Five Poems

Abstract

Metamorphoses You start awake in the middle of the night to glimpse by your head, lying on the white bedsheet, an unstirring, black vermin, it’s watching you. You sweep it off with the pillow and look for it on the floor, hoping it was a stag beetle. Seeing the light on, the one you love comes in: Anything wrong? he asks. Now you can tell you had imagined the scene, only because you don’t shrink as you normally would, had you not dreamt it. No, nothing, you answer. While knowing something’s wrong. The one who lay on your pillow a while ago is now watching you, black, unstirring. 38 WLT NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 2016 Five Poems by Zsuzsa Takács 9:40 a.m. / Venipuncture The way they step on one another’s heels until a spindle-legged woman with dyed hair trips in the queue, and all stick their necks forward for fear someone might overtake them on the production line behind the door they all strive to get to, and on which three lab nurses squat like giant mosquitoes, sucking blood from seven in the morning, it’s now getting on to ten and no one knows yet what is to come, if this will be enough or they will be ushered into an inner room from where further doors open. Outside, throbbing fall holds out its rich grapes. The sun glows relentlessly on the translucent berries. Editorial note: From Viszonyok könnye (1992), A letakart óra (2001), and A test imádása (2010). poetry photo : steve petrucelli Nov16_Insides2.indd 38 10/19/16 1:05 PM The Place The place, this cat, lives on. Indifferent to our passing, it lies down on the windowsill, giving us a cue: inside there are more rooms. It looks out languidly and invites us in. We were sitting on the green sofa. The Big Ben–like tower music always reminded me of the death knell. It would sound unexpectedly in the middle of conversation, our time is up, the clock struck, it announced and I would grab a parent’s hand and tug at it: let’s go! Danger is lurking here. On the wall my uncle of tragic fate sat embracing his young wife on a bough. How preposterous! How could the slender girl in diaphanous clothes and the serious-looking young man sit embraced on a bough! Yet I clearly remember, they sat there. The famous painter of the thirties immortalized them. I don’t know where the crafty device produced the music, if it was incorporated in the back of the frame, or if there was a wall clock nearby. And in the meantime the grown-ups’ conversation, for instance: “at the horrors her hair turned white overnight.” They said it in a whisper so we wouldn’t hear, but we caught it of course, munching our gingerbread. My uncle’s family should have moved out of that apartment. So, they all died before time. I wanted to tell them in parting. But who would listen to a twelve-year-old? Beneath the tree in the picture the well-known figure, the Reaper was seen: he was sawing (!) the tree. I saw it all very clearly. The Constancy of the Trojan Horse The Trojan horse knocked on the door shyly and came in with a clopping on the floor. Hoof of a horse, I smiled to myself, then as I saw the evergreen bouquet clumsily pressed to his side, I chuckled inwardly: gift of a stalking horse, and was amused by my comparison. I offered him a seat, disheartening him who, with a sideways jerk of his head, gestured no, to escape the pangs of sitting down. There was a smell of freshly planed wood. With a small sigh I thought of my approaching birthday and looked out for a last time at the world beyond the window: church tower, rooftops, short-flighted, sick pigeons. As if about to start down the slope, my visitor gave me an embarrassed look, but soon an impatient snort was to follow. I quickly realized: this is the signal. From then on, I remember exactly, I wished I could...