First letter:
ADELAIDE
You have come alone. The thick fog of Adelaide Harbor
smells of tar and poppies. The peculiar yellow sun
of an unfamiliar spring burns: an orange ball
bobbing in a wide muddy pool of sky.
You waded ashore, dreaming of black harbor waters,
like Gulliver towing after you
little crystal boats. Over the slow flowing Torrens
the vibrating line of a bridge is piercing the night.
In the old German town (remember?) those plane trees entrusted
to you now rustle by another bridge over a shallow river:
in the morning children catch silver trout in their hands,
leaves whisper on the shore, winds play in the square.
The cathedral clock chimes the hour of ruins.
White moonlight crumbles. In the shadow of heavy counterforces,
where an Angel blows the trumpet of Judgement,
our footsteps stayed and echo. In Adelaide, you
dream in wintertime of a light bark boat in the snow.
In the jabber of parrots you search for a lost gray bird.
Bridges. The brick gate is red. The sun revolves
as an orange sphere in your dream. In Adelaide.
Second letter:
HONG KONG
The newborn moon blooms in the cherry orchard.
In Hong Kong.
Yellow and round, like a copper plate.
Like a gong.
My little sister with almond eyes, porcelain fingers,
watches how silk weavers indifferently die
on the fragile bridge railings in Hong Kong.
Rye whiskey is sweet. Shadows on thin silk
waver like hollow reeds in a faint aquarelle.
The bread of famine sticks in the throat.
Shadows wander from gray suburbs
through the marijuana smoke of the cafe like puppets.
And the moon blooms yellow in the desert. In the harbor.
In Hong Kong.
Gleaming and round, like a cooper plate.
Like a gong.
My sister forgot a thousand years ago
that she knows how to laugh and cry. On the pond’s surface
under the fragile bridge railings in Hong Kong,
Gioconda looks up at me with almond eyes.
Third letter:
GOLD COAST
Efua,
lakes of white moon milk ripple
in your dream. Supple
in your black skin, like the sacred
Modder Forest in the evening. Efua, your young
heart is like the thumping of your bare and drunken
feet, the drums’ tom-tom and the rhythmical harvest song.
Efua, in your dream the orange sun has ripened,
naked bride of the morning and stone of innocence.
The wrists of your hands are light, like the hollow
bones of birds. Like a reed in the wind – your waist.
The golden hair of corn sighs in your dream.
A river of copper water boils. The palm tree’s hands
beat the lazy wind in the shadow. You hold
your bow and arrow raised high. Efua, your winding path
is followed by the cunning eye of the tiger. But you
will overcome the beast and the dark foliage, where
the odd dreams of monkeys dangle and the wind’s cool knives hang
after slicing a soft cloud. Warm lakes
of moon milk are steaming in your dream.
Efua, in your long, long dream.
Fourth letter:
BUDAPEST BALLAD
Imre, was it you who stood
(bareheaded in a student’s woolen coat with child’s eyes)
on the steps of a poet’s monument that extraordinary October evening
and shouted into the dead silence above the endless sea of heads,
hoarse from your country’s deserts and the tepid Danube wind
and the beating of your young blood:
“Arise Hungarians, your fatherland calls you!
The time has come! Now or never!
In the name of the God of all Hungarians, we swear, we swear
never again to be slaves!”
Was it you, Imre, that then repeated with the throng
and the earth, and the wind, and the water, this bitter oath of freedom?
………………………………
………………………………
Imre, was it you who wrote
(in blood – what pathos! – in your young, warm blood)
with bullet-pierced hand numbed by the first autumn frost,
in straight and red letters on the white bricks of the pier,
so all could see: the snoopers, cowards, cohorts, and enemies,
in tall letters, the clotted scream: Death to the oppressors!
My land shall live forever!
………………………………
………………………………
Imre, was it you who covered
with your coarse woolen coat (and the flag, from which your friend’s
hand had cut out – like an abscess – the shameful star of slavery)
the haggard, gaunt body, your sister’s loose yellow hair,
and laid words on the street pavement, torn up
by tank treads:
Sleep peacefully, little girl of Budapest,
your death was not in vain…
………………………………
………………………………
Imre, is it you who have written
on a narrow paper ribbon
those unforgettable sentences to us
from that night beyond, from that town convulsed in death
(while despair’s black cannonade thunders… the Danube glitters
under empty bridges… and bayonets… narrow Mongolian eyes…
the barbarian is at the city gates…),
Imre, did you write to us
from that last, terrible, immortal night:
“God, save Hungary.
God, save our souls.
Farewell, companions…”?
Fifth letter:
LOS ANGELES
On the ocean shore barefoot angels are dancing.
Brass throats of trumpets scream blue sorrow.
Drunken poets recite in cafes – sharp shadows
of legendary birds slash with thin wings
the raucous curtain of smoke – through it
girls with loose hair covering their faces look out
at the quiet, apathetic, flat, mirror-like sea…
On hot asphalt barefoot angels are dancing.
Jungle drums throb the rhythm of wild blood.
Black poets sing midday, blazing day:
from ashen palm trees flocks of birds spill
over the dancing, screaming, raving city…
The eye of the burnt out sun smolders in the carnival flag.
On the harbor pier barefoot angels are dancing.
In cafes and taverns barefoot angels are dancing.
Black angels. White angels. Blue angels.
The poets have resurrected from the smoke a green coral island
and the homeland of the albatross. Brass jazz trumpets
tear at palm tree branches and crack the stone of skyscrapers.
Stained glass windows crumble and shop windows split.
Artificial moons flee through starless space.
On stars and broken glass barefoot angels are dancing.
(Henrikas Nagys)
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