Baranyi Ferenc: Tudod-e, mit teszel?

Tudod-e, mit teszel?
Mikor csalóra adod a voksod:
tudod-e, mit teszel?
Mikor a karvalyt hattyúnak mondod:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor sugárként hódolsz a ködnek:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor nem sírsz, ha másokat ölnek:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor gyáván vagy színlelve tapsolsz:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor botlás csak, hogy igazat szólsz:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor mosolygod csak, ami sanda:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor süketvak vagy készakarva:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Mikor nem hallod kételyedet meg
s nem nézed azt, mi kínos szemednek:
tudod-e mit teszel?
Ha tudod – sírig élj megvetésben.
Ha nem – megbocsát Isten.
De én nem.

(2012)

Karacs Andrea: Hőség

Harmincnyolc fok lehetett, hideg
fröccsre ültünk be, a vár alatti egyik

kis utcában, az egyéniségembe, így

mondtad, meg azt, hogy kezdesz,

ezt a szót használtad, kezdesz

beleszeretni, majd feljebb húztad a

kezemet, és a tenyeremről lefújtad

az izzadságot, a meleg miatt, mondtam

akkor, hogy valamit én is mondjak.

Brian Bilston: Charity Shop Secret Santa

Denise recognised him instantly. there,
in the Age Concern window - Nik Kershaw,
standing next to a battered Yahtzee box

and a selection of Rebus paperbacks.

No humans had raced to buy him.

He must have been there since summer

for his skin had yellowed as if the sun

had gone down on him many times.

How he'd ended up here was a riddle

but wouldn't it be good, Denise thought,

to get him for this year's Secret Santa,

as she knew Mike was a fan,

and what's more, given the £10 budget,

she still had enough left over

for Get Fit with Mr Motivator on VHS.

Mike could do with losing a few pounds.

Sure enough, the diminuitive Ipswich-born

singer-songwriter proved a real hit,

with Mike unable to hide his delight

when he unwrapped him, saying how

he'd go nicely in between his Howard Jones

and the drummer out of Culture Club,

which Craig from Sales had got him last year.

Denise herself got anothre Nodding Jesus.

Judith Viorst: Three in the Morning

At three in the morning I used to be sleeping an untroubled sleep in my bed,
But lately at three in the morning I'm tossing and turning,

Awakened by hypochondria, and gas, and nameless dread,

Whose name I've been learning.

At three in the morning I brood about what my cholesterol count might reveal,

And the pains in my chest start progressing from gentle to racking,

While certain intestinal problems make clear that the onions I ate with my meal

Plan on counterattacking.

At three in the morning I reach for the bottle of pills that I seem to possess

Increasingly larger amounts of as every year passes,

Except that I can't tell the ones for my nerves from the ones for my stomach distress

Till I put on my glasses.

At three in the morning I look toward the future with blankets pulled over my ears,

And all my basic equipment distinctly diminished.

My gums are receding, my blood pressure's high, and I can't begin listing my fears

Or I'll never get finished.

At three in the morning I used to be sleeping but lately I wake and reflect

That my girlhood has gone and I'll now have to manage without it.

They tell me that I'm heading into my prime. From the previews I do not expect

To be crazy about it.

Turi Tímea: A legrövidebb út

Férfiuról szólj nékem, múzsa, ki sokfele bolygott?
Múzsa sem vagy, és nekem nincsen kedvem

folyton a férfiakról beszélni.

A bolyongást ismerem, ezért szívesen hallgatnék történeteket valami másról.

Amikor még nem utaztak szélsebesen a városok között,

amikor a beszélgetés még nem 

                                        nyilvános monológok kihallgatása volt,

amikor a ropogó tűz köré gyűltünk,

akkor két pont között a legrövidebb út a beszéd volt.

És Odüsszeusz, ez a szőrös pacák

mégis eltévedt e két pont között.

Leeanne Quinn: Eating Out

Consumed by a couple who sit in silence,
you interrupt me just to point out how

this particular pair eat without speaking.

She, head downcast, attends to the task

of picking white fish from its springy bone.

He stabs at his food as if puncturing

the air between them. While you,

dissatisfied, almost hurt yourself

looking past me for explanations.

There's something wrong here, you say,

not to me but to the scene unfolding

mutely behind me, as if you should get up

and fix it. As if their not-talking

is something they have forgotten,

something they have left behind,

so you can call after them--

half-embararassed by your heroism--

and disrupt their do-not-disturb

alliance, while I sit appetite-less

reading the menu, like a page-turner.

András László: Zúzás

Álmomban óriási
sziklákat morzsoltam

apró kavicsokká

és arra ébredtem

heverek a parton

kis fehér kavicsok

közt kis fehér kavics.

Brian Bilston: My Writing Poetry Masterclass

Have you always wanted to write poetry
but never quite known where to start?
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and learn how to develop your craft.

In just seventy-two ninety-minute lessons,
you will learn the essentials of being a poet,
from standing around awkwardly at parties
to watching clouds as they shift in the sky.

I will teach you how to explore the white space
of the page, and how to explore it again,
before getting up to make another cup of tea
and returning to explore it some more.

We will look at how to use poetry to tackle
some of the big questions – Why am I here?
What does it all mean? What on earth
did I come into this room for in the first place?

Along the way, I will be talking about voice,
rhythm, staring, the white space of the page,
metaphor, cadence, staring, form, creativity,
as well as the page and its white space.


And you will discover how to unharness the power
of your imagination and create striking imagery –
like a poet who creates striking imagery
through the unharnessed power of their imagination.

Finally, we’ll examine the practicalities of being a poet:
how to look fabulous in author photographs;
which paper offers the best white space; and how
best to row about what proper poetry is.

Whether you’re completely new to poetry
or once saw a short film involving Simon Armitage
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Brian Bilston: The Only English Pope

I know this one. It's Adrian the somethingth.
That's a handy piece of knowledge, that is.

Always thought it would come in useful.

For the general knowledge round, obvs,

or the papal picture round, if there is one.

Yeah, real name, Nicholas Breakspear.

You can have that nugget for free.

As a rule, there aren't that many famous Adrians:

Mole, of course. Chiles. Edmondson.

What's that? No, the wall bloke had an H.

Don't know much about the guy beyond that.

I mean, if you were to ask me to expound

on the political advisability of his alliance

with the Byzantine emperor Michael I Komnenos,

I'd look at you askance. Not a clue, mate.

But if it helps, I can tell you the name

of the only Prime Minister to be assassinated.

Spencer Perceval. . What's that?

No, I don't know why. But it's not important -

I doubt there'll be an essay round, mate.