2024. április 23., kedd

Brian Bilston: The Very Condensed Shakespeare

A terrible storm rages, and two gentlemen -
one a Venetian merchant, the other a Trojan prince -
are washed up on the shores of the Forest of Arden.
When Angelo is chased off by a bear wearing
yellow stockings, the prince (who calls himself Falstaff
but whose real name is Beatrice) encounters Puck,
a fairy-like shrew, who enchants the woods to march
on the nearby hamlet of Dunsinane. There, Falstaff meets
a passing traitorous Roman senator, who tells him
of a blind, hunchbacked tyrant named Henry VI,
ruler of three parts of the kingdom, alongside Henry IV
(two parts), Henry V, Henry VIII, a couple of Richards,
and John who have one part each. The king, fearful
of a merger between powerful rival families, has abducted
two star-crossed teenagers and cooked them in a pie.
On his way to avenge these crimes, Falstaff falls in love
with a shepherdess called Goneril (but who is really
Antiphonus, eldest son of Henry VI) and woos her
through the recital of one hundred and fifty-four sonnets.
Upon reaching the court, Falstaff takes advantage
of the disloyalty of Henry's general, Iago, to overthrow
the king, who runs away to a cave and kills himself by asp.
Goneril succeeds to the throne - and Falstaff becomes
his queen - following a joyful double wedding
with Angelo and the yellow-stockinged bear,
who have also fallen in love (just as the three witches
had prophesied), and all's well that ends well.

2024. április 22., hétfő

Brian Bilston: Birdsong

There is a bird who sings to me,
each morning from the old lime tree.
I wonder what he's trying to say?
Stop fucking up. It's not too late.

It's such a happy, joyous sound!
Little bird who chirps so loud
And brightens up my day with song.
Stop standing there. You've not got long.

I wish I could translate your words,
my faithful, a cappella bird,
who sits upon the lime tree bough.
And still you wait. You must act now.

All's quite in the tree today.
I think perhaps he's moved away.
There's silence these days everywhere,
the ghost of birdsong in the air.

2024. április 20., szombat

Makó Ágnes: Nemet Mondani Tudók

Locker Dávid A Könnyen Barátkozók című versére


Ó, hogy irigyellek titeket, Nemet Mondani Tudók.
A nem csak úgy legördül ajkatokról,
mint az ötszázezredik Suzuki a gyártósorról.
Ötszázezer nem nektek semmiség,
nap mint nap gyakorolt mantra.
Bocs, de nem érek rá.
Nem, ezen a héten már nem fér bele.
Nem tudom korrepetálni a húgodat,
más dolgom van.
Milyen dolgom?
Nem, dehogy beteg a kutyám.
Nem a szomszéd nyomtatóját állítom be,
honnan veszed?
Csak haladni szeretnék az életemmel.


Ó, hogy irigyellek titeket, Nemet Mondani Tudók.
A nemetek laza és természetes,
minden begyakorolt póztól mentes.
Pontosan ismeritek a nemet,
befogtátok, megszelídítettétek,
szeretve használjátok.
Tudjátok, hogy semmi bántó nincs benne,
egyszerűen csak nem és kész.
Utána nincs hajnalig tartó önvád,
sötétbe meredő szemek.
Kipihenten ébredtek,
készen az aznapi elsőre:
nem viszem le a szemetet.
Csak én hiszem azt,
hogy a nem bűn,
a társadalom szövetének szaggatója,
az önzés melegágya,
a kapcsolatok instant sírásója.
Csak én hiszem azt,


hogy aki igenember,
azt várják, hívják, szeretik,
mert odamegy, megfőzi,
besegít, lemossa,
ápolja, meghallgat,
igen, persze,
még, még,
lelkesedése határtalan.
Ma kipróbálom a nullával osztást,
megkeresem a legközelebbi
Nemet Mondani Tudót,
becsalogatom,
elhintek neki néhány csalit,
megvárom, hogy kérjen,
és akkor odaköpök egy ordas nagy nemet.
Meglátjuk, összecsomósodik-e
a világegyetem.

2024. április 19., péntek

Brian Bilston: I'm Dreaming of a (Statistically Improbable) White Christmas

I'm dreaming of a (statistically improbable) white Christmas,
just like the ones I've seldom known.
'Cos it's a great big Maybe,
the chance of snow is flaky,
as long-term data clearly shows.

I'm dreaming of a (meterologically unlikely) white Christmas.
The Met Office has let me down again.
In Jan or February,
it snows more readily,
let's hold off Christmas until then.

I'm dreaming of an (artificially constructed) white Christmas,
with every festive tale I read.
Curse you, Charles Dickens,
your snow falls and thickens
each Christmas morning, guaranteed.

I'm dreaming of an implausibly white Christmas,
meant in no racist sense at all.
I'm anti-prejudice
I'm no white supremacist,
I'm just begging snow to fall.

I'm experiencing a (disappointingly predictable un)white Christmas
There's not a single flake in sight.
But I keep on dreaming despite,
hoping one year Christmas will be wihte.

2024. április 18., csütörtök

Judith Viorst: The Whole Truth

He always called her honey and
She always called him sweetie and
He always brought her flowers and
She always stroked his hair.
Their beautiful relationship was
What a marriage should be and
The rest of us regarded it with
Envy and despair.

She always called him lover and
He always called her baby and
She always praised his brilliance and
He always praised her wit.
No wife was more adoring and
No husband more devoted and
The rest of us were jealous I'm
Embarrassed to admit.

He always called her dearest and
She always called him darling and
He always hugged and kissed her and
She always held him tight.
They just announced they're filing for
Divorce tomorrow morning and
The news has filled the rest of us with
Absolute delight.

2024. április 17., szerda

Simon Réka Zsuzsanna: Lánykabátorító húsvétra

Állj, ha mondom,
meg ne moccanj,
emeld fel a két kezed!
Ne vedd elő azt a kölnit,
meg ne próbálj csak egy csöppnyit,
erre szórni,
jól vigyázz!
Úgy öntelek nyakon vízzel,
kölniszagú haraggal,
mint ahogy az ürgét szokták
az Alföldön tavasszal.

2024. április 16., kedd

José A. Alcántara: Divorce

He has flown headfirst against the glass
and now lies stunned on the stone patio,
nothing moving but his quick beating heart.
So you go to him, pick up his delicate
body and hold him in the cupped palms
of your hands. You have always known
he was beautiful, but it’s only now, in his stillness,
in his vulnerability, that you see the miracle
of his being, how so much life fits in so small
a space. And so you wait, keeping him warm
against the unseasonable cold, trusting that
when the time is right, when he has recovered
both his strength and his sense of up and down,
he will gather himself, flutter once or twice,
and then rise, a streak of dazzling
color against a slowly lifting sky.