A Stone Thrown Away
Written by Attila Balazs
Translated from Hungarian by Elizabeth Csicsery-Rónay
Narrated by Bill Wolak
Hungary
I learned to breathe consciously
as one who is master of the
complex machinery
which it carries beneath its skin
for a long time instinctively
then ever more consciously
ever more organically
ever more strictly
stepping beyond the boundaries of asceticism
at times the tangled strings
of self pity
wind into regular skeins
forbidden and secret things collected
like grass in the receptacles of lawn mowers
jamming the stalling motor
and stopping
the rotating blades
moist with green blood
then too
when your dress like
a sudden shower
fell to the cool floor
then like a dove with broken wings
your bra landed next to it
you left your panties on
so I should slip them off
rather clumsily
impatiently
with slightly trembling fingers
as if I were trying to
slip off your skin
it was so hard
the synthetic piece
was so tight
then suddenly you stood there
like a cold statue
alien for a moment
then cell by cell I reconquered your
delicately trembling body
which lit up
like a pink lamp
it grew hotter
it pulsed and writhed
then
I saw you only with my cells
I closed my eyes
your touch
coaxed noises that
only I could perceive
from my tuned-up body
I realized
that you were a master of music-making
the concert without an audience
I don’t know how it ended
for I died a little
selfishly I fell asleep
I turned off my consciousness
in the morning
you observed delicately
your touch brought peaceful sleep
to the baby that cried inside me
and resignation
to the lad crying inside
and ashamed of his solitude
your embrace was like
a pit coming out of the flesh of the fruit
a feeling separate from the body
blood coursing outside the body
gently drizzling
red rain
in the silence that grew around us
like the slowly tightening grip of a python
before you disappeared finally
in the dark and cool
warmth of love
you left so that the vacuum
of your absence sucked up
my mood
loneliness like a sad nanny
consoling and protecting
closed in its calloused hand
in which definite lines
showed the way
like lines painted on asphalt
at the busy airport
the stone thrown away carries the warmth
of the hand
but you never know to whom
it will give a
breath of energy
though tiny
it nevertheless
causes
landslides
avalanches
lightning
rainbows
like a bolt
like an artificial heart
which love tries
to make circulate
in those
who are clutching at nothing
they don’t raise their heads
toward the light that filters
through the chinks and crevices
Attila F. Balázs was born in Târgu Mureș, Romania. He is a poet, writer, translator, editor, and publisher. Although born in Romania, he writes his poetry in Hungarian.
Elizabeth Csicsery-Ronay is a writer, poet, translator, editor. She studied philosophy at George Washington University, then modern languages at the Sorbonne, Paris.