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CHAPTER 1
ALLEGORY OF THE PELICAN
For as that Pelican yonder,
alighting on the Rosemary branch,
on the Rosemary bower,
gazes at the Sun descending,
eventide and day's ending,
light upon the Dead One falling
through the fissures of the shutter,
the sun's last ray across his face,
he awaits — the Resurrection.
And the Pelican bides its time,
when the Sun has already declined,
reckons the number of branches,
the branches of the Rosemary bush,
like the light of Faith itself,
murderous, it blinds:
"I ask of you, my Pilgrim Soul,
You, my Body, passed from this world,
in this grant me your accord.
The Pelican alights on the Rosemary's bough, and its branches sway;
our wings at rest remain.
Christ counts the blows, five thousand four hundred and two score, when offense is given to Him,
and, within his Crown of Thorns,
thorns of seventy-two branches,
how great would be the torment,
were the Dead One to arise,
and walk here, like the Pelican,
its Allegory revived."
FINAL MATTERS: DEATH
There was nothing more than there should have been,
the common residue of the last few days,
gathered by the breeze into the courtyard nooks,
until Fanny the charwoman swept them away
and into the ground-floor flat called
"Good morning!" and "What's for lunch today?"
The sun shone down. Doves alighted on the eaves and pockmarks on the cement were seen
each one by itself, for eternity. It was Spring.
The shutters were folded, the shades drawn.
The window opened just a crack, which was strange,
but maybe not so much. And then everyone
was seeking the cause of the peculiar smell. Evening came, and morning again. The third day. No one thought of the elderly couple in the ground-floor flat.
The detectives were bored. Nothing affects them
anymore. They were drunk when they got there and guzzled even more at the drink-stand next door. The corpses were buried quickly, because it was Easter. The case was closed. And no one played the Dies irae.
AETERNITAS
(1)
The Eternal is cold, like the chisel used to carve the face of our Jesus.
The Eternal is submerged,
like the pebble,
as you gaze at the river and see the water again tranquil.
The Eternal leaps away, like the flea you clutch at in vain —
already the inferno.
The Eternal is profound,
like that awareness in which resides the mercy of our Christ.
The Eternal ticks on, like the clock,
though maybe it misses
— at times — the dawn.
The Eternal is thin as the blade of the knife which Death then slips into your heart.
The Eternal is,
like life itself, fleeting —
it comes to an end while you're speaking.
ROSARY FOR THE NYMPHS
There is something in the soul. Perhaps a yearning for greatness which never leaves one in peace. From memory, the time
of waiting falls away. Only circumstances remain,
the opened palm, the mouth askew, the cold
touch on the forehead. The eyelids bound to the tear ducts with three or four stitches. Both
already closed, only a scalpel could open them now. The umbilical cord, gnawed through with the teeth. The face
bloodied. The nymphs heard the grinding of teeth. In the realms of poetry, all errant forms
followed the trace. The spilt milk left a stain on the stone floor by the fridge. The shades thirstily
gathered round. For the entire day, they listened in silence.
Waiting by the edge of the opened eye. The flock of sheep
drifted down the white stony hillside. Like a grandmother's hair at night, falling from its knot. Or like
teeth, which are whiter and more rigid than bone. Like specters, jostling around the mouth.
THE SEQUENCE OF EMPTINESS
Ghastly the void at the page's edge,
where the sentence comes to an end and floats across
to the next page, turning over the leaves, yet nothing contains within itself
the world, which, should you not pay heed, is lost, for the Soul no longer there resides,
only Malediction, as it watches you in the Mirror, the pupil of its eye observing
by the pages' end, where the void may arise,
the sentence penned may not remain unfulfilled,
for that which is written must come to be,
He who is Sacred must appear:
Marana tha!
May grace upon us descend,
and may this world now reach its end!
Amen!
SEQUENCES OF CHRISTMAS
(1)
On Golgotha, by the crucifix,
our eyes are trained on sweet Jesus
who when he came into this world for all our sakes was murdered
tiny being from his mother's womb cast out upon this world
a naked life came all alone and with it came a tiny soul
the infant has no swaddling clothes only his father's watchful gaze
his tiny hand laid on the cross and held in place with nails because
for all time now he must die for our sakes he lies in agony
there the infant's tiny corpse hovering above its soul there floats
on that night in Bethlehem Pontius Pilate weeps alone
sees the one in the manger laid the nails driven into his hands
the wide gash on his right side crowned with thorns is the infant head
the manger's straw is slick with blood tiny tiny Jesus brother
with his hands so very small plays with the wounds in his tiny palms
turns them round, peering through:
the infant's face, dead, smiling.
FINAL MATTERS: HELL
He sat on the edge of the bed and waited for Him —
for years now. He said: I try to forget in vain. That day was like any other, like a confining husk —
he repeated this daily. And he couldn't even die, that too was no use. He looked at the wall.
In his eyes there was no longer any light.
Only a few irrelevant thoughts flitted across
his brain. A hesitant smile. "Where am I? —"
he asked, but expected no answer.
As with all the other questions, he hardly believed there could be answers. He perceived
that for the one who has fallen there is no longer any reason to ascend. "Maybe in another life ..." he said at times. In vain. "... For I live here among assassins, which is how I betray Him."
AETERNITAS
(2)
The Eternal is what I'd rather forget:
Like life itself,
unyielding, without end.
A man approaches from the south bearing a cross upon his back,
people gather round and ask,
"Where did you find that?"
If they ask he doesn't tell them why he doesn't put it down,
he simply carries it further,
in his pocket there's no room.
He might put it in his wallet,
but no, not even there,
as he counts his pieces of silver,
"A thousand, a thousand and one ..."
Or even underneath his tongue,
because at times they ask:
"Are you one of the disciples?"
"Is Béla your name?"
"Are you by any chance Peter?"
He looks up in distress,
Always he must move on,
Never finding rest.
AETERNITAS
(3)
The Eternal is like the axe the assassin slams into someone's head.
The Eternal is the act of pillage from which in panic the garret now is empty.
The Eternal is scarlet,
like fresh blood. Above it rises a vapor.
Then it too disappears.
The Eternal is like the heart of him the robbers murdered without hesitation.
The Eternal is like murder,
it destroys the Effigy,
the Face of the Dead.
The Eternal is flawless,
like the in-
decipherable Secret of the Perfect Crime.
The Eternal is like the eye of the one killed:
Dread is in his gaze.
The Eternal weeps,
like the many Archangels who served Jesus in their Multitude.
The Eternal is like the Dawn, to which the Guardian Angel shall no longer awaken.
SEQUENCES OF CHRISTMAS
(3)
Evening now in Bethlehem,
the swineherds fallen still —
In a decaying tavern,
Gypsy musicians play.
When the Three Kings arrive,
three roses red as blood.
Three wilted lilies knock at the stable doors.
As through the crevice falls a bit of the full moon.
It shines for two more years,
the knife on the tavern board.
ERRATIC LITURGY OF THE HOURS
Benedictus-antiphon
O, bliss of Sweet Death come at midnight for our souls,
should our hearts not find peace grant us at once the knife!
So we shall not suffer long in the assasins' hands come for us now, o Sweet Death,
in place of our Christ our Lord!
Send soldiers, and plunderers who know the art of murder,
so that we may forget the Trees,
and all that's of this earth.
FINAL MATTERS: TIME WITHOUT END
Across the winter land, the vapors rise,
the thin smoke from the house's gas furnace.
The Orthodox cemetery on the mountainside blinding, in the sunlight, like stone,
incandescent, while in the fire the molten ore seethes in the cauldron.
In the afternoon the rain began,
as a few angels lounged
outside the dram-shop, lurching in the mire,
for free booze, or wenches, to slake their desire.
While far away, in the distant outskirts Time itself had vanished for good,
for the day of the Last Judgment had come,
as the hordes of Christians trampled each other.
And the pagans sat there, sipping their Coke,
in the tavern known as "Time without End."
THE SEQUENCE OF CORRECTION
In Death's final snare,
in its infinite final Hour,
the stars playfully swim.
The bacchanalia resounds as carousing through the pub the Angels wander drunkenly.
Weeping, they lament the Christ,
who was born here,
freezing into blood. Slowly,
immersed in reverie, on the road to Emmaus. Alone, like a pointing finger.
In which there is no mercy!
A PELIKÁN ALLEGÓRIÁJA
Mert mint ama Pelikán,
amely Rozmaringra száll,
Rozmaringnak ágára,
s néz a lemeno Napra,
mert immár napszállatra fény esik a Halottra
a redony résein át,
arcát fénycsík szeli át,
várja a Feltámadást,
s a Madár csak halogat,
mikor már le ment a Nap,
számolja az ágakat,
a Rozmaring ágait,
amely olyan, mint a Hit fénye, gyilkosan vakít:
"Kérlek zarándok Lelkem,
Téged is halott Testem,
Értsetek egyet velem:
Pelikán a Rozmaring-
ágra szállva ága ring,
s nem mozdítjuk szárnyaink.
Krisztus ötezer-négyszáz
És negyven ütést számlál,
amikor Ot megbántják,
s Töviskoronájának hetvenkét kis ágának tüskéi mind fájnának,
ha a Holt föl támadna,
s mint Pelikán, itt járna az Allegóriája."
VÉGSO DOLGOK
A Halál
Nem volt semmi, ami több lett volna,
mint az elmúlt napok hordaléka,
mit a szél gyujtött az udvar szögletébe,
mígnem kijött a Fány néni, és elsöpörte,
és beszólt még a földszinti lakásba,
hogy "jó reggelt!", és "mi lesz ma ebédre?"
Aztán a nap sütött. Galambok szálltak a házereszre. S látszott a beton minden rücske,
külön-külön és mindörökre. Tavasz volt.
A spaletták behajtva, a redunyök leeresztve.
S az ablak, hogy résre nyitva volt, az különös,
de mégse annyira. Aztán mindenki kereste
okát a furcsa szagnak. Így lett megint este
és reggel. Harmadik nap. De a földszinti lakókat, idos házaspár, senki sem kereste.
A nyomozók unottak. Oket nem érinti
meg semmi már. Részegen érkeztek, és a szomszéd büfében rátöltöttek. A hullákat Húsvét miatt gyorsan eltemették. Az ügyet ad acta tették. És nem kapcsolták be a Dies iraet.
AETERNITAS
(1)
Az örökké-valóság hideg, mint a véso,
amellyel faragták Jézusunknak arcát.
Az örökké-valóság merül, mint a kavics,
nézed a folyót, hát nyugodt újra a víz.
Az örökké-valóság ugrik, mint a bolha,
mire odakapnál már vagy a pokolba'.
Az örökké-valóság mély, akár az elme,
amelyben lakozik Krisztusunk kegyelme.
Az örökké-valóság ketyeg, mint az óra,
néha mégis kihagy,
mondjuk, virradóra.
Az örökké-valóság vékony, mint a penge,
amelyet a Halál csempész a szívedbe.
Az örökké-valóság rövid, mint az élet,
hirtelen ér véget,
mire elmeséled.
ROSARIUM
A Nimfákért
Van valami a lélekben. Talán a nagyravágyás,
ami nem hagyja nyugton. Emlékezetébol kihull
a várakozás ideje. Csak a körülmények maradnak,
a nyitott tenyér, a félrecsúszott száj, a hideg
érintés a homlokon. A szemhéj három-négy
öltéssel levarrva a könnyzacskóhoz. Most
mind a ketto csukott, csak szikével nyitható
már. A köldökzsinórt a fogaival rágta át. Az arca
véres lett. A fogak csikorgását hallották meg a nimfák. A poézis tájain minden kallódó alak
követte a nyomát. A huto mellett kiömlött tej foltot hagyott a kövön. Az árnyak szomjasan
gyultek köré. Egész napon át csak hallgatták.
A nyitott szem peremén várakoztak. A fehér,
köves domboldalon juhnyáj ereszkedett alá.
Mint nagymamák kibontott kontya este. Vagy
mint fogak, amelyek fehérebbek és merevebbek a csontnál. Mint a tolakvó lelkek a száj körül.
AZ ÜRESSÉG SZEKVENCIÁJA
Üresség a lapok szélén félelmetes,
ahogy ott véget ér a mondat,
és átlebeg
a másik lapra, lapozgatva közben, meg semmi nem tartja magában
a világot, amely elvész,
ha nem figyelsz, már nincs is ott a Lélek,
csak a Gonosz, amely Rád les a Tükörben, s a szembogárban figyelve
a lapszélen, üresség támadhat,
és leírt mondat nem maradhat teljesületlen,
mert az írásnak be kell telni,
aki Szent, annak kell jönni:
Marana tha!
Szálljon le a kegyelem,
és múljék el ez a világ!
Amen!
KARÁCSONYI SZEKVENCIÁK
(1)
Golgotán a keresztfára szemünk tekint Jézuskára
aki mikor megszületett
értünk akkor megöletett
anyaméhbol kicsi testét e világra kivetették
egyedül jött csupasz élet vele jött egy kicsi lélek
nem is volt még gatyácskája
úgy nézte az atyácskája
a keresztre pici kezét felszögezték csupán ezért
meg kell halni mindörökre
értünk magát meggyötörte
kicsi Jézus halott teste fölött lebegett a lelke
betlehemi éjszakában Pilátus sír egymagában
néz a jászolban fekvore szögek helyén a kezére
jobb oldalt a széles sebre töviskoronás fejére
jászol alján iszamós vér kicsi kicsi Jézus testvér
játszik a csöpp kis kezével tenyerében a sebével
forgatja és átnéz rajta mosolyog a halott arca.
VÉGSO DOLGOK
A Pokol
Csak ült az ágya szélén, s várta Ot —
már évek óta. Azt mondta, nem tudok felejteni, hiába. Olyan ez a nap, mint bármi más, mint egy szoros burok —
mondta napra-nap. És nem tudott meghalni sem, hiába. Nézte a falat.
A szemében nem volt már semmi fény.
Csak néhány régi dolog átszaladt
fejében. Tétova mosoly. "Most hol vagyok?" —
kérdezte. De nem várt már semmi választ.
Ahogy a többi kérdésre sem hitte, hogy lehet felelni még egyáltalán. Belátta már azt,
hogy nincs semmi, ami megérné felkelnie annak, aki elesett. "Talán egy másik élet ...",
mondta néha. Hiába. "... mert elárulom Ot azzal, hogy itt a gyilkosokkal közt élek."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Final Matters"
by .
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