#2390 -- vidéki élet, fekete-fehér // country life, black and white

2390

7.197

18.vii.26

vidéki élet, fekete-fehér

ekfrasztikus

vers Révész Tamás fényképeihez

 

egy leomló kerítés

kis kémény a hóban

 

a város egy fényképezőgép lencséjében nőtt fel

 

egy háború dúlt itt egyszer, mondják

vagy lehetett volna egy másik

 

persze ehhez megfelelő szemekre lesz szükséged

 

a bicikli romjaiban

cementet gyártunk

 

végre a nap és egy cigaretta

 

csobbanj át ezen a nyáron

tedd ki a nyelved!

 

ezek egy másik világ képei

ezek díszesen vannak bekeretezve

 

ez sosem egészen szemtől szemben

 

mi ellenálltunk a színekig

 

a kés a fényes dolog

 

 

 

country life, black and white

ekphrastic for the photography of Revesz Tamas

 

 

a fence made of falling

a little chimney in the snow

 

the city grew up in the lens of a camera

 

a war rolled through here once, so they say

or it might have been another

 

of course you will need the right eyes for this

 

in the bicycle ruins

we're making cement

 

the sun and a cigarette at last

 

splash through this summer

poke out your tongue

 

these are pictures of another world

ornately framed

 

this is never quite face to face

 

we have resisted as far as the colour

 

a knife is the shining thing

  

#2389 -- purring / dorombolni

 

2389

7.196

17.vii.26

purring / dorombolni

 

the city is

 

a scratch under the chin

it catches

 

seasonal thing

 

winter steam

fan for the heat

 

there is the purr of conversation

we talk in our sleep

 

streetcar clang

the footpath breathing

 

old refrains

 

the city’s snoring

some would say

 

nothing like a chorus

 

it’s all these hearts

all they can hold

 

there’s never the full confession

 

we’re dreaming of elsewhere

dreaming to be here

 

it’s time out of mind tells out

 

as you beside me

purring now

 

we each beside ourselves

#2388 -- stumble stones

 

2388

7.195

16.vii.26

stumble stones

 

such a little lid for the pit

such a long way to fall

 

you do know it’s out of the world they went?

perhaps that won’t be immediately apparent

 

such hells!

and anyone could fall

 

such a little lid for the pit

such a long way down

 

think of it as a person-hole

 

great pit of nothing

 

they decorate it all with horrors

 

there isn’t the luxury of stairs

 

all personality is gone

 

it’s whose turn next (?)

you ought to ask

 

it’s where we trip

where we all stumble

 

such a little lid for the pit

such a long way to fall

 

it’s mind where we all go

#2387 -- diasporic

 

2387

7.194

15.vii.26

diasporic

jetlag zombie robots in Budapest

 

we are the children of ghosts

 

they never came back

 

the old pengő is useless these days

 

perhaps they once had wishes

we will never know now

we set out with a map in our heads

on the phone, a back pocket paper map

print too small

 

who were they to this

 

we are the children of ghosts

come back for more

 

live on a fold between districts – Kiraly Utca

downstairs gluten free, attitude

 

one way’s as good as another

 

to the countryside and hock the lot!

 

there are ways to survive

 

streets lead off like drunks

but we’re alright

 

follow a tour leader’s flag

 

we could end up in any language

perhaps one not yet spoken

 

our children will of course be ghosts

marry a ghost and that’s what you get

 

this is all part of the game

 

the way they throw these streets together

give us perfume samples in the mall

 

you can’t have too many shoes!

 

from all over the world, they feed

we receive

it’s this to which we conform

 

it’s with every footfall

set in cement for a sky

 

we are the children of ghosts

dodged one bullet

but there was a next

years passed

there was the petal fall

the unleafing

no further snow

 

it’s like we weren’t quite dead enough

had to risk all again

to be lost

to go on

just to pass by windows

and see no reflection

it’s all so long ago

 

I cannot remember building all this

 

everything done so we wouldn’t know

that was the best thing then

 

these are ways of another time

home by Bolt if we can’t find a way

they say streets lead to the future too

 

but it’s always the old wars

the pretending

close your eyes

and we’re coming now

know where you’re hiding

 

they’re getting away with it again

 

and we’re ghosts, after all

 

it’s all night to be here forgetting

 

buildings will always remember us

 

have to write a way out

what can we say

when no one will hear?

 

we’re ghosts, we’re mute

we’ll float by, unseen

 

bullets stray, there are little brass plaques

trapdoors to our insect past

 

the wall is a floor is the ground

is the street

 

we are the undead

have no idea of down or up

 

we’d be an embarrassment if they knew

 

we are the children of ghosts

 

we are here

 

nothing can cure us of time

 

#2386 -- Orphic

 

2386

7.193

13.vii.26

Orphic

 

queues of them

the whole band, the whole bill

fans, admirers, roadies

 

all these whisked away

queues of them

zombie style up down stairs

 

everyone under the spell of love

it’s love for which what they do

brief arguments before a throne

 

it’s welcome to eternity

and over in a moment

you’re back in

 

a conga lineup

they sing, they pluck the lyre

here to be torn to pieces

 

we all are

 

everyone looks back

#2386 -- over the deserts, over the sea

 

2386

7.193

13.vii.26

over the deserts, over the sea

to Istanbul

 

yesterday was Cammeraygal Country

crouching in a cave to be out of the rain

a long list of things to turn off, to shut

 

now it’s desert and sea, islands like clouds

so many shades of sand –

grey browns, gypsum blinding

the orange, the violet

 

roads nowhere to nowhere down there

 

mountains just like we have on Mars

 

no sign of shade

no sign of movement

 

from up here you get a picture of time

 

there’s a blue you could boil off, war aside

 

everything’s sand or turning to sand

 

a day goes on forever

forever goes all day

 

#2385 -- bear witness

 

 

2385

7.192

12.vii.26

bear witness

fatality at the Glenbrook Tunnel

ekphrastic for Arthur Streeton’s 1891 ‘fire’s on’

 

Hall of a Mountain

death’s at the place we carry it from

 

no king for these ants

 

whether on horseback or in argument

stone is an arbitrary instance

 

death’s at the place we carry it from

timber won’t ever hold up for long

 

death will always be there

 

sky within a tree’s reach

our smoke to point this blue

 

the eye goes up and up and up

 

is there shame or guilt or solace?

 

not one of these faces is shown