Takács Zsuzsa: A tiltott nyelv

Tiltott nyelv, amelyen gondolkodunk,
de ha már gondolkodunk is,
nem szabad megszólalnunk rajta.
Megszólalni és kimondani, milyen
következtetésre jutottunk. Mert lehet,
hogy következtetésünk hibátlan,
kétségbeesésünk mégis ostoba.
És akkor élhettünk volna úgy,
mint a fényérzékeny növények:
fölfelé törekedve. Élhettünk
volna úgy, mintha éltünk volna.

Raymond Carver: Happiness

So early it’s still almost dark out.
I’m near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren’t saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other’s arm.
It’s early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn’t enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Sara Teasdale: The Flight

Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,
Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain--
But what if I heard my first love calling me again?

Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;
Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door--
But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?

Vajda Gergely Balázs: Indulásunk ideje

Az égbolton kékszínű sebek szakadnak
hatalmas ballonokhoz kötjük házainkat
ablakhoz rángatjuk a telekiabált szekrényeket
a színültig szipogott kádat
az öleléstõl megkopott radiátort
roncsainkkal lassan megtelik az utca
Az elindulás szelei fújnak
horizonton a jelzõtüzek felkiáltójelei
a párkányon ülsz lábadat lógázod
fölöttünk megfeszülnek az acélsodronyok
már csak téged kell hogy kidobjalak

Emily Hasler: Cartography for Beginners

for CL

First of all, you will need to choose the correct blue
to indicate water. This should not be too watery.
You must remember: people do not like wet feet.
If there is no water to indicate, no matter,
you must still elect a blue. Let me recommend
eggshell, at a push azure. Choose a symbol
for church/temple/mosque/synagogue. Choose
a symbol for pub. Dedicate your life
to the twin and warring gods of Precision
and Wild Abandon. People do not like
to be lost. Buy Mandelbrot's 1967 paper
on the coastline paradox, put it on the highest shelf -
but buy a stepladder. Take a little licence with rivers,
especially their curves and estuaries. Add
an oxbow lake if at all possible. If the area you
are mapping has no sea/lakes/rivers/streams,
I have to question why you are bothering. You
won't get to use that lovely blue you spent so long
deciding upon. Do the Norfolk fens instead. Better
yet, East Anglia in its future state, quite utterly
submerged like a sodden Constable. Come on,
get your coat, I'll show you. You won't need your shoes.

Brian Turner: Sadiq

It is a condition of wisdom in the archer to be patient
because when the arrow leaves the bow, it returns no more.
—SA’DI


It should make you shake and sweat,
nightmare you, strand you in the desert
of irrevocable desolation, the consequences
seared into the vein, no matter what adrenaline
feeds the muscle its courage, no matter
what god shines down on you, no matter
what crackling pain and anger
you carry in your fists, my friend,
it should break your heart to kill.

Erdős Olga: Januári hajnal

Lágy, puha sorokat
szeretnék rólunk írni,
hóba süppedt lábnyomokat
a csendben, akár
január első hajnalán,
mikor a pelyhes utcán
hazafelé tartva csupán
ketten vagyunk.

Ujjaink kesztyűtlen
kapaszkodnak össze, érzem
sorsod lenyomatát tenyeremben
a többi kusza vonal között,
és én is ott lüktetek már végleg
kézfejeden húzódó ér
kék boltíve mögött.

Jeffrey McDaniel: The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems about

and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.

Jeffrey Mcdaniel: The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred  
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear  
without saying hello. In the restaurant  
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,  
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.   
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,  
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line  
and listen to each other breathe.

Somlyó György: Egy kis matematika

minden történés kicsi
mintha nem is történne semmi
kimondott szavak
elejtett szavak
elhallgatott szavak
megtett mozdulatok
félbemaradt mozdulatok
elmulasztott mozdulatok
véletlen keresztezések
véletlen párhuzamok
véletlen érintők
futó felvillanások
rejtett kisugárzások
észrevétlen vonzások
a történés kicsi
minden történés kicsi
a történés mindig egyforma
csak a fejleményei különbözők
csak a fejleményeiben
nő nő nő a kiszámíthatatlan
plusz vagy mínusz n-edik tagig
minden végtelen kicsi történés

T.S. Eliot: from Five-Finger Exercises

How unpleasant to meet Mr. Eliot!
With his features of clerical cut,
And his brow so grim
And his mouth so prim
And his conversation, so nicely
Restricted to What Precisely
And If and Perhaps and But.
How unpleasant to meet Mr. Eliot!
With a bobtail cur
In a coat of fur
And a porpentine cat
And a wopsical hat:
How unpleasant to meet Mr. Eliot!
(Whether his mouth be open or shut).

Adrienne Rich: XIII (Dedications) - from An Atlas of the Difficult World

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour.    
I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains’ enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet.    
I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age.      I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Kristina Haynes: A Haunting

I am in the middle of dialing your number
when I realize the dial tone is mocking me.
I hit ‘end’ without skipping a beat, something
bigger and harder than a lump sitting in my
throat. It’s been raining for four days straight
and I can’t be bothered to bring an umbrella
with me. You loved the rain, would suffer a
fever for it, would probably buy it flowers on
Valentine’s Day if you could. I want to feel so
much that I want it to overwhelm me. I want
to short circuit feeling.

*

I can’t delete your number. Umbrellas are
alien things. Your funeral is a song I can’t
stop singing. Your mother looked prettiest
when she was in her mourning best. Your
sister didn’t let go of her boyfriend’s hand.
You said once, not to me, overuse ‘I love
you’. It has not stopped raining. I don’t go
anywhere without thinking of you. You
haunt my bones and the space just beneath
my skin. I am a vacant house, boarded up,
for sale. The floors creak. The wind gets in.

*

Everywhere, your ghost.

Fodor Ákos: Kísérőlevél

Amit én küldök
neked: tükör: nem portré:
bele nézz, ne rá.

Fleur Adcock: The Soho Hospital for Woman (IV)

I am out in the supermarket choosing –
this very afternoon, this day –
picking up tomatoes, cheese, bread,

things I want and shall be using
to make myself a meal, while they
eat their stodgy suppers in bed:

Janet with her big freckled breasts,
her prim Scots voice, her one friend,
and never in hospital before,

who came in to have a few tests
and now can’t see where they’ll end;
and Coral by the bed by the door

who whimpered and gasped behind a screen
with nurses to and fro all night
and far too much of the day;

pallid, bewildered, nineteen.
And Mary, who will be all right
but gradually. And Alice, who may.

Whereas I stand almost intact,
giddy with freedom, not with pain.
I lift my light basket, observing

how little I needed in fact;
and move to the checkout, to the rain,
to the lights and the long street curving.

Andrea Gibson: Wasabi

The plan was to play hard to get, that’s right.
I wasn’t just gonna go giving myself away. I’m no easy catch.
Can you really see me in fishnets?
No.
I always find myself slippin’ out the holes, swimmin’ back out to sea.
I’d never been anybody’s sushi roll.
But she, has lips like wasabi.
My eyes water every time we kiss.
Makes me wish we had a porch swing and a little home.
Makes me wish I could (write)/right wrongs, instead of poems.
The heart is a bullet that’s terrified of blood.
Love is a windshield wiper in a hurricane; nothing is ever clear.
You mistake her name for the moon, mistake porchlights for the stars and sometimes they are.
Her constalliations lead me home, ten thousand shades of open.
And if there’s one thing in this world I’ve ever known for sure it’s that this girl is gonna crush me like a small bug.
Leave me so frickin’ broken there’ll be body bags beneath my eyes from night’s I cried so hard the stars died, but I’m like, go ahead.
I’m all yours.
I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm ‘cause I’d rather be left for dead than left to wonder what thunder sounds like.
I’m not lookin’ for someone who can save me.
Life rafts might keep you afloat but they rarely get you anywhere and I’ve got places I wanna go.
So break me in two, peel back my rib cage and cover every page of my heart with love poems you will burn someday.
The most fertile lands were built by the hands of volcanoes,
And I wanna know what grows beneath the drone of Hallmark and roses.
I want your goodbye to feel like explosives,
Your lips, a burning building without fire escapes.
Your hips the gates of hell if I know if heaven exists,
But this will do just fine.
I wanna feel you like lifelines on the palms of Jesus when the nails went through is that really, really creepy?
Just in case it is, let me also say I want you sleepy-eyed in the morning,
Waking at my side like a warm summer sky born from so much softness the horizon cries every time nightfall comes to take you.
Let me also say I wanna make you sandwiches,
And soup,
And peanut butter cookies.
Though, the truth is peanut butter is actually really bad for you ‘cause they grow peanuts in old cotton fields to clean the toxins out of the soil.
But hey, you like peanut butter and I like you.
Let me also say I’ve never seen anything more gorgeous than you were that night.
The moon, bending through the window blinds,
I told time by the light casting shadows across your face while you told me this story:
“My grandparents were married for 63 years.
On the day my grandfather died he laid in bed and said nothing
but “love, love, love, love”
then he puckered his lips and kissed my grandmother for the last time.”
Love, love, love, love is like sunshine:
Sometimes you have to get burned to know you were there.
I wanna know that I’m here, every single part of me,
My heart, open as the river’s eyes the first time it sees the ocean.
My god, look at those waves!
Listen to that thundering tide.
Can you imagine anything more frightening?
Can you imagine anything
More
Alive?

Kormos István: Vonszolnak piros delfinek

vonszolnak piros delfinek koromtengeren éjszaka
partra kicsapnak az a part szívem leomlott partfala
álmaim-rakta házadig onnan vakon is elmegyek
de kapud nyitott-kés-kapu ablakon küldő fényjelek
s kezek kezek kezek kezek küldő kezek taszítanak
hangtalan hang eresszelek hangtalan hang elhagyjalak
gyerekkorodba nem hagyod magadat visszarántani
vergődnek csak homlokodon kérlelő szavam szárnyai
szemed nem-lehet-fényei elmondják ami mondhatatlan
hogy nem leszel hogy nem leszek kerékbetört nevetés csattan
jövőnk a halvaszületett koromtengereken libeg
felfalják piros lovaim kik vonszoltak a delfinek
egy árva kutyaugatás nem engem szólít nevemen
fenn salétromos menny ragyog hűvösen lehajtom fejem
cella-magány jön hallgatok ki voltam istenek fia
alámerül Atlantiszom Párizs Marlotte Normandia

Ogden Nash: A Drink with Something in It

There is something about a martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth—
I think that perhaps it’s the gin.

Emily Dickinson: A Book

There is no frigate like a
book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the
poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

Petri György: Ami azóta történt

Én visszamentem ahová,
újra elmentem onnan is.
Az új magyar zene beindult,
a gyereked hülye maradt,
anyád meghalt, csináltam még egy
gyereket (nem annak: neki más,
de azt te még nem ismerhetted),
egy harmadiknak, aki most egy
- felőlem nézve - másodikkal
osztja meg ágyát, amíg én a
felőled nézve negyedikkel;
itt is van egy gyerek, de őt nem
én eszkábáltam. Az a lányom,
aki épp arra született, hogy
én az anyukájától hozzád,
az is megvan, tizenöt éves,
és hegedülni tanul, mint te.
B. Z. meghalt (egyszer volt nálunk),
egyszer én is jártam kinn nálad,
azóta, jól össze is fagytam
(anyád temetéséről késtem le),
s hogy ne maradjak dolgavége-
zetlen, a sírkőböngészdében
elindultalak fölkeresni.
Meg is találtalak. Kivártam,
amíg odafagy a talpam a talpbéléshez, aztán a
Sörkert talponálló-részében támosztottam a
pultot és azon töprengtem: ki lehetett az az
állat, aki a SÍRKERTI úton egy vendéglőt SÖRKERT-
nek nevezett el?

Bob Hicok: Man of the House

It was a misunderstanding.
I got into bed, made love
with the woman I found there,
called her honey, mowed the lawn,
had three children, painted
the house twice, fixed the furnace,
overcame an addiction to blue pills,
read Spinoza every night
without once meeting his God,
buried one child, ate my share
of Jell-o and meatloaf,
went away for nine hours a day
and came home hoarding my silence,
built a ferris wheel in my mind,
bolt by bolt, then it broke
just as it spun me to the top.
Turns out I live next door.

Sarah Manguso: Beautiful Things

Sometimes I think I understand the way things work
And then I find out that on Neptune it rains diamonds.
On this world you can get out of work early, unclog the drain,
hear music. Any of the above should prove the existence
of God or at least some kind of beautifying engine
but in Germany when they couldn't figure out
how to tranquilize the polar bear and he was standing
in the park, the cage door broken, they shot him dead.
Nine hundred pounds——that's a lot of dead bear.
Neptune's pretty close to immortal,
as we understand the word, and I wouldn't like to be
that planet. But if I had to I would take it,
the decades of punishing rain, and the fires
on neighboring planets I would watch,
thankful I was never touched by them,
and that the diamonds were mine.

Tamás Tímea: Döntöttem

Döntöttem — nem vagy.
Hogy voltál?
Ki tudná azt mi történt meg a
földtörténet hajnalán?
— hisz a dinoszauruszok is
eltűntek, pedig mekkorának
érezhették magukat
Döntöttem — nem vagy.
Hogy leszel?
Ki tudná megmondani
mi történik holnap, most, a
következő percben, másod-
percben, pillanatnyi időben?
Az idő — lerágja azt a
kis zománcot ami véd még.
Mi marad?
Döntöttem — nem vagy.
Mert fényes reggelt akarok
és sima napot és éjsötétet
amikor kell, árnyékok nélkül.
Döntöttem — nem vagy.
Belopózkodó árnyékod
átruházom arra aki még
mindig fénysávnak nézi,
hunyorogjon Ő egy életen át miattad.

Sherman Alexie: Survivorman

Here’s a fact: Some people want to live more
Than others do. Some can withstand any horror

While others will easily surrender
To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.

In Utah, one man carried another
Man on his back like a conjoined brother

And crossed twenty-five miles of desert
To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?

Do you think you could be that good and strong?
Yes, yes, you think, but you’re probably wrong.

Frannie Lindsay: The Chores

My father sets the box of newborn kittens
into the pit of soil. I’ve done a good job
with his shovel.

He pats my bottom. I’ve tucked the right bullets
into the pouch of my overalls. He lets me
load the revolver, closes his hands around mine

from behind. The gravel and silo and sky
run together with mewing.
Eggs over easy sputter and clap from the kitchen.

I push the loose hair from my face,
aim down. The morning air is slow
with green flies. The straps of my first bra

pinch my shoulders. I am his
good, good daughter. Now, he says,
and I don’t waste a shot.

Váci Mihály: Mondd, Kedvesem, milyen a tenger?

Mondd, Kedvesem, milyen
milyen a tenger?
E parttalan zokogás, mely térdet,
ölet sosem lel.
Milyen a part, hol most lábnyomod
kagylóhéj-sora mélyed,
ha elindulsz a végtelenbe, mely lassan
megtelik már Tevéled.
Mondd, Kedvesem, milyen a tenger,
és milyen ott a szél
hízelgése, milyen ott a magány:
szomorú ott az éj,
ha egyedül fuldokolsz a szíveddel,
és milyen ott a sírás?
Vágyik-e,ó, hova vágyik onnan az ember,
s ha jön, honnan jön érte hívás?
A szomorúság szalmavirága milyen, s a bánat
lőttszárnyú madarának
milyen idomító nevet s milyen hessentő
kereplőket találtak?
Hogy mondják ott, ha fáj, - hogy panaszolják
a karba-ölbe bújva: - félek!
Milyen igazolvánnyal bújkál ott a magány, ahol
oly szorosak az ölelések?
Mondd, Kedvesem, ahol a tengernek, a fénynek,
a hitnek nincs határa,
a végtelen partjain gondolnak-e a bennük fogant,
félve kihordott halálra?
Nem atomrobajok dühére, csak az észrevétlen
kis fulladásra, mely magányos,
botló szívünket felveszi ölébe egy éjjel, a közösség
hiába ölel szerelmesen magához.
Ne hozz nekem képet a kombinátok
csodálatos lélegzetéről,
ne hozz statisztikát! s ne részegedj a kibernetikus
szörnyek vibráló ihletétől!
A tenger partjaira menj: - a fény, idő,
az emberi lélek
ostromló háborgásaiban fuldokolva a jövő
eszméletére ébredj:
milyen lesz gyönyörű léptű utódunk, ha majd
falánk éheit legyőzi rendre,
milyen csillagokra néz, milyen halált fél,
mi bontja küzdelemre
kitárult szárnyait, - ha nem köti gyáva kín,
sok állati szükséglet,
- milyen szél emeli, s merre emelkedik
a súlytalanság állapotában a lélek?!

Muriel Rukeyser: A Little Stone in the Middle of the Road, in Florida

My son as a child saying
God
Is anything, even a little stone in the middle of the road, in
    Florida.
Yesterday
Nancy, my friend, after long illness:
You know what can lift me up, take me right out of despair?
No, what?
Anything.