Balázs Szőllőssy (Hungary)
<
>
[Irodalom és tengerszem] Literature and Tarn I. If only on that late afternoon or late evening when the sun or the moon as in some held moment sank or did not: if only that pre-rolled joint I timidly bought across the border which in that held moment in the saddle by the corrie in those cut-out hills by the lake of joy, if only that uphill walk between rocks, through the stones if only that campsite, as though it were not even there, where the path to the ridge begins to the corrie and I saw ourselves as if in some held moment looking back at us getting caught or not getting caught on the train at the border, if only that border guard watching us and his joy as we unpack and our joy as we unpack en route for the corrie as the rails grip on their way up, if only that road to the campsite if it were even there, in that place where the path uphill begins, if only that changing of trains, a coffee, a beer just a little Transylvanian-Romanian romance, if only that late afternoon or early evening, that early morning sunset, if only that mist, that clear night, those clear-cut water surfaces, if only as we went under or didn't, submerged between the ice-cold hills if only to hold that moment back so we could get somewhere, if only that refuge, if only that sun or that moon, if only to hold them back if only that rock, held fast, if only it meant nobody would have to flee, for as long as that holds, clear cut, goes under, or not. Literature and Tarn II. The moon is mirroring direct silver all around. The final sparks of vermillion have flaked off even the innermost pages of the land. Earlier, the sky spread its paint from kingcup (134), say, to deep indigo (281), an innumerably wide scale. What’s left is cobalt blue and the mirroring. You lean over the lake, your face, your eyes do not glisten; it’s still, you can touch it now; it’s as though you could touch transparency, the sky in your hands like letters bleeding, weightless, without light, even your lungs are heavy compared to the rareness of the sky and air; twelve point, twelve steps, you can touch it now, you really could touch it, rush into it, let it be yours, a strange weight between the stones, you’re floating, it touches you the water, a strange fog, the cobalt blue sky, you reflected in direct silver. It’s not a sea, it’s not your eye, it doesn’t glisten, transparency: if you touch it, fourteen point, fourteen swim strokes, textile print, your dress; it remains an unmoving mirror, the surface of the water, solid, you can touch it now, the ether. |
Balázs Szőllőssy, poet, translator and editor was born in 1981 in Buda. He has two selection of poetry published, the latter to be published in September 2019. He is a member and was the member of the board of the Association of Young Writers until 2018, from when he is working as cultural attaché at the Hungarian Cultural Center in Istanbul. He was awarded the Zsigmond Móricz National Scholarship for Literature in 2011. He has been an editor of debut-book series FISZ Books between 2011 and 2017. He has been organizing several cultural and literature events and festivals in the past decades, and has been invited to a number of international literature festivals and workshops including Istanbul, Belgrade, Smederevo, Zagreb and Glasgow/St. Andrews. His poetry has been translated into English, Romanian, Serbian, Croatian and Turkish. |