On Whirlpool Wings (Örvényszárnyon)

Where’s the Window (Hol az az ablak)

who’s there for me to turn to
where’s the window
that will
let me see
a lot more
than anyone else

On Whirlpool Wings (Örvényszárnyon)

high noon splatters poppies
the meadow’s boiling with buzz
it dresses me up in its glow
me
who’s never ridden a horse in lather
never glided on whirlpool wings
never slept with the dreams of colors
never grown out of the need for warmth
and accepted with a shock
when reality beat me up
and symmetries incinerated me
in a word when I rebelled
against my words
when I tackled my heart ready to hit
with my fists
and beat it like a huge drum
beat the hell out of it

Huge, Yellow Fairy Tales (Nagy, sárga meséket)

I’m rounding up a herd of nerves,
huge, yellow tales: my childhood,
the cadet keeps running
with a howling olive-branch flag in his hand
and playing with an air gun near my heart.

The anxious two-year-old
creates a smile oasis
like a freshly opened gift package
and defeats the huge yellow fairy tales:
he confiscates my childhood,
my toy horsewhip,
and shrugging his shoulder
he canes my nerves into docile
domestic stock.

Nocturn (Nocturn)

Dusk shuffles on
bare terrain,
my autumn heart is
rambling under autumn foliage,
the first star clambers up –
in a hurry to get to work,
escorted and
encircled
by unruly astral brats.

Sitting Almost an Hour Awkwardly
(Ülünk immár egy órája félszegen)

Vacated pieces of clothing
worn-out implements
used-up sentiments form a line
desires parade through the night
with their heels trampled down
the dimming light has crumbled
and so have courage
childish eagerness
and yawning wooden voodoo dolls
we’ve been sitting almost an hour awkwardly
and carving a world out of this and that
a multi-minute world

Uncle Space Beckons  (Tér bácsi integet)

The ground lies with me at rest,
a wheat sheaf bends over me,
summer’s light blade penetrates my heart
nodding its snowy head to a beat

A skyful of blue descends on me
coloring my blood,
I’m sniffing august winds, a lungful of time,
I feel my summer hopes in my throat,
on my lips the hand of heat,
the cloud host of whispered words
as they flap over my eyes.

Like a thirsty bird I tip my head
sipping my silence,
my hand starts to fly off in farewell,
Uncle Space beckons.

Breathing Landscapes  (Lélegző tájak)

Ever noticed? –
in the sod of the body an earthly dream is at work,
and every time you live through  the whisperings
of a vitreous winter’s idle trees
or the caresses of summer’s bayonets,
you feel love
swell into a river
and flood the breathing landscapes of your land,
and the seed sown earlier
springs up as a live wheat sheaf
in the lap of brightly rocking dawns.

Translated by Paul Sohar