Festivalul Internațional de Poezie București

Târgul Național al Cărții de Poezie

 13 - 17 mai, 2015. Video 2015

Poems – Dénes Krusovszky

Dénes KrusovszkyCele patru poeme de mai jos îi aparțin lui Dénes Krusovszky.

Textele sunt în limba engleză.

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Poems – Dénes Krusovszky


Superfluous Shore

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

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