Family colours and Christmas lights - December 2007

One is colourful, expressive, presence and warmth,
interior designs made to feel at home despite the challenging portraits hanging on the walls.
Carpets flourishing from a wall whose sick colour reminds me of nostalgia.
A warm stove awaiting in the kitchen, where the cat meets the grandpa,
Feelings of home as old as history died.

On the way back you fall upon a sight of Bethlehem's worth,
Attracting hundreds of nearby villagers in a garden of plastic feelings
Artifice of plastic rituals, an export of distaste or eccentric choice of art
Where the romantic lights of our old people's theaters burn out
Into a platonic cave of emptiness, an ironic sea of rien du tout?
A nice provocation...

St Patrick's day

Green days of whispering images
Conversation with the writers of our years
words spilled out on the counter
love more, and more than ever

New Year's concert - National Concert Hall - Budapest

Dixieland jazz band with three of the best Hungarian choirs.
Standing at the top, with the friends of musicians and choir singers invited as we were for this posh celebration. Impressed by the orchestration of the music, impressed by the discipline of musicians.
Dixieland is a place for Christmas songs, sounds for moments of renewal, for breath in the face of rapid change. Hungary, crossroad for the sounds of previous invasions, previous travels.
Breathing, this music settles itself like a Hun's tent in the plains of Pest.

Cold blue roads

Resonating like the chime of a jazzy ride
Killing movement, adorning silence
Echoes of lost ancestors in the grey shade
Miles of young stones building our roads
Cold blue Roads
Roads that chime

Road on, road on - Riders on the cold

Bejárat -> <-Bejárat

Bejárat means...
"Entry" - you can imagine the sight of this door left me very puzzled and trying not to aim at the meeting point of those two authoritarian arrows. Which one to trust?
Eventually one of them decided to open, but it seemed more like spontaneous reasoning to me than technical decisions made in advance.
So I did make a fool of myself, but then everyone likes a good small "post-socialist" cliché once in a while.

SEND IT

Paul Simon has to write the world all over again:

the wasteland of our lonely words...

What would John Lennon say?!
"all those lo........ peo...."

A street tells me posting still exists
A wall proclaims colours are still alive
A pavement cracks my walk in two
A forest whispers eternity and scent

How do you write to your unknown kin?
How do cast spells on charismatic prophets?
How long will the lingering spell stand for?
How far does the cinematic orchestra echo?

A crackled puzzle of an empty building standing
A fizzled murmur of a broken window glistening
An open door greeting fresh air from the empty street
A lonely wall whose roof has left, crumbled at its feet

How do you mend a wound so good?

Today,

the modern corporate poets of our time would write:
"just send it"

Well to this I would answer the following:
by using the French word of "masse"= "lump"
"tu es une masse" - "you are a lump"
I can just say in a very effective, binary way:
We are a mass

a bloody heavy one.

thoughts collected in the streets of Debrecen, HU.

last feather of the year

Hope the wind was strong enough
Blew us away like a chilled autumn rain
But got lost in the flat dreams of this new land
of mine, mines of imagination and simply ours
Keeping watch on the straining morning necks
Of sunny moments in the wight of those forests
We leap on our feet like rabbits eating words
Metaphors of no style lying in openness.

"to lie, little one, that is the question"

Said the old hare.

and the family's autumn

And the family's autumn shun upon our faces
and leaves were falling, god's hiding places
Night and day of color, howling spin of faces
Standing like the mist in our morning mases

Swings don't shiver anymore, the rain got them
Leaves quiver, and nearby the flicker of a totem
Of chance, corner of uncertain minds and mayhems
Of desperate holiness laughing in the beauty of cold

O the cold years of old, mold of I and fold of you
O desperate whispers, o to a kitten's whiskers
an old line rattling on in the edge of my view

that of a lost poet, weak but smiling
in the autumn afternoon

to the ghost of all places