bobbing up and down on the river
framed by the intricate lace of the parliament?
The country taught me hate
the tightness of place, sometimes echoed
when the gales gather and attack this island.
No escape, lie low, let the winds blow overhead,
wait, even if you are sitting on a hot spring
even if you fume vitriol.
Remembering the river’s bank
ragged lines of men and women, shot
after they were told to slip off their shoes.
Boney bare trees reach up into the sky
grab the pain - hanging on
pulling it down, draw it deep into the soil.
The Danube splits the land. From the crack
incredible amounts of fresh water, hot and clear
bubble up with the smell of rotten eggs.
Healing waters - they say -
good for the bones and joints,
the ailments that plague the core of the nation.
The never got buried float away into the sky -
in the spas soaking people play chess
in sulphuric silence.
© Csilla Toldy
Rabid right on the rise in Hungary
Csilla Toldy left Hungary in 1981. She does not wish to return. Csilla's stories and poetry have appeared in The Black Mountain Review, Southword, Fortnight, Poetry Monthly, and Strictly Writing Award. Her blog is http://www.csillatoldy.com/