Fish Soup

These four photos are illustrations for my fourth poetry collection, which will be published in Hungarian (Scolar, Budapest) and Czech (Větrné mlýny, Brno) this year, at the same time. The book focuses on different forms of abuse, and these illustrations relate to the topic of domestic violence, which appears, for example, in the attached poem („Fish soup.”) One of the most important topics of the poem and of the pictures is the process of losing our boundaries, which is often one of the main consequences of violence: we are losing ourselves and we don’t know who we are. The circle on the pictures symbolizes the belief of the abused person, who still tries to believe in the perfection of a loving relationship.

Fish Soup

These four photos are illustrations for my fourth poetry collection, which will be published in Hungarian (Scolar, Budapest) and Czech (Větrné mlýny, Brno) this year, at the same time. The book focuses on different forms of abuse, and these illustrations relate to the topic of domestic violence, which appears, for example, in the attached poem („Fish soup.”) One of the most important topics of the poem and of the pictures is the process of losing our boundaries, which is often one of the main consequences of violence: we are losing ourselves and we don’t know who we are. The circle on the pictures symbolizes the belief of the abused person, who still tries to believe in the perfection of a loving relationship.

FISH SOUP
When he came towards me I knew
what it meant.
I wanted to cook fish soup,
but quickly turned off the gas
so as not to burn myself
if I fell.
He was shouting,
saying I’ve talked to everyone again.
My smile is indecent,
like a fly left open,
and in vain he’s shaking a rattle.
He can’t keep the angels away from the fruit.
I’m too good for everyone,
so nothing remains for him.
Our kitchen was small
like a too-early confession.
The two of us could barely move around in it.
He was coming toward me. I picked up a knife.
I had to chop the vegetables into tiny pieces
so they would cook thoroughly,
because his teeth were bad,
could have broken into harsh words
he would throw at me
if he didn’t like the meal.
Then he ran into to it.
The doctor said I stabbed him,
but I don’t remember.
I was standing with
the knife in my hand.
When I bought it
the salesman said it would not cut
root vegetables well
if the blade’s edge became dull.
I didn’t have money to buy a new one
and I don’t have a good knife to cut
with and I must swallow everything
because of the children.
Because he staggered
I called an ambulance
His eyes widened
as if he began to see
the people around him
for the first time,
as if the outside world began to fill him
like water seeping into a sinking ship.
Meanwhile the children
rushed in from the garden
saying my shouting scared them
because they thought I had been killed.
Now I can’t speak,
as if my mouth was stuffed
with raw vegetables
that I can’t chew
because they are
coarsely chopped
and not thoroughly cooked.
Many sympathize with me,
but I'm afraid of being acquitted
because it will be said that, behold, freedom.
You can go now.
But then I will have to learn to walk again.
In vain I cling to the chair.
It will tilt in our home
and the cane will break,
the floor disintegrates under my feet.
Everything proves to be soft and weak.
Since he is not here now
the world became flexible.
I don’t know where the walls are.
I feel like a living fish
carried in a plastic bag.
I can’t talk about these
matters with anyone.
I blame myself only,
and I dream about him,
dreams that never came true.
For instance, while stroking my arms he says
he had never eaten such delicious soup—
all the flavors of the world—
an entire Atlantis of flavors swam in my fish soup.
He keeps spooning the submerged civilization,
a garden bordered by a hedge,
a whitewashed house,
and our life, which started so happy.
translated by Gábor Gyukics
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