2020-06-28 Dearest J, please don’t take any chance to compromise your health. I do not need titles, they are burned into my heart. Are you interested translations? Some of my translations are published. Latin, English and Hungarian. I completed translating a poem by Endre Ady, 1877-1919, a great Hungarian poet. His love of a woman was almost as intense as mine is. I wanted to write manic, perhaps his was, but mine is intense, it is nicer word. Amazingly it takes us back to the AD. 64 era, to Nero. To celebrate our first date, (What a beautiful, exciting idea! Whenever that would take place!), I offer you the first copy of The Great Fire of Rome, 64 AD, where you find a note about my very modest contribution. I would sign your copy for a kiss, and would perform great, Herculean tasks for the author Dr. Tony Barrett’s. But there is one very much more important idea is in my mind: I am very concerned about your health, your sacrifice is most noble, but please do not make it a – sacrifice – please take all the precautions. Let me know if I can help. I cannot ask anyone about your well being. I find that very, extremely difficult. Please stay out of harms way. Now, I will go and pray to the God, gods I am familiar with, for your safety. I will be on the level with them, although they ripped into me at age twelve, taking my mother, then on my twenty-first birthday my father too. They should have pity on me and present me to you, as a most worthwhile, deserving lover. You lips are the most beautiful, desirable in this world, and in any other worlds, the shine of your hair illuminates my nights. J, I miss you. K.
Dear J, beautiful J, I know that I could have contacted the virus, I knew, hoped that I would not see you, hoped that you would not appear, yet I still went to the deli, because that was a place where I used to wait. I am not going to investigate whether you are married. I know we will meet. One embrace will make me forget the night and days of waiting. It is wonderful to think of you. Lock you out of my life I could ask: is not seeing you again so dreadful a thing? Am I typing false hopes out of my keyboard? Not at all. I met the divine, I am so happy for the gift life gave me. We will smile when we meet again. Tomorrow I will look around there to find where I could get some flowers, they were always on my side. And if you come disguised I will recognize you by the draw of the millions little magnets that fills your being. A great poet once wrote that seeing two lovers make love would worth to be killed for, stabbed in the heart, because seeing them would completely fill his famished heart, life could not give more, greater gift than witnessing their happiness, that would make him happy too. No, I love you and wait till you decide, or life’s current sweeps me close to you again. I know where you are but feel that I should not go, will not go closer unless you want me too. Please stay out of harms way, I beg you. One day I might be on my knees holding you, but now, I just pray, ask that if you have a fight on your hands let me know, I don’t think you need addition masks and shields, I have the greatest resource of all mankind: love. I will wait, but please do not come, you too should wait. It will happen. We will celebrate, swim, laugh and love.
Dear J, I think of you always. How can I engage you from this distance set by years that separate you from me? Would you like to know about the works of Janos Arany, or about what was unforgivable between Ilya Ehrenburg and Yevgeny Zamyatin? We could look at the shack where Dostoyevsky married his wife, to wander in the word-labyrinth of Borghes, enjoy the strange world of Vian, the acrobats of Maupassant, witness the punishment for falling in love? Goethe would tell but he still would remember, show us Italy. But it was worth it, wasn’t it, love was everything, is everything. Come with me to Kazakh forest, you know where to find what I am looking for. Learn why Chekov did not like to drive in the snow? Still, I would never accept Eden without you. Am I a little seed of a flower mixed into the cement of a busy high-way being driven over thousands of time, looking for water, a space, light? Then one day, alone, in pain, I saw you. A sugared lightning struck me. My life never be a same again and there are not enough words in the dictionaries to describe it. Ady’s Nero, was right, I do not need the greats of Olympus, after all ‘the poet is who kisses and sings.’ For now he sings until he puts his head down in his bed, on a pillow and waits for you to enter his dream. Good night dear J. I pray, so you may stay out of harms way. K.
Dear J, I miss you. K.
You J, are the most beautiful woman n the world. In March or June, seasons, times of the year, decades, in for a life time, your beauty is given to you, to the favourite of the gods. And I am the whipping boy of the devil. When I am not writing on these pages, I compose, find music closer to that I want to say; that one day I will write or compose that will say, sing, how we should have lived together, had Chronos, that all powerful joker who I respect and owe my years to, had been kinder and adjust his calendar we live by, but unless I died in the moment I saw you first, even he cannot interfere with how I imagine we would have loved, lived, even Time cannot alter the past. The experts said that my music is beautiful. Naturally, it was composed with you in my mind. Singing of my love I close my eyes and listen to the selection of the evening, the doorway gets a little lighter, then I see you enter, stopped half way, you are not coming closer because of the regulations, but they do not have control of what I think you are doing next, bend down and put your face to mine; and I ignite in my local fire, where I burn, in the irresistible, great pandemic of love, always, always burning in the world.Released from the files of Ylorak Apneu, in compliance with his Freedom of Information Act. For years I was near the top of their list, Perhaps unwittingly as part of the entertainment. It was also an exercise of their generosity After the word got around that I bathe. Their wet, loquacious girlfriends and pretty wives Fell silent when I entered, busying themselves In the kitchen or at the bar, looking at me Every time they passed by the doorway. As the years went by the invites came Less frequent, then ceased altogether. I fell off the bottom of their list. Now, their wives and girlfriends call, Querying, “How are you? I know that your were a friend of his, but you can still call, I still have the same number or am I not on your list anymore?”
There are eight-hundred and ninety-nine female names that have the initial J. One of them knows that my letters, poems, compositions and dreams are only for her. Easy to find her; she is the most beautiful woman in the world. KS.