2003 - 2005
The continents blasted,
cities and little towns, everything
become a scorched, blackened ball.
The news we hear is full of grief for that future,
but the real news inside here
is there’s no news at all.
Rumi
In exile from the facts
you find another world within.
I see a countryside and
your footprints along the path
beside a wheat-field.
I feel your warmth.
Verdant dream covers the land,
the gap disappears,
and we walk in peace.
after David Caspar Friedrich
The river was flowing
through the valley — I stood
on a cliff, contemplating.
Some time ago I lost all
my words.
You were approaching in blue
skirt and silk blouse, who
I waited for so long.
You’re here, and I’m still
waiting.
i like to be up late
the night falls and i turn
over the page of a book
or sit watching
the shadow on the wall
i’d love to share these
moments but i don’t
know who you are
All I abandoned
I love in you.
Soaked up in time
and leaking from space.
You close your eyes and
from inside I watch
the torn down walls.
Ruins.
The hand, I hold
your hand throughout
the ages of cracking
stones and dust.
And then we’re
sitting again,
you on my lap and I
in your womb.
There must be a gate in
the shade or in the light.
I listen to your singing
and whispering.
I didn’t dream last night,
hollow words were falling
down and rolling
in the grave of my body.
Barriers lie between us.
I reach out, you don’t.
Why a little curtain of flesh
on the bed of our desire?
William Blake
Tears tracing down on
the angel’s face, ancient,
sad wrinkles of her
glory, carved stone.
She looked at the creation,
then turned away
weeping over its mortality.
She never moved again.
No one’s protection can lead
you through the dark.
Silence resides on Queen Street
and a man with stooped
shoulders in his overcoat.
He’s a hunchback, limping
into a bar to drink from
the river of forgetfulness.
And who am I? Who will survive
the destruction of the senses?
You aren’t here and I’m not
either.
So we are one.
I’m not singing about other beautiful
women. The taste of your skin sweeter
than wine. When the moon arrives in
your room, I forget the streets and their
sleepy people. I quiver in the twilight.
Waiting in the cold, smoking. A man
comes asking for a cigarette, suddenly
disappears. Sitting in a cafe, writing.
A girl comes, her hair’s gold, and she’s
telling me about love, about silence.
I’m reaching out to the tree in your
garden, only to meet the borders of the
house. I see branches stretching over
the fence of the wind, your fingers seeking
my hand. My dream covers your eyes.
Evening comes and morning
in the exile of eternity.
the center of my being is a snowflake
a drop of water white skin melted on
my bones the center of my being is your
presence desire for words unutterable
Your face — imprinted
light in my mind, anchor thrown
deep into the sea.
This is the street where I
first kissed you. Standing
on the very spot, now only
stones. How indifferent!
Find me. A deserted
land hides the stillness
of the night.
My room is awake, you
could hear the furniture
moaning and the bricks
sobbing in the wall.
Gravity presses the floor.
Somewhere — the rain or
maybe the scorching sun
and Icarus flying.
The silence of the sea.
I’m lost in it.
All of them are sleeping
who belong to me,
their faces are so peaceful now.
A glance, clear distance
that I raise between us, but
how close and quiet you are,
slowly moving into me.
And your wrinkles, extended,
reaching out to my forehead,
are becoming one infinite line
thrust beyond the stars.
I saw the light of the sky from
under the trees your skin and
your hair were my shelter that
night our whispers filled the air
a blameless Orpheus brought us
back to life singing along the way
we saw the light of the sky again
I hear the sound
of waterfalls
and in music
a beggar’s voice
he calls on me
to be his friend
and grabs my arm
and takes my hand
he reads me poems
I share his food
of misery
and solitude
we stand beneath
the wintry sky
I see the ocean
in his eye
even the time of hatred
is like the sacrament
I eat and drink every moment
bitter desire breaking
through the night
I want your flesh
I don’t need the words
of our dreams
and I don’t speak
I just feel betrayed
and beaten up
I just want to take revenge
now fear
gloomy sky and gold
cold sunshine
no promise
no commitment
the terror of the flesh
slowly coming destruction
wait
move like a snail
approaching sacrifice
how unbearable to
listen
to smell
the blood doesn’t
circulate
cheap words
false looks
what a contentment
of the concrete
what a mess
now hate
understanding
come closer blow
your breath into me
touch
my only hope is the quiet
return of the seasons
I am
trying to find out their
secrets
the bedroom window
is open and beyond the
roofs I can see a balcony
suspended from the sky
the
stonebird is standing still
in her cage
last night the universe shrank
into a rugby ball and hit
the earth in Russia
the sky
had grown concrete with
motionless clouds like
dots on a ceiling
nobody noticed
what happened and as usual
people started working
in the morning
hour by hour
they tore off each layer of
the day finding no core
then they stripped off
their own skin
finding no bones they were hollow
like the rugby ball now
rolling towards Moscow
ready to explode
I should’ve told her earlier
that I loved someone else
she was disappointed
what can I do?
write it down?
talk to a friend?
see my therapist?
a leading British poet said
he didn’t like confessional poetry
so I’ll shut up now
hardly anything is left
some time
a few words
lonely crumbs after a
meal
I touch the earth
and it turns into ashes
I touch your breasts your
thighs
fire
embrace a handful of dust
I hold tight
my home
Budapest, 2003 - 2005
Lack of inspiration
being born,
keep on dying.
2
Upside down:
as above
so below.
3
How ugly
is the most
beautiful.
It’s easy to be sceptical
while Aphrodite bathing
in calm waters and we
don’t see her. She’s there.
Truth and faith mix in the
streets of Nicosia, Greeks
and Turks in the dirt, in
blood flowing beneath ruins,
Crescent moon in the flag
carved into the mountainside,
I turn my back to it and
catch a ride to Larnaca.
From there to Limassol,
from there to Paphos, and
all the way now back again
by the sea with you.
15 March 2003, Paphos, Cyprus
what do stones speak about?
the past
I see not
I hear not
but violins
playing a symphony now
a meteor is an angel
trying to become human
the weight that pulls it down
its own
there’s no hand to lift him
oceanwaves
licking the side
of the stone
a boat safely arrives in the harbour
21 April 2003, Budapest
as you put the words
into my mouth
swallowing them it is
no surprise
though my tail’s rooted
in the ground
the roof above my head
completes the house
Someone woke up at dawn and
heard a song he shared with me.
I’ll give you his music, for
I’m weak in inspiration.
When we’re flying, others crying,
spitting swearwords at the Sun.
Their anger breaks its light down
and we stand there in disbelief.
We woke up at dawn and heard
this song to share with you.
Vessels. Hungarian, Canadian
and other vessels. All those
faces. Clothes so worn out.
And vessels that are holy.
Prayer and the like. The mantra
Of your name. Kadosh. Kadosh. Kadosh.
Even trains are vessels. The people
they contain are vessels themselves.
Everything contains something else.
Railway stations: One end open to
the infinite. The universe holds
space. One plus one equals two.
Words come to me through a torrent of
uncried tears. Love comes to me through
the unrealized self. And the tortured other.
Why so contradictory? Broken and velvety?
Dreams come to me and I don’t remember.
Only the longing lingers. Eternal why.
So I open my mind to my dreams, to see.
I hide under thick blankets of selves. But
egotism gets the upper hand and builds
the iron curtain of the soul. No light.
15 November 2003, Nagybörzsöny
one shouldn’t be late
to say I love you,
while it’s still possible,
not having dust in the mouth
I’m alive breathe and
fly the kite out there
the crowd cries out in a
loud voice inside the guide
Cutthroats in Kiev search the pockets of their victims.
It’s incredible how much they charge for the trainride.
But irrational fear holds us back, not a book we read.
You’ve just finished the last sentence of a secret prayer.
The huge head is filled with sacred words of languages.
There comes the metro, most of the people stand, empty.
Sepulchre city, so many names to be inscribed on stones,
they keep flying out of the phonebook like a promise.
I lift my head to high-reaching prophecies and pithy
thoughts written in the palm of your hand, city lights
illuminate the winding streets of the center which
cannot hold for sure, and keeps pushing us out,
to find the place of exile inside.
once there was a mr. Smith
was he greek hungarian
i don’t know but he was sick
for a face he had a mask to stick
onto his nose
otherwise his heart was broken
for his country silly token
he took the lives of so many
tortured burned them
out of anger and revenge for
his tortured fellow-countrymen
so our man fell off the cliff
of his pride
finally we know he is
out there for enemies
who might as well under the
fallen twin towers hide
I’ve been here since Cadmus old,
seven generations or nine, blind, the
unwilling seer, the Truth I prophesize.
Guardian of the gates of Thebes, seven
above in Olympian, one below in Plutonian
reality: I hold the key. The door’s one
through which we enter, exit, as the bed
you sleep in cannot be two. Most men are
asleep, though the palace has many rooms,
you find the king in his chamber.
You behold the form, but I know your nature,
a half-breed, demigod you are, who must
wander on, the eternal slopes you have to
climb, away from this war-torn town, an
exile from your mother’s house, your wife’s.
Why would you need more than this? And
why would you want to know more? Why?
25 July 2004, Paphos, Cyprus
message received
took the phone
got in the car
got on the bus
on the tram
hopped on a train
boarded the plane
took the laptop
placed it on top of
the lap
lifted the lid
looked at the screen
some mirror
new message
your outer face
is bound to show
the pace of your inner life
7 November 2004, Nagybörzsöny
and everything gets confused again
so we need to change the lens
distorted avenues fear-torn trees
the invisible wind in the blind
entrance of streetcars wall-faces
we’re taken to Northern Nowhere
not so nice while the other parts
collapse under the giant wave of
nuclear waste while the system
completely breaks down and
we need to change the lens
18 January 2005, Budapest
Israel, 1994-1995
When I was young,
I thought
my home was Greece
and that was all.
I was wrong,
I was wrong.
When a girl came along,
I thought
she could be the one
I want.
I was wrong,
I was wrong.
I just kept on
saying Good-by,
I just kept on
saying Good-by.
When I was young,
the grass was tall,
food was sweet
and work was joy.
The Earth was good,
the Earth was home.
My land got dry,
my house got old,
when a door was locked,
a window broke.
When I was young,
the air was cold.
I just kept on
saying Good-by,
I just kept on
saying Good-by.
I touch you naked
and I pray,
as you lift up your head
to see the bay
where Ulysses arrives
every day.
I’ll gather wind
and desert sand,
and stones from fire
in my hand.
Then I’ll give it away,
give it all away.
And I’ll keep on
saying Good-by,
I’ll just keep on
saying Good-by.
1994, Tel Aviv
She approached me in a dream
with people playing mandolin,
they didn’t find the open door
to decorate the tile floor.
They didn’t know they lived in hell,
Singing songs beneath a bell.
Touch me deep, o touch me strong,
let children come into our bond,
to play upon the sacred ground,
hide and seek and lost and found.
I’ve painted pictures all my life,
that I may reach some paradise,
where visions of reality
will come to you, and come to me,
where victories of days of old
mean losing every single war.
Touch me deep, o touch me strong,
let children come into our bond,
to play upon the sacred ground,
hide and seek and lost and found.
I called your name so many times,
you called my name again and again,
but our voices got lost in the noise of the crowd
on Sheinkin Street in a traffic jam.
I called your name in the night,
voices answered your name was different,
you called my name in the light,
no one answered or gave you a hand.
This is my hand Baby,
take me to your house,
lay me down in your bed
and turn out the lights.
The city is dead around us,
a cemetery’s sleeping in the sand
dreaming about old houses
in Tarragona and in Ireland.
The journey is all over for those
who lie speechless in the grave,
I’m dancing on their dry bones,
on tombstones remembering the brave.
This is my life Baby,
I’m not afraid to go away,
I’m not afraid if you want me,
I’m not afraid to stay.
I’m dancing on the street,
it’s three o’clock in the morning,
it’s eternity in the clouds
and in the Moon’s cold blow.
I want to wake you up,
I want to buy you yoghurt
and suck on your saliva
after you’ve eaten it all.
I want to make love to you
in a bed adorned
with memories
of the cold war.
I want to wake you up,
I want to wake you,
I want to wake you up,
I want to wake you.
Mystery you are to me,
a riddle I can’t solve,
a puzzle I can’t figure out.
Mystery, mystery you are to me.
Your fears and selfish kisses
dancing with me
as if you weren’t here.
Mystery, mystery you are to me.
My secret desire you are,
aching in joy
and rejoicing in misery.
Mystery, mystery you are to me.
Your eyes are so serious
when you’re asking me why I’m here,
while the stars are out all alone
and daylight is drawing near.
I heard your crying out
in distances, far away.
I left home to bring you light
you can’t find during the day.
My night will warm your heart,
why turn me away?
The morning is cold and dark,
feelings are hidden deep
in snowfalls and torn apart
remains of last summer’s heat.
I wanted to comfort you,
you told me you wouldn’t play,
you told me what you’d been through,
but I want you, I want to stay.
My night will warm your heart,
why send me away?
You’ve accomplished nothing here,
grew up in fear and made your life
out of shame.
It’s nothing from nothing,
nothing from nothing.
How dark is your soul
and how small is your heart,
though your breasts are firm
and you look sexy all in all.
But it’s nothing from nothing,
nothing from nothing.
What can I do with you now?
I’ll spit in your face
when my time’s come,
I’ll turn my back on you,
never to turn back again,
‘cause you are nothing from nothing,
nothing from nothing.
You’re alone, separated from yourself
like a split moon.
Woman, you’re a disaster,
and the man with you is a snake.
But it’s nothing from nothing,
Nothing from nothing.
What can I do with you now?
They went home. They will come back
home. They’re shouting. I’m afraid. Very
afraid that no one will touch me. Them.
Sowing the seeds.
Down they went. They’re down there
below. I hear them cry, I’m a stone.
Where’s my heart, where’s my mind?
Throwing the weeds.
All kinds are coming here, all sorts.
There we go and here we go.
Where’s your heart and where’s your mind?
There she goes and here she comes.
1995, Jerusalem