Magyarázni. Helen Hajnoczky

       Belváros

      You wait, this charming place,

      luminous towers,

      columns of bells,

      chimes that scrape the evening sky.

      The inner city, sunset,

      sheer walls of light reverberate

      with all the tones and glow

      of your resentment, this place.

      You have hated the

      wash of lustrous peach,

      you have missed the

      tinted clouds, the swell of

      incandescent night.

      The gong of evening

      shimmers, clanging chorus of

      traffic signals, sprong of fluorescent

      signs in the twilight.

      The glint of your reflection that

      rings off the ground-floor windows,

      alone you wait, cozy in

      the awning of dusk

      lilting from the buildings.

      Sharp clang of memory.

      Twinkle of memory.

      Chime of the city.

       C

       Cukorka

      Your reflection

      splintered in foil

      these solemn treats

      this bitter history

      sugary sweet

      unhooked from the tree

      you melt

      a plastic angel dipped

      in flames, blurred

      and bubbling

      you unwrap

      the old world

      you chew

      and smile

      you don’t swallow

      until they look away.

       Cs

       Cserkészek

      Check if you’re ready

      Roll and tighten your neckerchief

      Roll on your stockings, stand at attention

      Deliver your lines with conviction

      A more personable person

      A more magyar Hungarian

      Paint eggs, throw rosewater

      Thread needles, weave leather

      Serve dinner to your elders

      Recite your practised lines

      With your flawless intonation

      With your perfect lack of understanding

      How well you know your friends

      Whom you cannot understand

      Who cannot understand you

      Savour the illicit snippets of English

      Smuggled out to the parking lot

      Together you roll and ignite secrets

       D

       Duna

      The river flows clear or muddy

      you know the river flows cold

      or warm or

      The river cuts across countries

      or it springs locally and

      ambles through every city or

      The river is shallow enough to wade or

      deep enough to drown in, the bed

      scattered with bombed-out bridges or

      The iron was hauled back up on land

      you know the river ribbons

      the countryside or you know

      The river slices through the city, one bank

      heaved up like a tidal wave, one bank

      spread out like a flood plain or

      You knew the river’s name

      before or you

      didn’t know the river at all.

       Dz

       No common contemporary word

      Sputtering drone, petticoats,

      embroidered vests,

      red leather boots.

      No one cooks over an open fire,

      scratches words into wood,

      drinks by candlelight.

      You want a sharp consonant,

      an axe of a word to split myths,

      to cleave false memories.

      You want a word to spit

      this was no world, no time

      anyone lived in.

      The truth was a city,

      baroque façades, paved streets,

      three-piece suits and hatpins.

      But war is a dry husk

      to jam in people’s mouths,

      so you’ll let the letter rust and dull.

      (The rhythm of that drone,

      that twirl of skirts,

      the burn of liquor in your throat.)