translated by James and Viera Sutherland-Smith

 

Summer

 

The sun smashes our windows.

An urgent song reaches us from the street.

 

On the cellophane sky

steam condenses. 

 

Unconfirmed reports are reproduced

about the wind. 

 

The trees are the first to begin to talk

about the two of us.

 

A Shot

 

The moment air stops

close in front of your face

and checks the size of your lungs,

the moment the sun addresses you

with the agreed secret word,

then it'll be clear to you.

 

The horizon could be crossed

and other matters considered.

 

The heights furiously disclose

the concrete constructions of their peaks.

In the crowns of trees the telephone switchboards rattle.

 

You ripen an octave higher.

 

Daybreak

 

You emerge from beyond the horizon,

heedlessly towards darkness

and inattentive towards smothering dreams.

 

You lend an ear to silence

moderately

like the most distant thunder.

It has already been heard how you sound in the motionless bells.

 

You always dawn astonishingly the same.

 

Mists, lost within themselves, hesitate,

trust neither earth nor heaven.

 

All creation loses speech, dumbly move its lips,

startled so that the words flow back

within,

to make blood brighter,

to make pain,

to make them wholly incomprehensible,

neither outcry nor buzzing.

 

Thus nature copies you

Always from the outset

indirectly, insufficiently,

fervent about you

disappointed in itself,

It imitates current and circulation.

 

Softly you reproduce your portraits

- one after the other.

With a regular motion

you manage time.

 

Circling

 

Evenly and fast

always going round

it dreams about itself.

The old unbearable fan.

 

Its head makes the circles

of a drunkard's breath.

It imagines it is a propeller.

It circles.

It observes.

It sees and hears.

It knows more than the others.

 

Through its racket

regardless it takes the words

of the speeches of the café tribunes.

 

For so long it has belonged to the technical museum,

but not till now has it entered literature.

 

Unsent Telegram

 

Inside me a little bit of

a blue Christmas begins.

in the hotel room it's snowing

a misty scent - of your

endlessly distant perfume.

We're declining bodily

while in us the price

of night calls rises,

waves of private earth tremors

and the limits of an ocean of blood

on the curve of a lonely coast

 

The Last Four Bars of Silence

 

It's getting dark in the revues,

in the carmined eyes of the dancers,

in the centre of the cleavage

of a monumental bosom

and in the snowfall of ostrich feathers.

It's getting brighter deep within wood,

in flower pots

and botanical gardens.

 

The lights go off in the last windows

of ministerial offices

made of cardboard, telephone lines

and salary cheques.

The wind delivers

Autumn leaves

of strictly secret material

into the unvetted hands

of nightwalkers,

Sensitive lovers

are on guard in the parks

armed to their teeth

with rapid firing sentiments -

calibre forty-five.

 

And it always dawns.

over the pages of newspapers

the moulds of white hot dreams hiss

on contact with the icy air.

Mutes enthusiastically play

their leading role

and the powerless director

with his head in his hands

and bust fuses in his head

repeats to the point of madness

the last four bars of silence.

 

I'm With You

 

It's completely me -

height 180 centimetres,

measurements 108 by 83 by 107,

weight 73 kilos,

five military qualifications

and even more civilian,

brown hair, green eyes,

born on the occasion

of the Hungarian Uprising,

bashful and christened,

married with three children.

I don't beat out a rhythm in English,

but I'm of the world.

 

Send me fan mail,

postcards and gifts,

books and pictures,

busts and bacon,

booze and flowers.

Support your poet

who, instead of you, behaves

like an idiot.

Write to my European address -

Slovakia.

 

Call me,

all of you, who love me,

who can't live without me,

or least die.

Call the number 314 212,

my automatic telephone

will pick up 24 hours a day.

Don't be ashamed of your feelings.

God is watching you -

at last do something stupid.

Send some dosh to my account

SSS 3478228.

Remit to my pristine account

your dirty money,

I'll launder it day and night.

You can rely on me

to spend it all on myself

as opposed to other