Itt-Ott, 1994 (27. évfolyam, 1. (123.) szám)
1994 / 1. (123.) szám
3. György Gömöri On Sundays [Vasárnaponként] On Sundays we comb the thatch out of the earth’s hair. We cut the lawn uniformly. We go for a walk with wife and children, feed the swans above the flour mill’s seething waterfall. Push a child on the swing or on the playground. We buy the Sunday paper, stay buried in it all day. We pen letters to relatives, carve the roast, assist in drying the dishes. We place ourselves in the sun. From a distance, music filters through — the voice of a trumpet like gossamer floats by. We’re still alive, but in a good place — not in the path of marching armies. We’re still alive though nothing depends on us. Fate struggles on other continents, in hot jungles: it cries out while mired in the mud. Its faint voice barely reaches us. The windows of our silence stay unrattled. 4. Miklós Kolumbán Emigrés in June [Emigránsok] The raw bacon melts between your teeth and you abandon your fear of your body’s retribution. The breezes, whipped by rain’s will, force you to wear a sweater that matches your shirt. A flush of salmon that preserves your youthfulness. A June afternoon and you sit engulfed by screens on your porch. Finches wiggle through a minute hole — the black gate to their villa. You wonder about their eating habits and your own. Fellow emigres surround you; they believe they’ve squandered their lives on foreign soil. You hold your yard to be non-alien, even friendly, and the weather of your former country uneven: warm, coupled with frigid breezes. Storms drench the naive there, yet you wish to live in such a climate, importing your Yankee ways. The quests wield your mother tongue that ceased to be the vehicle of your thoughts. When I Come Home [Otthon] my huge dog leaps on me: she wants my cap — she chews the wool on the back porch. My life is restful when I’m home. I can watch my breath evaporate like the hours. I have no enemies in my thoughts. I have forgiven my losses: my mother tongue, friends, deep loves. At times, I’m angry in a melancholy way. I envy no one who has his health — who has more than me. A boat, a hot tub, a lovely job. A country. 5. Irén Négyesy Solar Eclipse [N apfogy atkoz ás ] A group is gathering in the courtyard of the factory. Workers. Men and women. They hold smoked glass in front of their eyes. Hushed they squint at the sky. For a moment work slips from their hands. They scan the sky like children. The ice-cold discipline of their faces melts just a little. Right now machines don’t rule them but something else strange and fleeting. Coarse hands lose their tautness. Above them the strange glow. Amazement soaks deep in their bodies, washes against their hearts. You can even taste it on their half-opened lips. The workers stand about as if eating pastry made of honey. 6. Vince Sulyok In a Norwegian Port [Eszaknorvég kikötőben] With withered faces, retired fishermen, dockworkers, sailors sit around on the ramps with their pipes in the northernmost spot of Norway. The ramps are cured in oil and tar. It’s a balmy summer morning. The men squint, observe life in the harbor, in the bay. ITT-OTT 27. évf. (1994), 1. (123.) szám 41
