2013. március 15., péntek

10 versem angolul, ill. tánc-versem, mozgásfotóm.



White hotel. Where sin is absent. And so
is guilty conscience. You languish.

You're decadent. Cheat on me Mondays.

I like.

Kinga Fabó

Everything Arises
   in the Sudden

I was getting down
to basics,
when the telephone

began to ring.
I didn'nt dare

touch it. Ominous
silence before the holiday.

(Translated by Michael Castro and Gábor G. Gyukics)



He tries to come, in vain. He jerks me
off as if I were a tired personal object. I
imagine the rest.

I'd like to come on your face, he said.
Did he want to humiliate me? What
was he thinking? After that, for two
days my eyes were inflamed.

Kinga Fabó

It Goes to the Grave with the Bearer of the Secret,
   While Motions Freeze in the Depths of his Body

As if oozing from the the edges of
Couldn't get beyond the stains.

Sitting in a soft garden, in a semi-circle.
In the tiny crack between truth
and falsity.

(Translated by Michael Castro and Gábor G. Gyukics)

Fabó Kinga

Jeszenyina-Duncan lánca

Mint a szobrok, a szobrok.
Napfényes, hosszú mozdulatok.
Alig volt mosolya.
De ha volt, az nagyon.
A rítus szépsége tört át a

Csak forgott és forgott és forgón.
Könnyedén siklott. Lobogott.
Szavának súlya volt. De szólni nem tudott.

Forgott a kígyóbűvölő és forgott a sál,
forgott a félkör, a tengerpart és forgott a
lány, külön a táncosnő és külön a tánc...

Mások ünnepe ez:
a nem hasonult múlt.
Ő az illatot táncolta hozzá.

Kinga Fabó


He asked about
my favourite scent.

Then left.
Now I am singing, being

misgivingly polite,
like – for him – otherwise – a rest.

Growing energy: arrests.
Slowly growing killing cells

retaliate: retell
each word. Every gesture.

Her and her and her and her.
Me? A he? Never.

Never, never, never ends.
Not even after my death.

Singing another – me – at best?
Better than a lover left.

Each word is a verge, an urge, an edge,
a hook.

I misunderstand to be

(This poem has been written only
and originally in English by the Hungarian author, Kinga Fabó)

Kinga Fabó

Not Because It's Chic

Here I have a place
where I can be said.
I adore it. I adore it.

I exist only in roles.
I want colors! Colors!
Just as above me the sky is always blue.

Not because it's chic. Not because of that.

(Translated by Michael Castro and Gábor G. Gyukics)



To be a sad empty vase
to be a withered flowergirl in a vase
to be a tiny microphone
to be a crawl upon a shoulder
to be a touch of one's secret
to be silent and to remain there
to be a cuddle on a palm
to be a microphone in a body
to be a secret
slow, final and joyous
to be white and foolish
to be and to flee
to be nothing and undetected



When I was beautiful with hate and around-around I
When I was beautiful with hate and the implanted
heart of the Snowqueen and I still wasn't absolutely his
I When I was beautiful with joy and around-around
then I wasn't scared or I was very scared I He had a
blonde voice and melodic hair I wbite, tasteful,
unscented we flickered out above our unrestrained red­
 sticky orgy I Quietly marched through our own red­
sticky bodies and I felt how the braided fairies untied
themselves in my hair, flew around and filled the room
I I felt that from th,e outside I didn't look alive I With
superior confidence I thought that  now I should live
and a Salingerish Zen koan came to mind I this I
Which way do the sunflowers turn in the night I His
stiffness reflected an unmeasurable tenderness in me
and his tenderness reflected unmeasurable stiffness I I
 knew that I loved him and my body filled up with body
and my eyes with eyes, and at the same time I was
crying inside and downward but I couldn't find tears I
They .transformed into evil mirror-drops gleaming
like icicles sarcastically,  threateningly, with the silence
of killers I not expressed but experienced, joyful and
raw hard final devotion screaming laying low inside me
I I felt his intensity radiating through his poetry,
radiating through his body, but it didn't have, couldn't
have realism only, I imagined, but an internal
emptiness bringing the machinery in motion that  was
impossible to unplug /I was interested only in his
motion and I would want to say that I ...
But already it wasn't possible.

Kinga Fabó

The Ears

As if my ears were the sacraments, a crowd
appears, appears before them. Lucky
I have nice big ears. 
Deep and hollow.
The hip and breast sizes are coming.

Here comes the lonely one. She wants my husband.
Here comes the housewife. She's married, frigid.
When she doesn't come, she learns languages,
The lesbian? Doesn't come at all. Though

I would seduce her. If nothing comes of it, my
ears would perk themselves. (Big as they are.)
Feminine women I don't invite on principle.
Nor any men. I go
to them.

But all they want is my ears.
And the mouths? Nonstop talkers.
And my ears? My ears are mute.
I change only my earrings from time to time.
My ears are mine.

(Translated by Michael Castro and Gábor G. Gyukics)

Kinga Fabó

The Word’s Color Change

Open, the sea appeared asleep.
Carrying its waves.
A pulse under the muted winter scene.
Throwing a smile on the beach.

A nun-spot on the hot little body.
A color on the broken glass.
An early closed gesture.
Lovely as the sea retreated.
Throwing a smile on the beach.

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