Charles Simić: Empires

My grandmother prophesied the end
Of your empires, O fools!
She was ironing. The radio was on.
The earth trembled beneath our feet.
One of your heroes was giving a speech.
“Monster,” she called him.
There were cheers and gun salutes for the monster.
“I could kill him with my bare hands,”
She announced to me.
There was no need to. They were all
Going to the devil any day now.
“Don’t go blabbering this to anyone,”
She warned me.
And pulled my ear to make sure I understood.

Robert Bringhurst: These Poems, She Said

These poems, these poems,

these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket’s
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said….
You are, he said,
beautiful.
That is not love, she said rightly.

Amy Lowell: Venus Transiens

Mondd csak,
Szebb volt-e Vénusz egykor
Tenálad,
Mikor fodor hullámokon
Ívjáratos kagylóba lengett,
S a ráncoló víz
A part felé sodorta?
Vagy szebb-e Botticelli álma,
Mint az enyém,
S azok a festett rózsabimbók,
Amikkel megdobálta szíve hölgyét,
Különbek-e,
Mint a szavak, miket elédbe fújok,
Hogy eltakarjanak a ködlő
Ezüst csillámló fátyolába.


Libegve
Állasz előttem
A hullámos, kék levegőben,
Fényes szelek övével,
Tiporva a verőfényt,
És a habok, mik megelőznek,
Lágyan redőzik és zilálják
Lenn a fövényt a lábaidnál.


-- fordította Kosztolányi Dezső

Naomi Shihab Nye: The Traveling Onion

When I think how far the onion has traveled

just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,
the way the knife enters onion
and onion falls apart on the chopping block,
a history revealed.
And I would never scold the onion
for causing tears.
It is right that tears fall
for something small and forgotten.
How at meal, we sit to eat,
commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma
but never on the translucence of onion,
now limp, now divided,
or its traditionally honorable career:
For the sake of others,
disappear.

Weöres Sándor: Slágerénekesnő

Ma foglalt a szivem

de várjon rám hiven

ha késik se pihen
a mámor.
Ma még mással futok
és csalni se tudok
majd végére jutok
de máskor.
Száz titok
véremben érik,
eljutok
a szenvedélyig.
Ma foglalt a szivem
de várjon rám hiven
ha késik se pihen
a mámor.

Károlyi Amy: Szó

Vannak csendek,

mikor a percet
átüti a szó.
Nyiss ki ajtót és ablakot
Isten a látogató.

Hagyd minden dolgod,
a szóra figyelj,
oly ritkán hallható.

Átömlik rajtad, mint egy ölelés,
mikor Isten meglátogat,
Te vagy a hang,
a szó.

James Merrill: The Candid Decorator

I thought I would do over
All of it. I was tired
Of scars and stains, of bleared
Panes, tinge of the liver.
The fuchsia in the center
Looked positively weird
I felt it—dry as paper.
I called a decorator.
In next to no time such
A nice young man appeared.
What had I in mind?
Oh, lots and lots of things—
Fresh colors, pinks and whites
That one would want to touch;
The windows redesigned;
The plant thrown out in favor,
Say, of a small tree,
An orange or a pear . . .
He listened dreamily.
Combing his golden hair
He measured with one glance
The distance I had come
To reach this point. And then
He put away his comb
He said: “Extravagance!
Suppose it could be done.
You’d have to give me carte
Blanche and an untold sum.
But to be frank, my dear,
Living here quite alone
(Oh I have seen it, true,
But me you needn’t fear)
You’ve one thing to the good:
While not exactly smart,
Your wee place, on the whole
It couldn’t be more ‘you.’
Still, if you like—” I could
Not speak. He had seen my soul,
Had said what I dreaded to hear.
Ending the interview
I rose, blindly. I swept
To show him to the door,
And knelt, when he had left,
By my Grand Rapids chair,
And wept until I laughed
And laughed until I wept.

Naomi Shihab Nye: Alive

Dear Abby, said someone from Oregon,

I am having trouble with my boyfriend’s attachment
to an ancient gallon of milk still full
in his refrigerator. I told him it’s me or the milk,
is this unreasonable? Dear Carolyn,
my brother won’t speak to me
because fifty years ago I whispered
a monkey would kidnap him in the night
to take him back to his true family
but he should have known it was a joke
when it didn’t happen, don’t you think?
Dear Board of Education, no one will ever
remember a test. Repeat. Stories,
poems, projects, experiments,
mischief, yes, but never a test.
Dear Dog Behind the Fence, you really need
to calm down now. You have been barking every time
I walk to the compost for two years
and I have not robbed your house. Relax.
When I asked the man on the other side
if you bother him too, he smiled and said no,
he makes me feel less alone. Should I be more
worried about the dog or the man?

Jatzkó Béla: Variációk

Akarva-akaratlan,

színekben és szavakban,
tengerekben, tavakban,
a felhőkben, a napban,

a napban, a felhőkben,
az égen, ha felhőtlen,
a tavaszi esőkben,
a pipacsos mezőkben,

mezőkön, pipacsok közt,
tengeri szivacsok közt,
a nyárban, a tavaszban,
esők, ha lassan esnek,
akarva-akaratlan
mindig téged kereslek.

Carrie Newcomer: Three Gratitudes

Every night before I go to sleep
I say out loud
Three things that I’m grateful for,
All the significant, insignificant
Extraordinary, ordinary stuff of my life.
It’s a small practice and humble,
And yet, I find I sleep better
Holding what lightens and softens my life
Ever so briefly at the end of the day.
Sunlight, and blueberries,
Good dogs and wool socks,
A fine rain,
A good friend,
Fresh basil and wild phlox,
My father’s good health,
My daughter’s new job,
The song that always makes me cry,
Always at the same part,
No matter how many times I hear it.
Decent coffee at the airport,
And your quiet breathing,
The stories you told me,
The frost patterns on the windows,
English horns and banjos,
Wood Thrush and June bugs,
The smooth glassy calm of the morning pond,
An old coat,
A new poem,
My library card,
And that my car keeps running
Despite all the miles.
And after three things,
More often than not,
I get on a roll and I just keep on going,
I keep naming and listing,

Until I lie grinning,
Blankets pulled up to my chin,
Awash with wonder
At the sweetness of it all.

Faludy György: Te azt, ami van...

Te azt, ami van a világon,

metaforákká emeled,
míg én itt lent a port szitálom
s metaforákat keresek.

Bár nincs ambíciónk raktáron,
könyvtárunk mégsem kevesebb.
S ahogy kívánod és kívánom:
szerelmünk lángja nem remeg.

Miért nem, kérdem. A papíron
csak szuggerálom, ha megírom.
Nem génektől jön a boldogság

s nem a sors hozza el. Talány.
Az ember ott kezdődik, mondják,
amikor átlép önmagán.

Sárközi György: Virágének

Ha ki merném mondani, ha ki mernéd mondani,

világokat tudnánk emelni s rontani.

Ha egy lépést én tennék, ha egy lépést te tennél,
pergő csillagoknak avarán léphetnél.

Ha vas-karom átfonna, ha tej-karod átfonna,
napoknak, holdaknak járása más volna.

Ha legyőzném ajkadat, ha szolgálnád ajkamat,
nem volna virradat, nem volna alkonyat.

Ha lebuknánk lihegve, ha lebuknánk lobbanva,
az Úristen szíve is gyorsabban dobbanna.

Marie Howe: The Gate

I had no idea that the gate I would step through

to finally enter this world
would be the space my brother’s body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man
but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,
rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water.
This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I’d say, What?
And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I’d say, What?
And he’d say, This, sort of looking around.

Ada Limón: Glimpse

In the bathroom our last
cat comes up to me and purrs
even without touch she purrs
and there are times I can
hold her when no one else
can hold her. She once
belonged to my husband's
ex-girlfriend who is no longer
of the earth and what I've
never told him is that some
nights when I touch her
I wonder if the cat is feeling
my touch or just remembering
her last owner's touch. She
is an ancient cat and prickly.
When we are alone I sing
full throated in the empty house
and she meows and mewls
like we've done this before
but we haven't done this before.

Brian Bilston: Unhappy Birthday to Me

It's important to share, or so I've been taught,
to show kindness to others, to be a good sport.
But all of those teachings have taken a bump -
for I share my birthday with Donald Trump.

For years I knew not of this dark, dreadful fate,
and with ignorant bliss I honoured the date -
but then it got hijacked, sullied, gazumped
by a self-serving bigot, a foul gibberlump.

With him, I would share an infectious disease,
a mouldy bread roll, infestations of fleas,
a romantic weekend at a toxic waste dump -
but please, not my birthday, Mr. Tangerine Chump.

Alternative dates he's welcome to try -
12th Febtember, 33rd July.
But 14th June? In a lake, take a jump
and find a new date, you deranged sewage pump.

Siri Liv Myhrom: In Praise of Small Kindnesses

Today’s is a soft meditation

in praise of the enormousness 

of small kindnesses. 

Like the café worker who waved enthusiastically 

to my father as he walked in the door of the coffee shop 

like she was expecting him, 

like he was a regular in this hipster enclave 

instead of a septuagenarian 

in khaki shorts and white tennis shoes. 

He met me here on my workday 

so I could help him format a document — 

something he couldn’t figure out how to do at home 

no matter how many buttons he tried, 

something my mother always did for him 

in the decades after he gave up his trusty typewriter. 

So he arrived at the coffee shop 

        vulnerable and exasperated in that way 

        that only technology can make us feel: 

        like slow, dependent children — and 

sorely missing my mother. 

Like the barista who didn’t blink 

when he ordered his coffee the wrong way, 

when he said la-TAY instead of LAH-tey, 

who took his order from our table 

as if we were in a sit-down restaurant 

and she was our waiter, 

who smiled the whole time like a halo of warm light, 

softening the space everywhere, 

who made him feel like he belonged. 

You cannot know how those small gestures matter, 

unless you are him, 

unless you are me, watching, 

unless you see his shoulders relax, 

        in that way that we can do only 

        when we feel safe and seen enough to let go, 

and his eyes dampen, the tiny liquid pools held in at the rims, 

barely noticeable, as he smiles and says, 

She always knew how to do this for me. For years she did this. 

She would have been 69 today. How I miss her.

Veszprémi Szilveszter: Apám meggyilkolása

Nem számít, mit gondol rólam az apám,
aki szerint a szobában ücsörgésből nem lesz pénz.
Aki ennyi idősen már öt éve dolgozott,
és a végigdolgozott életével a háta mögött
el sem tud képzelni mást.
Nem az van, hogy nem érti a szavakat, amiket használok,
de meg sem hallgat. A jövőmről meg a jelenemről beszélni
csak locsogás, és az apám nem az a locsogó fajta.
Csak az elvágott köbméter fákból ért,
és én még nem írtam egy köbméter jó verset.
Öt jó vers. Kábé.
Ez az életművem, apa.
Erre alapozom a jövőmet. Ezt nem lehet neki elmondani.
Nem beszélünk versekről, erről a versről sem,
hogy megvallom magunkat. Megölöm. Rituálisan.
Az igazi apámat, aki egy évben született az Iskola a határonnal
és a Barbie babával, de nem tudja, hogy van ilyen apagyilkosság,
de ha tudná is, megsértődne, pedig ez
nem az igazi apákat szokta érinteni.
Az apámnak semmi köze a verseimhez,
nem kell várnom tőle sem empátiát, sem toleranciát, sem elfogadást.
Nincs látnivaló erre. A következő állomás a szobán
és a vershelyzeteken kívül. Bár ott sincs semmi,
amire büszkének lehetne lenni.

Major Petra: Hála gyakorlat

Fejemen van:
elég fül,
elég orr,
elég száj.
Meg/elég/szem.

Mary Karr: Easter at Al Qaeda Bodega

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in white apron—

index finger tapping his Arabic paper,
where the body count dwarfs
the one in my Times—announces,
You’re killing my people.


But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist
ought to have coffee—one cream
and two sugars. Blessings
upon you, he says, and means it.

Marie Howe: Prayer

Every day I want to speak with you. 

And every day something more important

calls for my attention—the drugstore, the beauty 

products, the luggage
I need to buy for the trip.
Even now I can hardly sit here
among the falling piles of paper and clothing, the garbage 

trucks outside
already screeching and banging.
The mystics say you are as close as my own breath.
Why do I flee from you?
My days and nights pour through me like complaints
and become a story I forgot to tell.
Help me. Even as I write these words I am planning
to rise from the chair as soon as I finish this sentence.

Baranyi Ferenc: Festői kérdések

Hova, hova tűntek a színek a nyárból?

Hol a ragyogás a mosoly aranyából?
Hol a csók narancsa, hol van a zöld féltés? ...
Hol a rőt kihívás, hol a kék igézés?
Olyan sötét lett
hirtelen,
kopog a jég
a szívemen,
amit kimondok:
magam se vallom,
amit dalolnék:
magam se hallom,
áttetszők lettünk -
üveg a vízben,
fakult vagy úgy is,
nincs színem így sem.
Hol a rőt kihívás, hol a kék igézés?
Hol a csók narancsa, hol van a zöld féltés?
Titkok tarkasága hol van a szemedből?

Hova, hova tűnt a fény a szerelemből?

Pádraig Ó Tuama: We Should Have Danced

I see her, former colleague
in the baggage area of a
foreign airport.

Oh hi, she says,
looking awkwardly towards the
empty carousel.

Then she decides.
I hear you’re gay now, she says.
are you still a Christian?

Oh how will we tell this story?

She, to her friends, with
sadness, curiosity and prayers
for reorientation and returning.

Me, to mine, with sadness,
anger and prayers for
refocusing the lenses and returning.

And the anger was all mine.
And that question
was all about her.

Should we not just dance instead,
I should have said,
together turn a little waltz in

the chorus of our own bodies
while we wait and wait and wait for something better
than the empty carousel of this question.

How will we tell this story?
How will I tell this story?
With sadness.

With practicings of little ballroom dances
while we wait, confidently,
for what is most important to be returned.

Nemes Nagy Ágnes: Madár

Egy madár ül a vállamon,

ki együtt született velem.
Már oly nagy, már olyan nehéz,
hogy minden léptem gyötrelem.
Súly, súly, súly rajtam, bénaság,
ellökném, rám akaszkodik,
mint egy tölgyfa a gyökerét,
vállamba vájja karmait.
Hallom, fülemnél ott dobog
irtózatos madár-szíve.
Ha elröpülne egy napon,
most már eldőlnék nélküle.

Kányádi Sándor: Volna még

pedig volna még

volna még valami
mondanivalóm
a nyíló nárcisz-
mezőkről például
az alkonyi szélben
riadtan lobogó
hegyi füvekről
a hegyekről a folyókról
égről és földről
a tengerekről
az óceánok alatt
vergődő tűzhányókról
a szerelem végtelen
napéjegyenlőségeiről
amikor az idő is
ellankad mint a patak
ha szomját oltja
benne a szarvas
egyszóval kettőnk
dolgáról az emberiség
nevében volna még
talán volna még

Charles Simić: Dictionary

Maybe there is a word in it somewhere
to describe the world this morning,
a word for the way the early light
takes delight in chasing the darkness
out of store windows and doorways.

Another word for the way it lingers
over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses
someone let drop on the sidewalk
last night and staggered off blindly
talking to himself or breaking into song.

Ada Limón: Love Poem with Apologies for My Appearance

Sometimes, I think you get the worst
of me. The much-loved loose forest-green
sweatpants, the long bra-less days, hair
knotted and uncivilized, a shadowed brow
where the devilish thoughts do their hoofed
dance on the brain. I’d like to say this means
I love you, the stained white cotton T-shirt,
the tears, pistachio shells, the mess of orange
peels on my desk, but it’s different than that.
I move in this house with you, the way I move
in my mind, unencumbered by beauty’s cage.
I do like I do in the tall grass, more animal-me
than much else. I’m wrong, it is that I love you,
but it’s more that when you say it back, lights
out, a cold wind through curtains, for maybe
the first time in my life, I believe it.