Kinga Fabó:

Mis-enjoyment

 

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

misundertood.

 

(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)

 

KINGA FABÓ:

OR YES

 

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

 

KINGA FABO:

SNOWQUEENSNO  NG

 

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,
                         travels.
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.