Kinga Fabo

Kinga Fabo Poems

A pair of glances intersecting.
Between the two the image dances.
Only between this pair of glances

I'm not a city: I have neither light, nor
window display. I look good.
I feel good. You didn't
invite me though. How

Soul would perish or body?
Or both simultaneously?
Or would two different deaths
come separately and catch?

Is it detached or all-forgiving?
We need a passport to get through.
It nods us past in quick succession

Open, the sea appeared asleep.
Carrying its waves.
A pulse under the muted winter scene.
Throwing a smile on the beach.

Ripens sweet fragrance,
makes its fruits grow and gain weight -
as the Moon's mask grows.
கனிந்த இனிய நறுமணம்


He asked about my favourite scent.
Then left.
Now I'm singing, being

You sit me down. Make my bed. For me. For you.
For her. The way she swings around. Sways. Bows.
Let's say: I'll tell you. Let's say: You'll listen.

As if oozing from the the edges of
Couldn't get beyond the stains.

How many women!
How much time you've been given.
How many borrowed charm's been shattered around.


To be a sad empty vase
to be a withered flowergirl in a vase
to be a tiny microphone
to be a crawl upon a shoulder

Like sculpture at first. Then, as if the sun rose in her, long
A small smile; then very much so.

He didn't hold me that night.
Hard as it was, he was alone.
That moment hard as it was.

The photo has turned ripe right by today.
Now it's been found. Its age caught up.
Now it has a bunch of expired

I grew up in the shadow of Anna days.
Kinga left unmarked.
The Anna-fest already in swing.

One helped me into this life I wonder is there
someone to help me out of it and how?
Will it happen, take place without assistance…?

Once again I looked at myself
in the mirror.

Once again I was overcome by

I was getting down
to basics,
when the telephone

Kinga Fabo Biography

Kinga Fabó is a Hungarian poet (linguist, essayist) , author of eight books, the latest of which is a bilingual Indonesian-English poetry collection RACUN/POISON published in 2015 in Jakarta, Indonesia and was positively reviewed by Linda Ibbotson. Fabó’s poetry has been published in various international literary magazines including Osiris, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Screech Owl, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear, Numéro Cinq, Fixpoetry and elsewhere as well as in anthologies like The Significant Anthology, Resonance, Women in War, The Colours of Refuge, Poetry Against Racism, and World Poetry Yearbook 2015 and others. Some of her poems have been repeatedly anthologized, while others have been picked up at random from here and there and happened to be translated into just Persian, Albanian, Tamil, or Galego. One of her poems, " The Ears, " has among others six different Indonesian translations by six different authors. Two of her poems, translated by George Szirtes, are forthcoming in Modern Poetry in Translation, Spring Issue, introduced by Szirtes. She has also written an essay on Sylvia Plath. In everything she’s done, Fabó has always been between the verges, on the verge, and in the extreme.)

The Best Poem Of Kinga Fabo

Mirror Image

A pair of glances intersecting.
Between the two the image dances.
Only between this pair of glances

Do I exist as something seen,
This hook and eye of glance and light
- working down the lines of sight -

that now I flash but then allow
to guide me through the mirror so
that I may glimpse the self that sees.

Continually I catch her eye
through moments to eternities
where they are fixed nor will let go

not once because what now divides
later conjoins and reunites
every time the glance invites.

It offers then it borrows back.
It breaks up the continuous flow
between the likeness and the fact

of face itself, the visual field
busted open: face erased.
Before my very eyes, shame-faced,

so vision itself seeks escape.
Between two pairs of eyes the thread
remains suspended in ‘instead'.

It fills my eyes in one brief glance.
It flies home, breaks on broken glass.
Another woman, bold as brass.

No seeing it. It's language only.
Multiple pasts that gather in me,
reflections on which I reflected

but do not constitute a presence.
And yet the thing won't let me be
but drags me back with brutal force.

I'm shackled to my image, held
and harnessed, braked and fully bonded,
obliged into an equipoise

stretched across the frozen sheet
of the mirror as by choice,
like rowers pulling on two oars,

dipping the oars into the fleet
current then dipping out again,
dipping and raising, dipping deep,

while it takes then renders back
in to and fro: remove, repeat,
urged now to part, now to remain

a constantly repeated item.
compulsive in its come and go:
regress, regress, ad infinitum,

a siren that's forever calling,
that grabs the eye and fiercely holds it
breaking the organ that beholds it.

The spell is broken like a trick.
Mere spectacle. A speck, a glance
dependent on the merest chance.

(George Szirtes)

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