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.