Halmosi Sándor (Hungary)

 
Halmosi Sándor (Hungary)
 
Halmosi Sandor (1971), Hungarian poet, literary translator and publisher. Besides all his literary activities he gives presentations on tradition, poetry, the prehistory of the language, symbols, and on how to solve the spriritual crisis both on individual and communal levels.
 
 
TWO MOLECULES
(Két molekula)
 
Two molecules collide.
Two bare, naked particles in their
infinite dread of a vacuum they clash.
The heat released – spirit.
 
 
 
DON’T YOU EVER FORGET
(És ne feledd soha)
 
Don’t you ever forget, that you are a woman, kin
to the amazons, to Ariadne, Europe, Penelope, kin
to nuns, and courtesans, kin to the Venus of Willendorff,
kin to Frida and the Virgin Mother, don’t you ever forget
that you are a woman, you are a muse, you can be a mother,
and joyous lover, but don’t forget it either that you are
a twin, a difficult character, you are both Flora and Beatrice,
and the man, with whom you melt into one in love’s embrace,
and don’t forget, don’t you ever forget, that the sky is worth
nothing, your femininity, masculinity, pride and humbleness,
your good intentions and all your efforts are worth nothing
unless you share and offer them, don’t you forget.
 
 
 
WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF
(Mi lenne, ha)
 
What would happen if I wrote a poem for myself
for once, not to be fashionable, nor as an attitude,
nor for another, to make them happy or heal them,
nor to heal myself, nor for those antediluvian
modern theories, nor for the dead author,
that is, for me,
but for someone I am connected to,
not from nostalgia, love, want, passion
or for the camera as a chronicler,
for the retinue,
nor as an imbecilic medium, nor for the kicks,
but as a man speaks with an angel
about his sweety and his sins,
in the name of humanity,
why would I recite a poem for myself,
after so many years,
knowing that they will read this too,
those whose words were framed,
who loved his words, as he drew from the language,
and those who didn’t love how he spoke the language,
for he dared say, that it is the wonder of the world,
at once age-old and modern,
and independent, not raggle-taggle,
what could I say to myself, in this silence,
perhaps, there is nothing but this silence,
and what is between is not speech, but longing
for silence, after speech,
after saying the important things,
which made life worth living,
or how long would this fast last,
or whether it is we who are really doing
this whole thing,
you are a human being,
thus you do even the bad things well,
beautifully,
and gratis,
so throw the account into the rubbish bin,
you have grown up or you will,
when they’ve cut up the last piano,
and set fire to the last poem,
then it will be come to an end,
women understand this immediately,
but in vain,
for it is they who don’t make this easier,
truly I am not saying this to myself,
we speak to someone, who is three, five dear people,
and they play the piano, while the Titanic sinks,
or you can still feel the touch that week,
or you are an adolescent, and it hurts bad,
and it hurts that it can’t hurt so much any more,
and it hurts that you don’t accept
that this is the wise thing,
no way!
it isn’t József Attila’s lap that is missing,
neither is the obligation,
but it is the fucking indifference of maturity that hurts,
or the indifference’s fucking adulthood in us,
sorry, cheated, conned, irritating, #metoo,
he who says nothing today is a coward,
he who says nothing today is crazy,
he who speaks up, should learn to be silent first,
I love you
 

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