I draw shapes in the sand again and again, signs, lines, circles
[author title=”Balázs F. Attila” image=”https://sindhcourier.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/Balazs-F.-Attila-Poet-Transylvania-Sindh-Courier.jpg”]Balázs F. Attila, born in Târgu Mureș, (Transylvania) on January 15th, 1954, studied at the Institute of Catholic Theology in Alba Iulia and graduated in Library science and Literary translation in Bucharest. In 1990, he moved to Slovakia. In 1994, he founded AB-ART Publishing (Bratislava), of which he is the director since then. He is a member of the Hungarian Writers’ Union, of the European Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters, Paris, of the Eminescu Academy, of the Writers’ Union of Romania, of the Hungarian PEN Club, of the Writers’ Association of Slovakia; honorary member of the Academy of Sciences, Arts and letters, Chisinau, Moldova, As the author of more than a dozen collections of poetry and the translator of more than twenty books of poetry and fiction, Attila F. Balázs has received numerous awards and prizes for his various literary activities. He received honorary Degree of Doctor of Literature, China in 2018. His works have been translated in 23 languages. He is a regular participant of diverse literary festivals all around the world. [/author]
I TURN SAND IN MY FINGERS
The broken up remnants of memory
Stir something in me
I catch myself
Trying to put together something
That is not so
Different
And yet which seems the same
Or similar
I see
My fingers trembling
So I stop
Then
So as to relax my muscles
I turn sand in my fingers
Dry dog shit is left in my palm
Then I draw shapes
In the sand
Again and again I erase
Signs lines circles
How can you create order?
In the disorder
There inside?
Order is not neatness
Things fall apart
Things separate
Things club together
Order is an invisible net
It is vulnerable
It can be obliterated
Questioned
Rearranged
Suddenly
It occurs to me
Am I defined by my name?
Am I my name?
Or is it just a junk that I wear
Which you can’t get rid of
Words like hatchling turtles
Scramble toward the water
Rocked by the waves
In the safety of the water
A huge greedy mouths wallows them
But some of them survive
In the volatile beauty
In the sparkling life-death!
VILLON’S NECKTIE
Your lips stiffen
When
You recite
Villon or Attila József
Your eyes stare into the distance
As if you were angry
Or
You’ve forgotten me
Jealousy stirs
In the rotting nest
That waits for
The birds to return
That had been driven away
In the darkening sky
As if on a projector
Villon adjusts the rope
On his scarred neck
BLACK ANGEL
Anyone who’s been caught up in a maelstrom
Knows that progress
Is at the same time a constant return
To the same point
Situation
Condition
You’re dizzy from the speed
You get tired
You grow numb
And if you look around
You will always find yourself
In the same situation
It’s a vicious circle
Only the heart
Tries to be at in a different rhythm
Only smoke rises erratically
Only the brazen wind blows sand
In your eyes
Not even the root that clings
To the crevice in the cliff notices
The mad Dance of Death
And the shadows
Come to terms with the light
Setting off
Roads
Running out
Branching out
You can find everything
On the screen of your laptop
The only thing you won’t find
On the searcher
Are the illusions you’ve abandoned
On the way
Resigned, you reach out a hand
To the black angel
Who takes your fingerprint?
In the middle of the desert
MEMENTO
Tired clay
Wrinkled
Parched
In the sun’s murderous caresses
Finger prints keep
The stiff traces
Of touch
Forming
Abandonment
THE HUNT FOR BEAUTY
Time hangs from
The clock’s bent hand
The man with the keys locks the grille
He cuts strips from the light
Beauty flows out from the gaps
And the image comes together
On the retina
____________________
