Poems by Krisztián Tóbiás, translated by Károly Sándor Pallai

The stigmata of the masons
are bleeding
sticking together the bricks
as a sacrifice is required
a blood sacrifice
to keep the walls from tumbling down
and from striking them dead
blinking night-scented gilliflowers
plaster up the dropping
salty red liquid
in the wall of the house under the window
and in the tiny corridors
in the coating of plaster
the blood starts to flow
the heart starts to beat
and the snow-like walls
slowly turn into a plethoric pale rose-red.

It was summer
and very hot
on the tobacco field
it suddenly started thundering
it was
like the voice of johnthebaptist
when he announced the coming of the jesuschrist
not far from the foul alga-covered water
of the backwater of the river Tisza
the heaven was shouting
and somehow the air
turned clearer and of a more pleasant smell
tobacco leaves started to rustle
and it turned dark
and all the dirt
settled on the ground
started to glitter
the smudgy sweat
that had dropped on the soil
and sprinkled it with salt
then it started to rain
the earth was rebaptized
the water of the celestial jordan
washed off the salt
into the depths of the earth
straight into
the burning hell
into the soup of the devils
it washed the salt of perspiration
with which the chef of the devils used to cook
and in the meantime johnthebaptist
kept shouting at the top of his voice
until the sky turned brighter
the earth became shiny
and the rainbow started to shine
like some kind of halo.

The fish are perishing
and where is now the jesuschrist
the tisza is growing foul
it will
soon be
as if
the lepers would have chased it
to the side of the embankment
why doesn’t he come here now
to raise them from the dead
and to keep the fishermen from perishing of hunger
where is he now
why doesn’t he call to you
to cast your nets
and to fill up your boats to the brim
everything is silent now
only the ripples on the water
keep diffusing the stale smell in the air
and the fishers of men will arrive soon as well.

The almighty is sitting in front of the table
resting his elbows on the tablecloth
he draws the ashtray closer
and looks around
greyish rose walls with white patterns
the smell of mud wall
half-light
the windows only let in yesterdays
yesterday’s light
yesterday’s air
and yesterday’s flies
when the windows of the heavens open
he pours coffee from an oily pot
and takes a handkerchief out of his blue work jacket
he blows his nose
crumbles some tobacco on the cigarette paper
his hands tremble
he rolls
and lights the cigarette
the earth is spinning on tv
and yet it moves
just like in jókai
and yet
it moves
still
he spits on the carpet
there used to be loamed soil here
rammed earth
lustrous
scrubbed and abraded
a soil of yesterday
its nails black
earthen black
coal-black
fat-black
silence-black
it is sitting here
judging the living and the dead
from time immemorial
and resting here even a day before that
after the great creation
after the creation there wasn’t such a silence
brats were making an uproar everywhere in the world
screeching into the great void
into the universe
the sun was shining
and it was good
the almighty looked at it
and how good it was
really
yesterday’s soil
its face ridged into a smile by the furrows
time smiles back in the mirror of the sideboard
the wrinkled time
like the fourth marble head
like the young ironjack
smiles back
blowing the smoke out of his toothless mouth
thus preserving the memories
so that they become well-smoked
and salty
for the holidays
when they can be dug out
from the bottom of the sideboard
so that we remember
the creation
the creation of the almighty
and recall
that
when the time comes
then
once more
we’ll smile
you’ll see.