20/20 © Endre Farkas
20/20
The tracks shine
like a pair of polished shoes.
The sun is a perfect mouth
ready to swallow itself whole.
Balconies are lonely.
No Juliet today.
Line-ups, two metres apart
are short-fused.
The air, free from our forms
is more breathable.
People are afraid
they don’t wear masks.
Everybody is making art
out of their unhappy lives.
Except those who are busy
dying.
I see the dark
at the end of the tunnel.
Wind © Endre Farkas
Wind
Sanskrit: va, Greek: aemi, Gothic: waian
Old English: wawan, Old High German: wajan
Old Church Slavonic: vejati
Avestan: vata, Hittite: huwantis
Lithuanian: vėjas, Old Irish: feth
Welsh: gwynt, Breton: gwent
to blow.
The wind whips
through bare branches
empty streets and lanes.
Garbage flies
umbrellas flip inside out
clothes somersault on lines.
The invisible made visible
blows between earth and sky.
In the beginning was the wind.
In the end, the breath.
Good Friday © Endre Farkas
Good Friday
in the heat
in the barrios of Ecuador
the dead rot.
Everywhere
the rich wonder why
the stink is allowed to rise.
Talking to W.C. Williams & W.H. Auden © Endre Farkas
Talking to W.C. Williams & W.H. Auden
So much depends
upon doing nothing.
You really have to
work hard at it.
Even not making a list
is doing something.
What does it look, feel, smell
sound or taste like?
Why do I
want to do nothing?
Nothingness
is
what the dead
do
eyes closed
truly at rest
in Sunday best
palms across the chest
not even
breathing.
Now that’s really
doing nothing.
So, I stare
out my window
see
the April snow
and write
this poem
to make nothing
happen.
