István Turczi, Hungary

LEVITATION

A good few minutes pass after waking before I accept this day, this body, this cup of coffee. I shuffle between wrecks to the bathroom. Last night one of the wrecks had still been a poem, the other dinner. Getting dressed doesn’t go well. I don’t even pick up the mobile: go on, buzz away. Slowly everything there is, what I have, can be brushed aside. Numbers, pictures, faces, all being deleted. Many things would have had to remain for this not to be the case. You shouldn’t trick yourself with reassurances. Autumn isn’t bothered it’s autumn: barren, cold, bites to the bone. The clipped wings of the colours blend with the remains of the morning light into the trees standing out of the ground. To be someone who opens and closes his palm, occasionally speaks to his cacti, and, with time on his hands, puts away the suitcases. Who lights up, and gazes at length at the grassy base of a sky blooming a smoky grey. Who pays attention while the penitent rush continues outside. Finally not doing anything, apart from existing, from doing existence.

BODHISATTVA IS WATCHING

I take my old face back. Not driven by any purpose. My concentration’s like a motionless mirror of water. I hold myself over. I’ve been invited to another world. I believe it and don’t believe it. I ask but don’t ask. I’m convinced by its silence. I have to drop everything to step again into my destroyed sanctuary of the heart. I have to return to where I fled from. I get lost in it; I hesitate. I can reach, even with clasped hands. I am happy to know: in vain does it hurt. I accept it cannot help. I open it, though it was not even closed. I receive it, if I give it. Where I do not look for it, I have already found it. I decide, and ask for it back. I lean my back against hot stones. I scatter petals on the waves of my memories. I preserve them if I scatter them. I squeeze by letting go. If I let it go, it lets me go. I am simplified. If I could know myself, I’d know everything. I’d know about you, too. So am I just dreaming that you are here?

István TURCZI, born in 1957, is one of the most important contemporary poets of Hungary.  He studied English and Literature at the Budapest University. As a professor he is currently teaching creative writing and communication. He is also a translator of modern international poetry and founder-publisher of the Hungarian poetry magazine Parnasszus. He is vice president of the Hungarian PEN Club and director of the poetry section of the Hungarian Writer’s Association. István Turczi is a most productive poet; he published so far 15 books of poetry as well as three novels.