The Eighth Hungarian Tribe, 1983 (10. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1983-07-01 / 7. szám

July, 1983

THE EIGHTH HUNGARIAN TRIBE

Page 7

up there, the Milky way is different, a border-strip where searchlights sweep, a mine-sown field, the stars: spy-windows,

the teeming tent of heaven: one labour-camp; for tyranny speaks in the voice of fever in bell-ringing,

in the priest to whom you confess, in every sermon,

the church, the parliament, the rack: each one is a stage:

your eyelids close, they open: it is looking at you; like a sickness,

like a memory, it goes with you;

trainwheels, you hear them click to it, you’re captive, captive; high on hills, by the sea, you breathe it in;

in zig-zags of lightning,

it is in every sudden noise, in all lights,

in the hearts’ off-beat;

in quietude,

in this shackle-boredom, in drenching downpours, in sky-high prison bars;

in snowfall, confining, white as cell-walls; it. looks at you through your dog’s eyes,

it is in every goal, and so in your tomorrow; in your thought, your every movement;

as water does its bed, you follow and create it; do you peer out beyond this circle? from the mirror it looks at you,

watches; running would be for naught: — you’re jailed and jailer both; in your tobacco’s aroma, in the stuff of your garments

it frets, it seeps

into the marrow of your bones, you try to think, but its thoughts alone come to mind;

look, and all you can see is what it conjures up for you, and all around you rages a forest fire, from one match, —

for when you threw it down you did not stamp it out; and now it guards you, too, in factory, field, house;

no longer you feel what it is to live, what meat is, and what bread, what it is to love, to desire, to spread wide your arms;

thus the slave forges and wears his chains; you feed it when you eat, beget for it your children;

where tyranny is,

all are links in the chain;

it stinks, oozes from you,

you, yourself, are tyranny also;

as moles in sunshine we trail in the blind-darkness, as fretful in close chambers as in the vast Sahara;

for where tyranny is, all is in vain, even a song as true as this, or any other writing,

for it already stands at your graveside, and it will tell who you were: even your dust will serve it.

Lashley, Klara.

EVE

Like the rib which, to make Eve, was torn from Adam’s side,

so I carry a secret,

awesome virgin bride:

my death! — the most faithful, most carnal lover 1 know;

the best trouble-soother and eraser of sorrow.

It’s not solitude that waits!

My partner stirs in me.

Our nuptials the most ancient and most complete shall be.

Though but part of me, she stirs and vaguely gives a sign;

she will fulfil the purpose

for which she was assigned.

A woman’s body will leap from mine, her arms clasping me tight.

It will be an awesome miracle but a natural sight.

Sadler, John P.