Weöres Sándor, egyik legnagyobb szellemi mesterem, idén lenne 100 éves. // Sándor Weöres, famous hungarian poet and my greatest spiritual master would be hundred years old.


A linkre kattintva egy virtuális könyvbemutató kezdődik. A kötet címe 7+7, avagy reflexiók Weöres Sándor világára.
A könyv eddigi életem legmélyebb, legintenzívebb alkotói folyamatának eredménye.
Köszönet az élményért, és az áldott örömért.

(a képek betöltéséig kérem mindenki türelmét)


If you click on this link, you could try a virtual book trip. The title is 7+7, text is hungarian, but the pictures are multilingual. This book is the result of my deepest creative process of my not too long life. Thanks for the experience, and for the blessed joy.

It is a visual reflection to the world of Sándor Weöres, which is so rich and sensitive - these words are just cratching the top of the meaning.

7+7, the title means two part.
In the first there are 7 short texts from different parts of his poetry (for example Rongyszőnyeg like "Dreamdoor").
The Colonnade of Teeth is the second part:

The Colonnade of Teeth


The Colonnade of Teeth, where you have entered,
red marble hall: your mouth,
white marble columns: your teeth,
and the scarlet carpet you step on: your tongue.

You can look out of any window of time
and catch sight of still another face of God.
Lean out the time of sedge and warblers:
God caresses.
Land out the time of Moses and Elijah:
God haggles.
Lean out of the time of the Cross:
God's face is all bloody, like Veronica's napkin.
Lean out of your own time
God is old, bent over a book.

Head downwards, like Peter on his cross,
man hangs in the blue sky with flaring hair
and the earth trundles over the soles of his feet.
The one who sees
has sleepless eyes he cannot take from man.

No sugar left for the child:
he stuffs himself with hen-droppings and finds what's sweet.
Every clod: lightless star!
Every worm: wingless cherub!

If you make hell, plunge to the bottom:
heaven's in sight there. Everything circles round.

Man lays down easy roads.
The wild beast stamps a forest track.
And look at the tree: depth and height raying from it to every
itself a road, to everywhere!

Once you emerge from the glitter of the last two columns
the cupola your hair skims is then infinity,
and a swirl of rose-leaves throws you down,
and all that lies below, your bridal bed: the whole world—
Here you can declare:
"My God, I don't believe in you!"
And the storm of rose-leaves will smile:
"But I believe in you: are you satisfied?"

—Translated from the Hungarian by Edwin Morgan