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

Nagy Magdolna: Kezdet

Gázoltam bele a vízbe, a törékeny szemek homoktengerré

dagadtak, a két minőség közti különbség tapintható,

mégis ahogy a tenger sodorja a homokot, ahogy

érkezik partra a hullámos víz, ahogy görgetik

habos tajtékok, ahogy a homokszín sötét

bársonyra vált, ahogy csillapul lágyul

az anyag, így közelítettem

én is feléd.

Rumi: Not here

There's courage involved if you want
to become truth.

There is a broken-open place in a lover.

Where are those qualities of bravery and
sharp compassion in this group?  What's the
use of old and frozen thought?

I want a howling hurt.  This is not a treasury
where gold is stored; this is for copper.

We alchemists look for talent that
can heat up and change.

Lukewarm won't do. Halfhearted holding back,
well-enough getting by?  Not here.

Linda Pastan: Late September Song

With the sound of
a freight train
rushing
through the trees,
the first strong
wind

of autumn
makes each
leaf
sing the song
of its own
execution.

Turbuly Lilla: Banánmatricák

Banánmatricákat ragasztott
a konyhaszekrényre, hűtő oldalára –
győztem levakarni.
Képes volt azért veszekedni, hogy
mért nem külön tálba aprítom a zöldbabot.
Ha szerelt valamit, órákat kellett állni mellette,
hogy kézre adjam a szerszámokat,
megfogjam, amit kell,
és megkeressem az elgurult csavart.
Mindig volt egy pillanat, amikor
reménytelennek tűnt az egész:
sose lesz kész, vagy ha igen,
rosszabb lehet csak, mint rosszkorában.
Pedig helyén volt még minden:
banánmatrica, zöldbab, elgurult csavar.

Anna Kamieńska: Lack of Faith

Yes,
even when I don’t believe—
there is a place in me
inaccessible to unbelief,
a patch of wild grace,
a stubborn preserve,
impenetrable,
pain untouched by the sleeping body,
music that builds its nest in silence.

-- translated by Grażyna Drabik and David Curson

Alan Sillitoe: Lucifer’s Decision

Lucifer slept on the journey south
But only once-–
For in the morning he had to decide
Whether, having crossed the river
And said goodbye to the moon,
When no more dogs were barking,
Nor hut smoke could be seen,
Nor any voices heard,
Whether to take the left
Or right arm of the road.

It was best not to stop,
Not think of warmth
But lunge without thought to left or right.
Either that or broach the center-–
A wilderness of granite green
In which one lived as long
And learned far more
Than after the exhaustion of a quick decision
Or the utter ruin of a right one.

Szabó T. Anna: Test

Ne vágyd a tökéletest.

Hogy ne mérgesen méregesd:
tiéd a test, hát jól etesd,
altasd és mozgasd és nevesd,
a kedvét gyakorta keresd,
örömét soha ne tettesd -
akár a másét, úgy szeresd:

tudatod alá ne temesd.

Constantine P. Cavafy: The God Abandons Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who proved worthy of this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion, but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

--Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

Mario Bemedetti: Chau número tres

Te dejo con tu vida 
tu trabajo 
tu gente 
con tus puestas de sol 
y tus amaneceres. 

Sembrando tu confianza 
te dejo junto al mundo 
derrotando imposibles 
segura sin seguro. 

Te dejo frente al mar 
descifrándote sola 
sin mi pregunta a ciegas 
sin mi respuesta rota. 

Te dejo sin mis dudas 
pobres y malheridas 
sin mis inmadureces 
sin mi veteranía. 

Pero tampoco creas 
a pie juntillas todo 
no creas nunca creas 
este falso abandono. 

Estaré donde menos 
lo esperes 
por ejemplo 
en un árbol añoso 
de oscuros cabeceos. 

Estaré en un lejano 
horizonte sin horas 
en la huella del tacto 
en tu sombra y mi sombra. 

Estaré repartido 
en cuatro o cinco pibes 
de esos que vos mirás 
y enseguida te siguen. 

Y ojalá pueda estar 
de tu sueño en la red 
esperando tus ojos 
y mirándote.

Dorianne Laux: Men

It’s tough being a guy, having to be gruff
and buff, the strong silent type, having to laugh
it off—pain, loss, sorrow, betrayal—or leave in a huff
and say No big deal, take a ride, listen to enough
loud rock and roll that it scours out your head, if
not your heart. Or to be called a fag or a poof
when you love something or someone, scuffing
a shoe across the floor, hiding a smile in a muffler
pulled up nose high, an eyebrow raised for the word quaff
used in casual conversation—wine, air, oil change at the Jiffy
Lube—gulping it down, a joke no one gets. It’s rough,
yes, the tie around the neck, the starched white cuffs
too long, too short, frayed, frilled, rolled up. The self
isn’t an easy quest for a beast with balls, a cock,
proof of something difficult to define or defend. Chief or chef,
thief or roofer, serf or sheriff, feet on the earth or aloof.
Son, brother, husband, lover, father, they are different
from us, except when they fall or stand alone on a wharf.

Szabó Magda: A fény lécei közt

Hintáját a holdhoz kötötte,
belendült az alvó szobába.
Ahogy megláttam, visszaléptem,
ő jött felém, én egyre hátra.
A fény lécében elbukott,
térdre esett.
Minden sarokhoz lehajolt,
valamit keresett.

Minden sarokhoz lehajolt.
Én mentem hátra, egyre hátra,
itt hagyta egyszer, erre volt,
minden sarokhoz lehajolt,
csak surrant, surrant a homályba.

Sehol se volt. Semmi se volt.
A fény lécében elbotolt.

Sirni kezdett, mint a madár,
ha valami torkához ér.
Sikoltva takartam az arcom:
megvakulok, olyan fehér.
Csak bolygott, bolygott, hátra-vissza.
Sikoltoztam a rémülettől.
Hajnal jött, fényével felitta.

Azóta itt jár minden éjjel,
s minden sarokhoz lehajol.
Leng-leng a szobában fehéren,
hátha meglelné valahol.
Letérdel minden zug elé.
Két nagy szeme ragyog. Ragyog.

Ha megtalálja: elviszi.
Ha megtalálja, meghalok.

Tim Dlugos: If We’re So Fucking Smart, Why Aren’t We Rich?

In the world— the world,
remember? We live there, you
in LA, me in NYC, like
the bookends of the continent,
if the continent were made of
books, but there’s no place
made of books.

Christopher Logue: Good Taste

Traveling, a man met a tiger, so..
He ran. And the tiger ran after him
Thinking: How fast I run.. But

The road thought: How long I am.. Then,
They came to a cliff, yes, the man
Grabbed at an ash root and swung down

Over its edge. Above his knuckles, the tiger..
At the foot of the cliff, its mate. Two mice,
One black, one white, began to gnaw the root.

And by the traveler’s head grew one
Juicy strawberry, so.. hugging the root
The man reached out and plucked the fruit.

Hot sweet it tasted!

Reményik Sándor: Béke

Valami furcsa összehangolódás,
Valami ritka rend –
Széthúzó erők erős egyensúlya,
Mély belső bizonyosság idebent –
Bizonyosság arról, hogy élni jó,
Szenvedni elkerülhetetlen,
Szeretni tisztán: megistenülés,
Meghalni szép –
S a Kifejezést meglelni mindezekhez,
Megtalálni a felséges Igét:
Az Igét mindezekhez:
A Béke ez.
Orkán ordíthat aztán odakünt,
Robbanhat ezer bomba: kárbament,
De kárt nem okozott.
Bent:
Csend.
A Béke itt kezdődik.
Bent:
Csend.
Isten hozott.

Eric Gamalinda: The Opposite of Nostalgia

You are running away from everyone
who loves you,
from your family,
from old lovers, from friends.

They run after you with accumulations
of a former life, copper earrings,
plates of noodles, banners
of many lost revolutions.

You love to say the trees are naked now
because it never happens
in your country. This is a mystery
from which you will never

recover. And yes, the trees are naked now,
everything that still breathes in them
lies silent and stark
and waiting. You love October most

of all, how there is no word
for so much splendor.
This, too, is a source
of consolation. Between you and memory

everything is water. Names of the dead,
or saints, or history.
There is a realm in which
---no, forget, it,

it’s still too early to make anyone understand.
A man drives a stake
through his own heart
and afterwards the opposite of nostalgia

begins to make sense: he stops raking the leaves
and the leaves take over
and again he has learned
to let go.

Ron Padgett: Glow

When I wake up earlier than you and you
are turned to face me, face
on the pillow and hair spread around,
I take a chance and stare at you,
amazed in love and afraid
that you might open your eyes and have
the daylights scared out of you.
But maybe with the daylights gone
you’d see how much my chest and head
implode for you, their voices trapped
inside like unborn children fearing
they will never see the light of day.
The opening in the wall now dimly glows
its rainy blue and gray. I tie my shoes
and go downstairs to put the coffee on.

Jónás Tamás: Nem véletlen

Szerencsémre az a faj
ta kisfiú voltam fel
nőttként is, akinek ar
cát szerették az idő
sebbek is, a fiatalab
bak pedig bizalommal for
dultak hozzám, amikor
már én kezdtem öreged
ni. Így aztán mindenki
örömeit, gondjait ismer
tem és elszenvedtem. A
magaméinak sokáig nem
voltak előjeleik. Csak
túl a harmadik iks
zen kezdtem félreérteni
a gyerekkorom. Ma má
r egészen pontosan érte
m félre. Vigasztalhatat
lan faj vagyunk, nem is
próbálkoztam vele. Ha n
éha mégis sikerült, az
csak a véletlen műve leh
et, ha van műve egyáltal
án. A véletlen általában
művetlen, műveletlen, és
mégis felettébb sikeres.

Ali Shapiro: The Meaning Of Leaving

Maybe it was there
all along, in our shirtsleeves,
on the heavy trees, every time we turned
left—as in the opposite
of right, which is also
wrong, as in the mistakes
I’m bound to keep making as long
as I long. I still love you but I can’t
stay still, that’s why I’m bound
for the coast in the old
truck blazoned with rust, crest
of snow, crust of salt, the bed
that was our bed, you
in the rearview for hundreds
then thousands of miles—you
the cornfield, you the semi, you
the sirens pulling me over
and over. I’ve got my eyes
on the road’s gray throat, its soft
shoulder, its sign that says
yield. Maybe I was here
all along, driving away in the driving
rain, in the space between left
meaning remaining and left
meaning already gone.

Lew Welch: Circle Poems

Whenever I have a day off, I write a new poem.
Does this mean you shouldn’t work, or that you
write best on your day off?

For example, this is the poem I wrote today.


*


When he was 20, he understood some of the secrets of
life, and undertook to write them down so simply that
even an idiot could understand.
“For,” he reasoned, “if I can’t do that, I don’t
understand it myself.”

He proved himself right.
When he was 50, he didn’t understand it himself.


*


“Why is it,” he said, “that no matter what you say,
a woman always takes it personally?”

“I never do,” she said.


*


John said, “Then I met that short fat guy with the
neat little beard, with a name like dawn.”

“You mean George Abend?”

“Yeah.”

“Abend means evening.”