I Want

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI want

(by Sándor Reményik)


I want: not to be important to myself.


I want to be a brick in the infinite wall,

a stairway upon which others crawl,

a plough that digs deep into the ground,

but the abounding wheat isn’t its merit.

To be the wind that carries the seed,

but doesn’t open the petals of the bud-bead.

Let the people who walk on the meadow

forget the wind, enjoy the flowers aglow.

I want to be the handkerchief that wipes away tears,

to be the silence that eases fears,

to be a caressing hand that perseveres.

To be and never know that I am.

I want to be on tired lashes slumber,

to be the mirage on a desert summer,

never asking if anyone watches me or not.

I want to be the mirage on a vast plain.

To be a deep sigh up to the sky

coming from ancient earth’s black heart.

I want to be the wire carrying the message,

and let them replace me when I’m broken.

I want to be under many souls a raft,

a simple, roughly patched together craft

that is carried to sea by rivers flowing deep.


I want to cry into infinity like a violin,

until the Violinist puts down the bow.

Song of Autumn Night

Stargazing scarecrows in a spiderweb’s hug are dancing in the rainy mud.

The moon rises and sets over the wheezy woods and windy hills with fuzzy haystacks.

Chilly frost bites the fallen leaves while the puffy pumpkins dream of a golden chariot’s track.

In the misty distance the fire put it’s tongue out in the window of a wavering shack.

Crowgazing scarestars in a spiderrain’s dance are hugging in the muddy web.

The wood rises and sets over the windy moon and wheezy haystacks with hillish fuzz.

Frosty chill bites the leafy fall while the dreamy chariot’s pumpkins track the golden puff.

In the distant mist the window put it’s tongue out in the shack of a fiery waver.

This Is Not A Common Fire!


Bind the sacrificial wood

with strong ropes!

Because it hisses and watches,

bind it’s neck, bind it to hope!


It’s kicking against it with nymph-legs,

press it to the altar with steely webs!

It’s kicking against it with nymph-legs,

never untie it’s waist, even if it begs!


It put it’s branch-hands

on the altar,

it never wants to turn back

it’s bushy head to the halter!

(Even if it scratches and scrapes…)

Bind the sacrificial wood

with strong ropes!


It should burn long and pretty,

like the star burns on the sky.

The sacrifice is not worth a penny

without the obedience of the wood.


Let it blaze in the fire of the burning bush,

as log as the vision lasts!

(Love is passing by.)

This is the time it can show what kind of a tree

it was cut out from by the blessig of the blast!


This is not a common fire!

It’s the flame of love:

it binds you, like a slave,

sets you free like the rebel’s fire.

No river may quench it,

no water can wash it away!


Bind me with ropes,

with dauntless ropes,

like the sacrificial wood!


As log as the vision lasts…


If I’d wash the glass from the inside,

it would be better.

It needs some washing in the outside,

but in it’s lair

Coke-drops take brown slips.

I wipe it in vain with the napkin,

that outer crystalline crust,

my industrious hands don’t clean

the inside’s clammy must.

If I’d wash the glass from the inside,

it would be better.

It would be – – better.

Compelling Circle

as when your

drooping soul already echoes with the blazing prohibition,

your heart is jugging in the mortal fear of the yet hovering eternity, knowing there’s no remission,

your itchy eyes still look into the snake-eyes,

your hand still to the toxic fruit flies,

as when…

(it’s as if

the fly would wilfully fly into the spiderweb,

it’s as if

the turkey would chop down it’s own stupid head,

the orgy of a foolish set…)

as when you

hear behind you the scorching scream,

then closer to your head the bluster of the fire-stream,

till you look inside you, and find hell there,

still an eye looks back, as idol-stare,

still your foot recoils as a salt-stair,

as when…

(it’s as if

the worm would gladly jump into the beak of the woodpecker,

it’s as if

it would voluntarily jump out from the nest, that fluffy flapper,

the coquetry of a senseless matter…)

as when at departure

in your tumbledown car you don’t fasten your seatbelt,

then you don’t slow down a bit in the hairpin bend,

you’d like to live, but an intrinsic revolt cries crazily

that despite all of this you should play a bit merrily

in the compelling circle of the ancient adversity,

as when…

My Love Needn’t Be A Superhero


My love wouldn’t be my competitor in a car-race,

who would speed up with his brain-pedal, me to outpace,

or would toot behind me to wait up his bluntly lumbering thoughts.

My love would sit in me, and would drive me,

but before that he would attentively study my motor,

and the way my break works, how the gear-wheel jerks,

and he would grin, if I’d stall my rotor,

since he would know why my lamplight smokes a wee.

In return I would carry him with all his burdens, carry him until the end,

if he’d get tired on the road, he could rest in me, to a halt my way I would wend.

My love’s ear would be beech wood’s tarnished leaf:

it’d be refreshing to whisper in it’s shadow my secret, my grief.

His ear would be a microphone and a fair-sized tape-recorder –

he’d record what I say so that he could replay it,

he’d delete the hurting words and keep my one-off laugh-fit.

His tongue, as a buzzing bee, would hum my music in his mouth,

and if with my kisses of dry loaves I would feed his mouth,

he still wouldn’t desire another woman’s stodges.

My love’s eyes would be pure microfilms,

which would video-record in a black and white silent-film the dazzling and gibbering world, –

in the eyes of my love wouldn’t matter the colors and words, whirled

and chirping, beyond that I could see it,

the good and bad, simply, without deceit.

My love’s eye would be space-telescope and microscope, diminutive and magnifying glass,

and we’d be strikingly each-others scent in each others noses:

the soul’s seething-pot would stir-up all the savour and spice.

My love’s hug would be like an armchair – heavy, protective and tender as the roses, –

still, I would sway him into sleep and it would be he that would swing in me.

My food would be the pretzels of his palms, his the honey of my chest’s beehive,

for dessert we’d digest the satiating words of the books,

and we’d drink each-others half-dry tears till

the last drop flows away.


The undine of flats and steel-stairs,

a sanguinary lag of square affairs,

a blunt splinter in the asphalt-curb,

unmarked file left at the wolfish mercy

of a redundant herd, narcotic birdie

with sheepish beak pecking withered herb.

She’s the undine of walled-up dreams, dead-set.

But the game isn’t over yet.

The Woman In White Said – 7. About Home


We don’t need much stuff!

You need me, I need you.

And we’d love to have a house…

Just a rectangle-base,

on it rectangle-walls,

a neat little rectangle-house.

In it a kitchen,

in the kithcen a fridge,

three-legged table,

three three-legged chairs,

some memories and a gas-cooker.

To write, I’ll need a laptop,

to sleep just an alcove,

a slanting wardrobe,

a big and a small bed

in the corner.

We’d need a bathroom,

and on the side a washing machine.

That’s enough!

A rectangle-base,

nice, padding words,

on it rectangle-walls,

my arms, your arms.

We don’t need much stuff,

that’s quite enough!