Monday, February 1, 2016


Kinga Fabó


Like sculpture at first. Then, as if the sun rose in her, long
A small smile; then very much so.

The beauty
of the rite shone; whirling.

She whirled and whirled,
Only the body spoke. The body carried her


Her dance a spell
swirling the air, a spiral she was


her shawl, the half circle around her,
the curve of the sea-shore and

the dancer and the dance apart…

(Trascreated by Cathy Strisik and Veronica Golos based on Katalin N. Ullrich’s translation.)


I don't know what it is but very ill-
intended. Sure a woman belongs.
And something like a laughter.

I am rotating the city on me,
rotating my beauty. That's that!
Many keys, small keyholes whirling.

Gazes cannot be all in vain. And the answer?
Merely a jeer.
The vase hugs me, killing, can't breathe.

Now my features - even with the best intentions -
cannot be claimed as a beauty.
And she? The girl? Her smarty perfume

is Poison. For me a real poison indeed.
And the vase?
His hugging kills me.

But what am I to do without?

(Translated by Kinga Fabó)


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,
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