Walking with Gyula Friewald
Village walk in Spain
I climb up from the valleys
follow the path of donkeys.
My presence pursues the moments
as it croaks like a floundering bullfrog
in the mind’s stronghold.
The floating minute whistles casually,
weaves wreaths from wild flowers
and gently strokes my neck.
Vast, bright air flooding from the above,
the scented breeze ignores me.
I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces
of these elegantly resting female mountains.
Herds and swarms of cultures gathered
in these cupped hands like valleys and
disappeared in the drain hole of time.
Nobody wants to wake up from
the oozing garlic ornate dream.
They just repeat what is safe,
as the old told how to survive,
indeed, good for their godly goats.
Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.
Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013
Kóma / Coma
Coma
You stand daily outpace
above your packed suitcase,
iron wasps drunk on your tears.
The bite of the winter’s
tattoo refrozen puddles
drift and stuck on you.
Mum’s fallen fingers
On the strings of your
facial lines,hesitantly old
melodies swell.
The clerk’s ancient epilepsy is
in the law’s cacophony.
The unwrapped memorabilia’s
brick piles, lapses into pyramids.
Wandering friends trance on the passes of years.
The mind croaks, the scientist cries.
The right half, destructively rise new temples
the left, replace priests,
geld healingly
for stealing faith.
The insignias of your worn moral suitcase:
survived odours of slaughterhouses,
sexually in smuggled tricks,
the empty skulls and in their eye sockets
the peeping violets,
The long forgotten trips,
The secret panties, bras and their
creased vapour,
The walnut tree’s love letters.
Excitements, carved in school benches,
the thick drip of candles,
the pit of the first glass of alcohol,
a dilated pupil gazes into your mirror,
the emotional ram of your rebellious child,
the capsize of the porcelain potty.
All turn sepia brown, in musty albums,
atrophy to the tapestry of a museum.
You, who know how to crawl across borders;
time to cut some corners!
Turn over the stinky moral baggage!
Push aside the lunatic blockage!
2010-12-21 Friewald Gyula
Between Bridges of Budapest
(Story of my parents)
I search the big trees above me,
follow the path of my mother’s force.
Replacement: Daci, my mothers’ first lover, gone,
my father back from Stalin’s gulag.
Massive dripping of ideology,
the worse outnumber the bad,
Decisions and instinct of a 19 year old,
new ideas of working class demagogue optimism,
while her sewing machine rattles.
Hot summer excursion, forest walk.
Betting time, the die has been cast.
New bridge
I’m there, the whole rollercoaster,
runaway train cut into the blue sky.
Genes, DNI, amino acid gambling,
next few months and
as a little, rechargeable frog finish my first cycle.
Week long struggle to get on the stage
Mother bleeds and never stops.
Frog life reality, Mum’s learning
voices, to understand, croaks, sounds to etch in the heart.
New bridge
Father gives me his funny name, all right!
And leaves,… was a quick job,
he’s his own bureaucrat.
She is sobs, bleeds,
Starts to forget, but she has her frog life to live,
just about out of water.
Young mother, young child, young country.
Behind eyelids,
old wolves haul everywhere,
Another new bridge
Crystallized mind, crystallized muscles.
Derelict homes, unknown draws full of sweaty, worn masks.
Replacement again: Gyula ( my father) spins out
Another man comes, enters with emptiness of the desert,
Stubborn taste of the sand,
At the age of six,
I smell of grape and leather in the wind.
Mádi = the nickname of young Mother Gyula Friewald © 12/08/2011
FRIEWALD 