2000 – 2003
City Cockroaches stomped on Country kitchen floors.
Allen Ginsberg
this is what happens when the hanged man
is upside down
he’s standing!
i could only balance it if
i was a racehorse
once
but i’m transported through a city
which seems surreal
with all the people in it
the truck rocks hard
the streetcar is yellow
and the man who’s just got off
wearing that funny hat
is looking at me with compassion
in his eyes
13 December 2000, Budapest
between the kennels
a bit of space
just enough to know
there’s one and
the other is one too
biblical ears
animal mouth
finding patches
of grass even
in winter
crossword puzzle
on the ground
up the tree
sniffing round barking
when i love you
priests’ dinner
running fast
miraculously embodied
covered in golden fur
you’re on the couch
eyes closed
while i’m in the
armchair thinking
i’ve been blind
23 December 2000, Parád – 1 January 2001, Budapest
odd numbers
one
and three
why not two
in the pictures
showing nonexistent
spring
hurting my back
at times
beyond time
in slow mating
among
boulders and concrete
fence
and out there
the vast
Canadian land
little bird fly
o your wings
how they stretch
and your beak
it would try
sing again
in the night
little thing
don’t be sad
you’ll get your food
right in time
with the tide
sing again
in the night
i heard you screech
i heard you weep
i saw you tired
i saw you fine
in the tree
sing again
in the night
much love gone
all the pain
all the tears
all you loved
have passed
sing again
in the night
it’s impossible to go without pain
and i wonder why
and i’m putting on your clothes
i’m shivering without you
and what happens
is what happens not
what i want to be
but what happens to me
when birds cry and
the window’s shut when
the universe turns
over its axis
let your tears go
let your tears go
dies many deaths
of love of birth
and rebirth comes
with the dawn
gathers strength
from scratch of soul
builds you up again
and covers you
we turn and sleep
a song lingers
and Leonard Cohen
succumbs to a poem
but comes again
and comes again
the two of them
‘cause they sing not for bread
fly together
while others on soft cushions
chatting
don’t listen to them
only fear stops singing
so play your song
your heart’s return
grey and black
the vision’s curse
turn the wheel
and bless me first
please bless her first
first bless her
please
crows
are spiritual
in awareness
and noble
aloneness on
the solitary
branch still
they fly
together
just like
blackbirds
emotional
ask the
pigeon
or the sparrow
how
hierarchy
pervades
our candles burning behind
a window turning and a man
is sleeping by the entrance
of the house
in the park at night i see
myself walking by the lake
with my wife some
long time ago but now four
ducks are there
i’m trying to say something
soothing or kind to make
them feel my warmth
and though they live in pairs
humans should never consider
themselves apart from animals
in matters of choice
aren’t suspended by some invisible
thread. Their fluttering wings hold
them up in mid-air, and they sing.
I’m on the porch, smoking, watching
my faster-than-usual heartbeat, and
these two birds seem like the message
of you I’ve been waiting for. Evening
has come down as if from the spirit
world, with more reality than a day
in bright light and tumult. When our
etheric bodies touch, all my worries
subside, give way to the non-material,
and to astral bodies in death unified.
Your coming to the flowers
touches my soul after a night
of awakening and the prayerful
dawn. Our lovemaking in the
morning touched our souls,
you were the bee and I
the flower, flowers of every
spring when thought goes to
sleep and hills blossom. You
heard my prayer, not concealed
from you anymore, it’s open to
the window, the garden and its
trees breathing desire.
So we’ll return as the walls of
the house drink in the words,
and bees by the thousands are
like letters of fire.
Let me paint you now.
Awareness is your head,
Silence is the ears,
Knowledge is your body
Whiteness is your heart.
No distance is greater than
Nearness, hide your tail
In thorny bushes, only
Come my way when you
Want. I will wait.
So they fight too. It was
like Indian prophecy or
a heavenly sign of what
to avoid.
Two females courted by
a male. He, rejected, flies
off, the other two attack,
then turn away, finally
fly off. No one’s happy.
Each alone, sullen, angry.
Not again! Let’s make
peace and come together.
This new nest is not to be
destroyed. Keep the bird
on the egg.
Hiding under algae or just gone, except
for one. The water used to be swarming
with fish, ornamental and less so.
Many years are gone since I first came
here with someone I loved. Knowing
you, and now back again, take this rose.
Take this white rose as an offering for
the years I lived with others when I
knew you. I had no patience to wait.
Look, turtles are here, the goldfish isn’t
alone, as you’re not alone, look, the pond
filling up with baby turtles.
harbours so much anger
as a human. And we say it’s
our beastly nature to hate.
I wonder what happened to
my dad when he hung up
on me, or my mum, who
envies our love and can’t
bear to see us. Will only
shame take you in? And
what happened to me this
morning that I didn’t wake
you up with kisses to help
you leave in peace? Secretly
I resented your leaving, in a
way I got after you were off.
The goat is climbing a mountain.
No one can stop it, there’s a will
and no way to make it turn back.
From the top will it ascend.
At the foot of the mountain plays
a lioness with her little one.
The male’s away for food, she
doesn’t care whether he returns.
The lion is dysfunctional and
he knows it. He left long ago,
has no desire to eat alone, to
be king without a queen. No.
The last goat of the land gone,
other beasts won’t come near.
The lion is depressed, useless
decoration, his teeth fall out.
Males aren’t self-sufficient.
goats and lions, elephants and
horses, birds and insects, fish
and amphibians feed on the other.
Hunters, only hunters survive,
if they want. Until nothing
to hunt for. Then farmers will
come to raise sheep for fleece.
City or country, they sing.
Or rather just keep opening
their mouths, huge ones, as
if their bellies were open.
One big hole, grave, cavity
unfilled, and only one note,
monotonous trill, some really
stubborn singing from joy of
singing louder than their size
would allow. Maybe I heard
your voice from the radio,
strange, but familiar, like your
body now dissolving in thin
air, my breath following. Dark
is the dawn that has you gone.
they run around all day
then eat their portion while
people go to mass in the
village on the hill they’re the
village people finding strength
in localized world-energy
here you’re rooted in the earth
terebinth tree or sime kind of pine
in the land of snow and pain
where swallows now get ready
to make their way through the
whiteness of clouds where no fear
may arise in the soul we made
with God when we forgave
2 September 2001, Tápiószentmárton
Surprise in the house,
here’s the outside,
grass, trees, flowers.
The garden’s gentle aura
approaches my soul.
Dissipating noise from
the city, while the softly
falling light calms and
satisfies my love.
Meek Moon touches
down behind a cloud, and
I can tell its flight from the
reflection in the center of
the celestial Rose.
19 July 2002, Budapest
Raindrops, city-afternoon.
Music in the bar, coffee.
The conversation helped me
last night, the truth you know.
Selling poetry books is no way
to make a living, but shelter.
Want to buy ginger ale for
my beloved, cook dinner.
Some people don’t recognize
my face anymore, stranger.
No birds’ trilling, buses.
No people in the streets, bodies.
7 May 2001, Budapest
Get high by the river,
light a candle, have wine.
Look for the North Star
and remember, when we’re
apart, to think of the East.
Get depressed over the past.
If I miss my only child,
don’t diminish your love tonight,
if you struggle with indifference,
look at the two ducks paddling
near alluvium, scavengers of food.
We’re together for decades now.
Paining soul, pigeon touching down.
Men wearing ties, cellphones on belts,
where used to be pistols and swords.
In the hearts noble patriotism melts.
Cheese. Towers and cars, work
so important, now pushing all of us.
My wings keep on fluttering in heavy
rain of hope pelting on roofs.
This far can we get, from one stop
to another, getting old on bus routes.
We could change numbers and hide.
We could be angels holding hands.
Now that i can’t sleep i know
even the thought of losing you
kills me. What is this angst?
Meditate i should, but worry?
This leads me back to you.
Thought is a traint to take,
I already feel like flying,
an eagle i am, soaring high,
to be coming down on prey,
your heart, flowing with love
and understanding, my heart
yearning to be made into one.
Thinking of Venice this morning,
the gifts you brought me, your
loving when you arrived.
A swallow on the wire alone
is a perfect simile I thought,
but there came another one with
many more following in circular
flight in the Mátra Mountains.
The wire then! I’ll just lay me down
on a clearing, extend my aura for
reaching you anywhere on the planet
by an electrified etheric field.
He collects books, postcards, toys.
She uses a computer to solve problems.
She has responsilities of her own.
He shares a flat with commitments.
He’s on the bed, reading up on love.
She’s working on the field of prayer.
There are times when the two aren’t one.
They’re making blessings for children.
St. Benedict was saved by a raven.
Poe shrank from the sight of it.
Medieval paintings mean the same bird by
showing one flying off, one touching down.
The brocken neck. Poor man’s peace.
Others are fine while still alive.
Me not. No sacrifice would suffice,
only the innocent bird’s love.
Transfixed between the Earth and
the Sky, flapping wings now spread out.
Immovable up there you can see me.
You believe. And you’ll take me down.
For your freedom and love of country
I’ll come to you. Pull out the nails.
Set me free I’ll set you free, peace
offering of poor man, heartbeat-flight.
23 June 2001, Ispánk
Sacrificial animal,
given a chance to fight,
unlike the others in
the zoo where I live
and know that sooner
or later I’ll be taken
away for slaughter.
Bull breaks free,
roams the streets,
screaming crowd
he runs behind.
Cow looks on
from a point of
holiness untouchable.
Every separation from you,
every parting is like is like
the breaking of the primeval
vessels in a universal kitchen,
where everything’s so fragile.
Let it be kaporot, sacrifice.
Let it all be katorot, offering.
How does the goat feel when
driven out of the city it carries
the sins of its people to the
wilderness? I don’t know. I’ll
bring a thanksgiving-offering
instead.
Humble one, who
and what you symbolize,
the act at pesach
and the fact unveiled
parallel figurative,
is mystery.
Freeing from sin and
bondage, who is it
that really acts
and redeems, but
the awaken one in whom
the one has awakened.
I shall begin with huge letters on
transparent walls, shutters closing
to the sound of the horn, resurrect.
Come up, you dying, hear my cry!
Where darkness was before,
now it’s only rain, washing
our dark fires away to the Sun.
There, where the egg cracks.
And you sigh, I have arrived.
I have arrived in the land of
Darkness, banished from the
Singing of hymns for awhile.
Till she arrives with the Moon
for a crown on her glorious head.
From end to beginning,
from beginning to end,
I’m calling your name,
redeemer, soul-sister.
Father bought you yesterday
for two silver coins, my two
failures as a price, atonement.
My only kid, my only kid.
First comes a cat to eat you,
past lovers devour the blood
of our treaty, thirst unslakeable
sucking our life-force away.
But a dog bites the cat, loyal
friend arrives, only too late.
So the master comes with a stick
and beats the dog, my only kid.
Helpless rigid stick now thrown
in the fire of procreation, it
burns to ashes, all my hopes in
the flames with my only kid.
And water quenches the embers
burning, so God’s spoken, and
I’m turning inward for peace,
for you I’m yearning, my only kid.
Now an ox licks up the water,
since everything must serve
another in turn, as I wish to
return for my only kid.
Next, the ox comes under the
blow of one who slaughters,
who himself is slain by sword.
My only kid, my only kid.
Angel of death will take us
away in the end, he’s the
guardian of secret gardens
there, where peace dwells.
Where animals are transformed
to pure service of unity our father
achieved on high, and the son below,
an only kid, our only kid.
Thank you.
these grains of wheat
that died in the ground,
took new form, new life.
Thinking of you and waiting
to be released from fear,
to release myself constantly,
this is my last offering for you.
Talking to you I left for silence,
Trilling birds and
Tiny worms for the woodpecker.
Wind and water,
earth and fire, the elements have
taken shape in simple food, body.
To our fearless love I empty
the cup of the dying wise man,
that we may find each other again.
23 August 2001, Budapest
Second Part
God kills you, said Bahram, he
crushes you with his clumsy hand.
I was standing, lost in thoughts
of jealousy and envy. Sweet despair.
The ant on the rough slab staggers,
tiny spaceship in a stone-constellation.
So minuscule I feel this morning,
opening letters of money matters.
Wish I was among those who have.
Wish my love stayed with me.
People gamble in order to learn how
to die, said Dani. I’m waiting for Godot.
5 July 2001, Budapest
Eating alone, just like cooking
for oneself, is a sin. A bug is my
company. It’s crawling out of the
plate wet-legged and terrified.
Drinking alone is boring, the patio
filled with curious tourists, Spanish
miracle-seekers, German folk chatting,
English spoken by all, except for the
Hungarians, who neither drink, nor eat.
They’re alive for a few nights each
summer, speak only one language, and have
a questionable future in this solitary soup.
My thoughts are flies,
several thousand species.
They feed on all kinds,
sources of all sorts.
There isn’t any they dislike.
Nothing there is they reject.
Interrogating flies. Soothing
ones only on sunny clearing.
Few of them get there though,
but I’m waiting, lying down
in tall grass, there comes a
bee, three butterflies get closer.
Spiders are occupied with boundaries,
create intricate and confusing passages
for catching prey, or just guarding their
territory, where no stranger should enter.
My jealousy is a web and a labyrinth,
I’m the Minotaur and I’ll devour anyone
who dares to overstep our love’s threshold,
though I’m easily slain by Theseus: those who
preceded me as receivers of your gifts,
the saliva in your mouth and your jellyroll.
They come with a broom and quickly brush
away our delicate home in the kitchen corner.
How many more times will you
sentence me to death, and not
carry out the judgement? I
can’t know, since I’m the one
who keeps flying too close to
the sun, or just a midnight lamp.
And I inevitably fall, my wings
burn and in no time I’ll kiss the ground.
My body aches, please keep me away
from the fire, so high I aspire,
I cannot hold my breath any longer,
and in shame I suffocate, then expire.
In death there’s wholeness on all
four levels, the last letter is put
in its place, or the last pebble on
a gravestone, and stones on mounds
over the dead, and psalms recited
for their memory of soul under grass
shining gold in the afternoon sun
like prayer and thoughts of warmth,
heart-thoughts, which the dead need,
for flowers to bloom for the living,
and for the bee to land on my hand,
proclaiming resuscitation in love.
If you’re a tiny beetle crawling
along this dark and winding road,
what am I? Because it takes so
much to forgive and so long!
Now let’s go together. Here I am,
Yes, here’s my forgiving heart.
Forgiven is my lonely night, your
day full of people, without me.
Forgiven is the distance that could
only separate at first, but now
unifies. It makes my pardon
one with your joyous recognition.
18 August 2001, Budapest
Death compels me to write again,
Silence of the decayed and of the quiet earth.
Those who fell through the window-pane,
They who wish never to experience rebirth.
You have made me to write for you,
So far you are away, your body’s dead to me.
Roses held to the bluish hue
Transform inside my soul your love of harmony.
I am already dead, I know,
Your sword had pierced me through, only my cry was heard.
Every murder’s a way to show
What no words can describe, but we can see it blurred.
Trees are waiting till fall arrives,
Standing under the sky, sleep without foliage.
Friends departed, they crossed the lines
War had set between us as a sign of the age.
Winter’s come with the wake of dawn,
Prayer’s on my lips, silence dwells in my heart.
The long black cloud is now coming down,
Hides away everything we have had from the start.
Resurrection will shake the tomb,
When you return in love for those who loved before.
Eyes will burn in the darkest room
Of the night penetrating our souls to the core.
(In memory of those who perished
in Manhattan on 9-11. 2001.)
Arrow and Bow
Conscious suffering is of value,
says the master in the book,
being able not to hurt you,
that’s me hanging from a hook.
Where there is no place to go,
towards which the sages look,
I am going there you know,
you sent me out to desert island
with an arrow and a bow,
while you went to far-away-land.
You’ve got saddle, I’m the horse,
I’m the poet, you the garland.
The only thing we use is force.
When I’d like to give you rhyme,
rhythm becomes your recourse.
So we waste our precious time.
9 May 2002, Budapest
I have become a tree.
Or just a leafy shrub.
I grow in strange places,
like the rooftop of the movie house.
And your heart, like other
hard places, strengthens my resolve.
Like summer, I hang in through
your kitchen window, twig-fingers
hold your palm, and like
reciting psalms, I’m reading lines
on the face of your hand. Wrinkles.
Once again extending, holding me,
then releasing to be released, just
to be held again, as in God’s hand.
4 August 2002, Budapest
dried up rose petals
white and red
farewell
the green leaves of
grass now a plant
on my desk
pebbles and soil
still alive but
buried in noise
hardly ever watered
while the flower is
dissolved in the
river to forget
like memories
that are left in a chest
an invisible heart
thumping
21 February 2003, Budapest