Poetry 'n Prose

One day in Budapest

One day is a rich chaos unlike any other, the sun never rises
In quite the same place as yesterday or tomorrow,
But here standing over the Danube,
The Earth deviates on its axis, pulled by vanishing stars,
The carpet of galaxies moves away under your feet
While you still stand upon Liberty Bridge
and the river of sound it forms, flowing one way,
Always, then back on itself, then on,

So learn from the river, patience, until the flood
May be dived in, or gather you up like a whirlpool,
Time’s innermost fountain renews itself, murmuring,
Splashing you with its language of hidden glyphs and icons,
Like Bartók’s music of impossibilities, constantly calling:
Listen, take me in, drink me, and sometimes entering you too,
Spreading drops on your hands, feeding your mouth with words,
Unclasping your throat in song’s affirmation and harmony.

By 67paintings

A dialectical site of poetry, painting and the odd musical excursion into the unknown.

10 replies on “One day in Budapest”

listening to Bartok, I usually held my breath, not intentionally
just always waiting to see what would come through the mist…
magickal as are your words…

Beautiful! Totally other worldly! I have neither been to Budapest, nor stood on the Liberty Bridge, but the galaxies have moved through me and I have felt the earth shudder in its eternal sleep…. I just love this poem for its sense of deeply felt joy.

Stay well! Prayerfully!

Listening to Bartok is never easy, but never the less my debt to Bartok is there, particularly the Bartok of the String Quartets, many of whose movements sound paradoxical, with their intense linear counterpoint, percussive rhythms, odd metrical schemes, extended tonality, exotic scales, and piquant dissonances… strangely healing!

A continuation of Nothing is forever lost…. and herein Budapest feels like home from home, whilst the river flows onwards inexorably in the veins of this traveller.

Thank you Mei. Something about Budapest makes me want to call this home…like I’ve been here before in some incomprehensible form. My ancestors came from these parts of Europe, that’s all I know…. the rest is a complete mystery.

:) . Travelers we are all! To find joy in this travel, not to seek to sink our feet in the sands of stillness, and also not to struggle to fly away, is the stuff of human existence.

:) yes indeed, thank you, travellers on the road we all are. Have you read Herman Hesse’s classic book Siddhartha? I’m re-reading this 25 years later with older eyes, but broader recognition of what it might mean.

It is one of my most favorite books. It is a book that I have given as gifts to friends very very often… it is one of Hesse’s most mature works. In it, he has simplified his approach and is not pedantic as he is in perhaps, the Glass Bead Game.

Thank you for reminding me. I will re-read it. Take care!

I’m reading passages of it to my oldest child, Isabel, who is very intuitive in her reading, and of course at the same time I’m reading it to myself again. Funny how it seems to be somewhat different story now, to when I was younger, where did the time go!?!

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