Peter Zilahy

Peter Zilahy Poems

the lights of the awakening city
he watches the arm swinging the blow
finds him as if he was yanking open curtains
no speech no cry he mutely falls
...

to die in socks
because the floor is cold
to snuggle into lukewarm
ankle socks
...

jesus doing the butterfly stroke on the cross
- - - -
baby trophies
on the corridor of the maternity ward
...

she comes
I hear her wings beating
she pulls down the covers
with sure movements
...

My bumpy road to sexual maturity was paved with the death of communist dictators.
My first sexual experience coincided with the death of Mao Zedong. I was bitten by
a girl called Diana in nursery school. My voice broke when Tito died, and I first came
when Brezhnev went. For three days there was nothing but classical music on the radio,
...

Peter Zilahy Biography

Péter Zilahy was born in Budapest in 1970. He studied philosophy and cultural anthropology at ELTE University in Budapest. He was a lecturer at BME University between 1995-98. He was editor in chief of Link Budapest, an Internet magazine for contemporary literature in English and Hungarian between 1997-1999. He is editor of JAK Books international series since 1998, where among others (Victor Pelevin, Ian McEwan, Arnon Grunberg) he published young German authors (Ingo Schulze, Jenny Erpenbeck, Kathrin Röggla).)

The Best Poem Of Peter Zilahy

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the lights of the awakening city
he watches the arm swinging the blow
finds him as if he was yanking open curtains
no speech no cry he mutely falls
unbuttons his jacket to feel the cold
to throw himself on the solid marble air
as if flattened by the space holding up his chest
pressing him into the low grimy clouds
he doesn't reach the ground he swims forward
as if his fingers had grown webbed
elbowing his way through the gaping crowd
thudding dully into the dust no word no anger no blood
he doesn't speak he doesn't bleed just rips open
he lies between legs hot and grey
watches the body that took the place
of the body turns away disappears in the crowd
so they won't know what he is thinking from there
every morning he stops in front of that house
staring up high watching how far he would drop
he falls mutely on the stone

translated by Jeffrey Langlois

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