mire negyen...]

A macsó, mire negyven, végre férfi,
hisz disznót vág vagy pocakot növeszt,
az egész világ működését érti,
és osztja az észt, issza, mint a szeszt.

A macsó, mire negyven, besorolt már,
a vezérelvet hűen követi.
Kinek a papné és kinek a zsoltár -
s ha muszáj, fekszik mindkettő neki.

A macsó, mire negyven, megy előre,
a nagy pénzt hajtja, holott vagyonos,
és egyre inkább vastagszik a bőre,
hisz ismeri a dörgést, nagyon is.

A macsó, mire negyven, már megérti
hogy rúgni-nyalni hol kívánatos,
s ha nővel beszél, ösztönösen érzi,
hogy visszaszólni melyik hajlamos.

Leugatja vagy elkerüli őket,
hiszen a macsó nem revideál.
És közben szörnyen tiszteli a nőket:
a hős anya az igaz ideál.

A macsó csak a te javadat látja,
és éppen ezért megmondja neked
hogy mit is csinálj. Nem tetszik? Hiába,
nem ismered a saját érdeked.

A macsó megfáradt a hatalomban -
neki se könnyű, elhihetitek.
Ha vívni hívják, tankkal támad nyomban.
És át nem adná posztját senkinek.

Robert Bringhurst: Essay on Adam

There are five possibilities. One: Adam fell.
Two: he was pushed. Three: he jumped. Four:
he only looked over the edge, and one look silenced him.
Five: nothing worth mentioning happened to Adam.

The first, that he fell, is too simple. The fourth,
fear, we have tried and found useless. The fifth,
nothing happened, is dull. The choice is between:
he jumped or was pushed. And the difference between these

is only an issue of whether the demons
work from the inside out or from the outside
in: the one
theological question.

Jane Piirto: Tomorrow, Today, and Yesterday

the 3-year-old, wanting to know what day
it is asks everyday what day it is
we tell her Tuesday or Saturday etcetera
then she asks what day it will be
tomorrow and we go through the naming
of tomorrows in order
chanting the future like a litany
tomorrow is when she wakes up
in the morning and when we tell her
we'll go shopping tomorrow she
remembers yesterday and informs us
that it is tomorrow that today is
yesterday that therefore the time is
always now to do what we plan to do
tomorrow

Nádasdy Ádám: Vacsora előtt

Uram, ha megfacsarsz, miként egy citromot,
ha néha bérbeadsz, mint régi birtokot,
ha álmokkal zavarsz és angyalodat küldöd,
hogy ágyam széléről fülembe súgja: "züllött!",
Uram, ha megvonod kéken az ereket,
ha bambaságot adsz, munkát, vagy gyereket,
ha elrontod a nap értékesebb felét,
s én direkt nem teszek egy lépést sem feléd,
ha válasz nélkül küldöd rám az éjfelet,
mi más marad nekem, mint hogy szeresselek?

Pat Schneider: Lessons

I have learned
that life goes on,
or doesn't.
That days are measured out
in tiny increments
as a woman in a kitchen
measures teaspoons
of cinnamon, vanilla,
or half a cup of sugar
into a bowl.
I have learned
that moments are as precious as nutmeg,
and it has occurred to me
that busy interruptions
are like tiny grain moths,
or mice.
They nibble, pee, and poop,
or make their little worms and webs
until you have to throw out the good stuff
with the bad.
It took two deaths
and coming close myself
for me to learn
that there is not an infinite supply
of good things in the pantry.