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Festivalul Internațional de Poezie București
Târgul Național al Cărții de Poezie
13 - 17 mai, 2015. Video 2015
Cele patru poeme de mai jos îi aparțin lui Dénes Krusovszky.
Textele sunt în limba engleză.
Dacă vă plac și doriți să citiți mai mult puteți descărca un pdf de la adresa
Poems – Dénes Krusovszky
You could also say that a poem is like
a ship of the Phaeacians which,
according to Homer, sails straight into the harbour
without need of a helmsman.
CHRIS BURDEN: Ghost Ship, Fair Isle – Newcastle-upon-Tyne, 2005
As though you could elevate progress
by gradually withdrawing balance,
layer piles up cautiously
on layer, while a vessel with no crew
traverses the horizon,
not quite empty, actually,
but from where we’re standing, what’s
aboard can’t be made out.
No way of knowing what else
could sail into the crack between
fragility as camouflage and as envisioned thesis.
All you can do is stand, on a
distant, superfluous shore,
while around you the milder components
of silence droop,
that familiar nothingness deep inside,
and nonetheless, some kind of frothing, too.
Three hundred miles across
northern seas without
anybody at the helm, yet
the ship didn’t lose its way.
What were you doing all the while?
Till applause greeted an unmanned voyage
finally putting into harbour
what was the business of your palms?
Eyes closed, you still get lost,
all that going back and forth between
cellar and attic had no purpose.
You can’t do it. It’s as simple as that.
If it has to be distance, then
what separates the shepherd from
his flock, if closeness, one
embracing infinitely more space.
Hart Crane boards the Orizaba
This isn’t the beloved weight I used
to dream of fondly, this is precisely
the watershed, and if it pins me down –
but better not to talk of that right now!
If I could only glimpse a sign or two…
The faces waving from below are still
more vacant than my own. Onshore some immense
shadow trembles which, if I’m not wrong,
has camouflaged my wretchedness so far.
All I am is slaver, some leftover
of love. The sailors are still there, however,
without warning they cast my moorings, and
we’re off. A body generates no waves,
has only its own weight and breathlessness.
Hart Crane flirts with the sailors
Why am I standing here, what bothersome
metabolism do these shores belong to?
The balustrade that rubs against my shoes,
what is it trying to keep me from once more?
Boys, I want to be a thing that’s yours,
some oddly shaped and suspect undertaking.
Ever heard of hormones? If you fail
to get a move on, in the afternoons
their wax will coat us. I don’t take the trouble
to write your names down, or your inane comments.
Did I remind you that I don’t see colours?
I’m cold, just like a boundary fence, but
attempt in vain a generalised curse –
something or other keeps getting left out.
Hart Crane gets beaten up on deck
The soul is shaking in a darkened cabin.
The sensible thing would have been to dance
or else to wait, and see if he’d return,
pressing my head against the iron rails.
It’s so straightforward. In my hand I catch
a bird, crush it till all of it is soft.
At present this is all I have to say
on the question of trust, and maybe it
can be enough, but nobody is listening.
Nobody is listening, once again,
even though I’ve reached the crucial point.
If you want my opinion, then the soul
is shaking in a darkened cabin, while
on deck they kick the body till it’s crimson.
English versions after the Hungarian by Christopher Whyte