Summer 1981 • Vol. III No. 3 Three Young Hungarian Poets |

The Rooms

Then the furniture was dragged out and it was plain how knotty the floor was, and marks of nails appeared. And you could see that the hole back of the iron stove had already got charred. And at the end a single naked light bulb was left burning, and now its glare like a razor rasps the stubbly wall. Now that the sky runs aslant like a pattern slashed across hangings behind bedposts, now that trees saw-toothed on the hillside bite off sky from earth— I see the empty rooms inside there like life's last minutes open into one another. Wind booms in the chimney vent, even my voice chills and stops within me. And here the pendulum must have stopped then and the stove must have grown chill, lump of iron now without significance. And the sky has turned black. And the cross of the railing in front of the window has no significance any more, tendrils of plants swinging upon it with arms outstretched now nothing but dry brown torn sinews. The bulb is still on in the bare

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Parting Present

By Rodney Pybus

Then the furniture was dragged out and it was plain how knotty the floor was, and marks of nails appeared. And you could see that the hole back of the […]

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