Transcendo
Unknown identity is the old oak
there in the midst of the plain.
True, all is different and the same
to the untrained eye.
The wanderer sees shadows. I see figures.
I present the air and the light.
They meekly huddle next to each other.
The claws of the creature seem dangerous,
ragged beggar is the sky tangled in its twigs,
sometimes tight blue, sometimes stabbed by a knife,
its blade golden and leaves a pinked wound.
Nobody knows if the acid smell of death
is brought by the wind or by the
broken-feathered crow under the oak.
At times, the grand tree says something to me
in its dry distant voice, but
I cannot understand its words.
It speaks an ancient dead language
that wakefulness made me forget,
perhaps it chides the black soil for
everything changes around it,
the Tree is the only one that remains behind.
cold in may
… this day
dreadful in time
the physical above
is the bottom of an iron cauldron
god's pointing forefinger
would cling to it
structure of my bones
broke down into particles
the light darting in oblique
shaft smudges
on the glass of the closed window
its edge of smoke-blade
sign drawn into it by my cigarette
steel rod thrust into me
tilted through the skull like
its axis through the earth
turns into liquid inside of me
and with the only thing
i know is warm it mingles
with my babbling brooks
mesh of my full-blooded veins
either its prison or its scaffold
in deep canyons there softens
the cold light weaves my bone like
a spider the twigs of a bush
metallic taste in my mouth
phantom-flame on my palm
would not let me put a word in
still gets me mesmerised
how cold i am
my breath… still alive
metallic cold of may
mist is oddly warm
thaws the tip of my nose
like mount everest in my face's geography
hunches the nose
my bowels water its peak
with gut-smoggy fog
and if the cold light
i dip into my wrist
will sit into a tub so that the porcelain
preserves my flaming red seas…
Mama
(and not after that)
A little fake pine tree glowed for me
on the table
At night the light of its colourful bulbs
danced on the wall
I fell asleep to that rocked me
into sweet dreams
Now just gathers dust atop the wardrobe
burnt out
I burnt out would not change
the batteries
Fall asleep in the darkness it is dark
when I wake up
Icy wind blows when I leave
when
I arrive my face is hot
my ears in flames
Clear my head
with work
Rather not think of you
you torment me
if silence makes me remember you
never
did I want you to go to hospital
somehow
I knew and expected it too
on new year's eve rang
the phone a voice
spoke
you won't be home by tomorrow Mama
and not after that
or after that
Yet
Smeared glass preserves your fingerprint.
I must breathe on it to see your touch.
Linger on its furrows. Tiny for a cloud yet
A storm rage beyond.
I bend down to your footprint. After the rain
The other day you brought the mud in. Easy to blame my laziness
For not wiping you up. Shallow for a swamp yet
I mire in it.
I keep the bedroom door closed. I bathe in your scent.
I can catch a glimpse of it if turning my head. Never do I step
Into your shade. Too simple for a shape yet
I picture you.
I do not know what is worse. If you come but leave.
If you do not come but stay. You are a photograph
Inside me. A work of art. A Dürer. A Rodin.
A Bukowski. Poem. Song and awards…
Poisoning
Watched that bee die.
Before my dirty bare feet it suffered on the terrace floor.
Turned on its stomach several times then struggled on its back again,
as if it were watching me. Do something!
Flicked my cigarette, and I was careful
not to burn myself at least.
I let it die. I did not care. I did not take the Lord's name either
should that help. Defiance or unconsciousness, for I am also
dying in loneliness.
Sometimes I even lose the words, although they are truly
mine. Or I talk of many other things,
my forked tongue devil, yet I relish…
… contemplating in silence let the blossom unfold.
Touching is majestic root, from which without my saying
will not be a beautiful bloom, yet beauty is built upon
that will live on for you. You will remember!
When I went outside again it was dead. Curled up
it lay a few inches of death. Had it been human
I would say in fetal position. It ended
as it had begun, but the bee must have stung someone.
Its core torn out of its body, had to be finished for that.
Poison makes you sick. At times your toxic words you spit
then ask for help in vain, your pain palpable to no avail
not enough! Nothing ever is. No antidote.
It can hurt when holding tight.
When you poison everything you cannot survive the wound either you scarred someone else with.
Károly Lencsés Works II
These works are part of a volume of poetry, The Dead Lover, by Hungarian poet Károly Lencsés and translated by Ágnes Megyeri. A collection of his works have been selected, arranged by Why Vandalism? for this year's publication.
Karoly Lencses is a Hungarian poet and visual artist, born in Nyiregyhaza, Hungary, in 1976. He has been writing from a very early age; his first attempts were in primary school, his passion for writing has not faded since. He has numerous publications in most Hungarian literary magazines. He has had two books of poems published, and his poems are included in many anthologies. Recently, he has been granted the Andras Dugonics literary prize, an award granted by the public.