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.