Tag Archives: Poet

the blue is drifting | 3 poems from Kinga Fabó

I’m not a city


Kinga Fabó

I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.
I feel good. You didn’t
invite me though. How
did I get here?

You’d do anything for me; right?
Let’s do it! An attack.
A simple toy-
wife? I dress, dress, dress
myself.

The dressing remains.
I operate, because I’m operated.
All I can do is operate.
(I don’t mean anything to anyone.)
What is missing then?

Yet both are men separately.
Ongoing magic. Broad topsy-turviness.
Slow, merciless.
A new one is coming: almost perfect.
I swallow it.

I swallow him too.
He is too precious to
waste himself such ways.
I’d choose him: if he knew,
that I’d choose him.

But he doesn’t. My dearest is lunatic.
In vain he is full: He is useless
without the Moon, he can’t change,
he won’t change,
the way the steel bullets spin: drifting,

the blue is drifting.
He tolerates violence on himself, I was afraid
he’d pull himself together and
asks for violence.
I watched myself

born anew with indifference:
(if I melt him!)
stubborn, dense, yowls. They worked on him well.
Right now he is in transition.
He is a lake: looking for its shore.

 

“I’m not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.”


Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics



False Thread


Kinga Fabó

Seasons jam up.
Drill through the spring.
Winter, summer start attacking.

The flood makes a run.
Surging again and again
stalls and then throngs ahead.

Under the sea, the land is shaking.
(The unhoped front comes with such commotion.
While the other is dragging a heatwave.)

The shipwrecks of the lips: pilling of syllables.
Slurs and stutters.
Breaks and floods the words with anger.

It hits. Or gets hit by a syllable
culminating above on it.
Gives no time to get resentful.

There is its double if it bales out.
None holds a grudge against none.
It hits. Or let others beat it.

The client is the same man.
Hiding in my shadow.
Matters not what I say or do.

There is no love: Spring’s been postponed.
It might be hiding in my shadow.
Snip. I’ll cut you up, you false thread.

(An iceberg broke of fin Greenland.
The woods are on fire around Moscow.
The air is poisonous above Moscow.)

 


Translated by Gabor G. Gyukics



 Old Bitch of a Summer


Kinga Fabó

(For her Sake:) furioso

Her revenge is a long wrench. Her
blood-drenched sword will not deter
her drummed up horde to pester me.
A stabbing tour: a feast to see!

She flaunts her lust to hurl me blind,
wanting to carry me beyond.
The old bitch pants away. Behind
the panting horde, with her up front.

She out-pants it. As she does me.
Plays pathetic spells ne’er to be.
The banner proudly swells on
preparing a vengeful affront,

for what? For her earsplitting squall?
No one for her lust to clutch?
Abundant is her bitter gall.
Bitches hate bitches this much.

The watch prods a conceited cusp.
If only for fair play – just once!
Hysterically howls the wind.
In her throat the dust.

The watch for revenge is tough.
It breaks up the goal-event; bluff!
The match is called off.

She hurls down. Enraged beast!
Matter is thin, swig is short.
Thirst for revenge is her gloat.

Her revenge has more to see.
She has had it to a tee.
Breaks down and lets it be.

Sharpening her caustic sting,
its poison spills on my skin.
Sap for revenge flows,

penetrates deeply, as summer into fall.
Illicitly lodges where no one should stall.

Hangs on my neck: not for her path.
Her tongue daggers itself to death.

Drags it in circles. Lassoes me
’round. – Drums up her clan.

Ticking away, the old bitch is.
Catch me she will, where’er I am.


Translated by Katarina Peters, finishing touches by Kinga Fabó



Kinga Fabó

Hungarian poet Kinga Fabó‘s latest book, a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry collection titled Racun/Poison was published in 2015 in Jakarta, Indonesia.

Fabó’s poetry has been published in various international literary journals and poetry magazines including Osiris, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Screech Owl, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, Numéro Cinq, Deep Water Literary Journal, Fixpoetry, lyrikline.org and elsewhere, as well as in anthologies like The Significant Anthology, Women in War, The Colours of Refuge, Poetry Against Racism, World Poetry Yearbook 2015, and others.

Two of her poems have been translated into English by George Szirtes and are forthcoming in Modern Poetry in Translation Spring Issue with an introduction by Szirtes.

Some of her individual poems have been translated into 17 languages altogether: Albanian, Arab, Bulgarian, English, Esperanto, French, Galego, German, Greek, Indonesian, Italian, Persian, Romanian, Serbian, Slovenian, Spanish, Tamil.

One of her poems (The Ears) has, among others, six different Indonesian translations by six different authors.

Earlier in her career Fabó was also a linguist dealing with theoretical issues, like logics or the philosophy of language, and an essayist, too, interested in issues from the periphery, from the verge. She has also written an essay on Sylvia Plath.

In everything she’s done, Fabó has always been between the verges, on the verge, in the extreme.

She lives in Budapest, Hungary.

Read more of Kinga Fabó’s poetry on Meta/Phor(e)/Play and in the April issue of The BeZine, Celebrating International Poetry Month

Poems ©2017 Kinga Fabó, digital art ©2017 Michael Dickel.


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unpublished poems 2016 | Donatella D’Angelo

Per quella luce sospesa
tra le ciglia degli angeli
morirei infinite volte

e infinite volte tornerei
corona di spine.

For that light suspended
between angels’ eyelashes
I would die a thousand times

and a thousand times
come back crown of thorns.

*

Nel cavo della mano la verità
e le sofferenze colte appena
nell’indulgenza dei silenzi
di abiti dismessi:

Donatella D’Angelo

eppure

risorgeranno verticali i draghi.

In the hollow of the hand, the truth
and sufferings just picked
in the indulgence of silences
of clothing put off:

and yet

rise again vertically the dragons.

*

Spiegami il profumo del basilico
il passo invisibile della tigre.

Nell’antro salvifico della vita
separo la notte e i suoni scordati
il muto cadere dei corpi celesti.

Perché fa tanto freddo qui?

Explain to me the scent of basil
the unseen step of the tiger.

In the salvific den of life
I separate night and clashing sounds
the mute fall of celestial bodies.

Why is it so cold here?


Donatella D’Angelo (Milan, Italy 1966) has been working in the visual arts since the 1980’s. A curator of cultural events, she teaches photography in high school and university courses. She is one of the artists selected for the anthology about self-portrait in photography by Giorgio Bonomi Il corpo solitario, Rubbettino Editore (2017). Her photos have been exhibited in Europe and in the US and have appeared in various online and print publications. She received the first-place prize at the national contest LABirintiFOTOgrafia 2015. As a writer, some of her short stories and poems have been published in anthologies, magazines and various blogs. In 2016 she published her first poetry and photography book, Memento vivere, edizioni del Foglio Clandestino.

Poems © 2016 Donatella D’Angelo; English translations by Dennis Formento with the poet.

These poems also appear in the April issue of The BeZine, Celebrating interNational Poetry Month. The BeZine also publisher Three Poems (Italian and English) in 2015 and Michael Dickel’s poems accompany her photography in White Angel Feathers, also in The BeZine in 2015. You can see her photography on her website.


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