SOMEWHERE BUDAPEST
A Chapel Opens In the Heart
Morning’s As A Child’s Doodling
If Only You Were Here
Anna
The Late R.V. Truszova’s Message
As If Motionless
Explorers
Primitive Love
Let’s Talk About Those Women Too
On the Highway
Three Smacks
Nude, At His Fingertips
The End of A New Story
The Sea of Ammonites
The Outsider
E.T.
Friendship
The Shadows of Rubén and Alfonso Converge
Jean Genet
Czeslaw
I’m Thinking of Those
Metamorphosis
Poets Rummaging In My Pocket
Tha Last Gangster
Six Lines About History
Plato’s Dinner
Videre
Two Minutes of Hatred
The 121. Psalm of Geneva
The Gospel According to Matthew
Somewhere Budapest
ANNA
Let me make the moment eternal
when you first clawed into
the flesh of my vanity
your nails unearthed the root
unveiled the hood of my maleness
and you let me blieve you were real
and that in your lap
a silence existed
where cells jumped the synapse
to the marrow of my spinen
then you laughed at me and mourned
our first intimacy drowning
in the eager nest of your wetness
you listened to me and you silenced me
you wrung me out to hang
limp like a bloody loincloth
once you cut the love out of me
THE LATE R.V. TRUSZOVA'S MESSAGE
To Kurtág György's music
lots of lofty thoughts run through my mind
and lots of craziness to live to die to hope to love
add to that more profound words merciless like
childhood fever and a heart heavy on empty
six thousand atomized levels of loneliness
locked out with nothing to hold on to
I am homeless to myself with nowhere to go
what my youth carved crashes around my neck
I no longer feel the undressing fingers of spring
without the strength required to cut myself
dreamless sleep clouds settle into my room
roaring with the incessant roar of silence
ornate frescoes of failure taunt me
to live to die to hope to love languishing
in the ashes of memories to become words
of all the things we've done only to be reworked
A RENAISSANCE MOMENT
The bathrobe falls.
A decadent display of gleaming pearls.
In an instant my great tiled hearth glows,
the fresh soap smell assails my senses.
Your hair is tied up, a loose strand or two
fall on your bare neck. Artful by design,
meant to ignite the center of my sex.
Your demanding glanc slips
Through the wisps of smokey air,
the tense wait that will not take a no.
Suddenly you pull a book off the shelf,
I think it's Moravia, then with maddening
Slowness draw it to the goosflesh of your breast,
Your eye innocently sly. A Rennaisance moment,
the gesture all the more transparent.
You stand in the center, bathed in afternoon light,
Each contour splinters into silver daggers
and transfigures your body, a throbbing Medusa.,
to augment the silence with its sharp geometry.
Pull away the curtain, I'm ready to say,
pull it away akready. I will show you to the world
As a way of making amends.
THE END OF A NEW STORY I lie and whine like a puppy in silence stuffed with your sibilance in the crosshairs of a far-away smile strapped without mercy to memory yesterday I couldn't have imagined I'd get so taken by the wink of a moment I'd scream and smack my head into a wall words that burn burst in my throat and I end up gulping down my shame a cowardly sadness creepss through my veins running would be in vein: my weakness stalks me like a shadow if only I could see you naked once again the shudder of your shoulders that demand for it never to end for your tears to salt my night for your laughter to lie in a jumble tossed all over my bed the hardest is to be able to forgive myself
*Istvan Turczi (1957) internationally acknowledged Hungarian poet, prose writer, translator, university professor of creative writing, editor-in-chief of Parnasszus poetry quarterly and publishing house, Secretary General of Hungarian PEN Center, Chairman of Poets' section in Hungarian Writers' Association. 3rd Vice-President of the World Congress of Poets since 2010. His poetry published in 21 languages, his last poetry volumes came out in Albania, Turkey, France, Taiwan and Rumania. In his country and language he has been published 25 books so far.
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