Kinga Fabó (Hungary)

Kinga Fabó

Kinga Fabó is a Hungarian poet. Her poetry has been widely published in international magazines including Modern Poetry in Translation, The Poetry Review, Numéro Cinq, Ink Sweat & Tears, Pratik, Levure Littéraire, and elsewhere as well as in anthologies like The Significant Anthology or Poetry Against Racism and others. Her poems have been translated into English by George Szirtes, among others. Fabó’s latest book is a bilingual English-Indonesian poetry collection Poison/Racun. Her story Two Sound Fetishists was translated by Paul Olchvary, published in Numéro Cinq. She has written an essay on Sylvia Plath. Several of her poems have been set to music by Sean McGovern. Fabó lives in Budapest, Hungary.


Dracula Orchid

We didn’t choose each other.
We were locked together.
Watching his ugly face.

He looks back: I see myself.
Who is at which end of the cable?
Who is that places me at his will?

This isn’t a game between the two of us,
this tug of war.
Someone’s pulling my strings:

once he pulls me, next he leaves me.
Smells the blood. Nosing around me.
The heat of the body. Steaming.

This distillate is too raw to me.
The beast wins out of beauty.
The scale goes off balance.

Two derelict puppets.
Event in the greenhouse: behold.
The heart’s been stubbed.

(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)


Or yes

To be a sad empty vase
to be a withered flowergirl in a vase
to be a tiny microphone
to be a crawl upon a shoulder
to be a touch of one’s secret
to be become scent his body
to be silent and to remain there
to be a cuddle on a palm
to be a microphone in a body
to be a secret
slow, final and joyous
to be white and foolish
to be and to flee
to be nothing and undetected

(Translated by Michael Castro and Gábor G. Gyukics)



The bees are tough, hard to break virgins.
Virgins, but different from us.
They have no ego. Hermaphrodites. Like the moon.

Butterflies. Phallic souls.
Soul phalluses in female bodies.
The daughter, daughters of the moon

allured me but only until
I figured them out.
As lovers.

I grew tired of my ego.
And theirs too.
I’m bored by their services.

It wedges an obstacle between us. Neither
in nor out. In vain
I keep trying. I can break through

mine somehow.
But his? How?
Selfish, inspiring; but for what?

Is he like this by nature,
subservient, dependent?
On me? That’s dispiriting.

He doesn’t even suspect, that I depend on him.
I am the stronger, the unprotected.
Tough as a woman, austere.

Delicate as a man, fragile, gentle.
What would I like? I want him to
wrestle me gently to the floor,

penetrate me violently, savagely.
So I can become empty and neutral.
Impersonal, primarily a woman.

(Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics)

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