Forgot: State or condition in which the wicked stop fighting and rest bores. Refrigerated Warehouse
high hopes.
Ambrose Bierce. Devil's Dictionary
[i] .
poetry is perhaps the only place where all presences come together to make possible the outpouring of the meetings, the impossibility of parting; perfect manifestation of human frailty and his weary flight ecumenical moo thousand inhabited regions Child of dry, small citizens of Ithaca.
The eternal return of humans to remember the absent is the ability to sustain living in the immortality of the disasters that made them leave. So do not approach the look of resignation and accept that there are possibilities for us oblivion pervert assault awareness and memory. Inhabiting
exile, suffering double-entry bookkeeping, and the memory of his grandmother suffocated in Auschwitz, seem to be the inverse triad that makes the poetry of Berger-Kiss groping encounter with silence and uprooting in succumbing their passions and views. There is no space here to worn biographies, not for praise, only allowed the fall and the gap of the verses, the agonizing slow flight and no presence. Well we know of the everyday that is all that those who inhabit a permanent exile, children of all items of any death mourners, lovers only meeting.
tragedy and tears seem to be the transverse axis through the pages of this book, a tortuous path for the stubbed roads of exile. Memories dissipated in the train rushed away and carried in more deaths that are anchored in the hope of a meeting, other homelands and roads. Shifty past, eager for new port, mourners sure the next war. So everybody goes, muttering insults:
Waving his hands and looking after.
"This is my home, my little Hungary," he said aloud, "I feel distant
because my arms do not reach
And I can not embrace.
I was just lost in the fog.
Not even I can see.
My past no longer exists. [ii]
It's no wonder that the resident virgin, where in the dark and packed with a flat, gray memories, find comfort and seclusion in the green tropical geography, which is enchanted with its waters and rivers full of colors and nude females. It is the eye of a newborn found in the paradise that opens this rainbow and swarms and cinnamon aromas of fresh coal. There will be time to hate him also in starvation and barbarism. For now, the immediate exile, Berger-Kiss, is based on disbelief of a happy and warm atmosphere between:
My parents
Andean rain brought a touch of melancholy.
For me it was cool breeze and
-stream of the precursor of the rainbow-
Promise. [iii]
was precisely his life in Medellín who removed the veil of the eye candy of children and travelers landed at airports in poverty and crime, the perfect place to be sand, dust, nothing. Understandings full of keys that made man the poet in the midst of the rough reality of a country in constant death, real death to be exact. Their fierce encounters with the past, never to be understood as a child, because then, at the age of four years, saw the train that took him away from Hungary as a diversion, not as the ghost would remain below the lane of eternal torment. Medellín just now got close to the smell of poverty, and knew that the white parting like pigeons reminiscent of happy days, they were only harbingers of the impending death of his grandmother in a Nazi concentration camp and the start of his personal putrefaction in a foreign land.
This may be the reason that the lines contained in my three home countries and a handful of dust, corrosive and spit torch from the routine of the days in his father's house, the stench of disappointment only for those who grow the shadow of a sparse early failure and boredom: We
blood
eye dew
A flurry of snake that crawled into the abyss
wound and sometimes a laugh
child whose echoes are the blasphemy of the elderly.
do I know! And does it matter?
Maybe we just went a piece of debris: a piece of moss
randomly distributed in tenderness
hate phrases
bread. [iv]
"I will show you terror in a handful of dust" TS Eliot sentenced, and Berger-Kiss uses this phrase as an epigraph to the last part of his book. And rightly so, as in texts that reveal the events of the arrival of the poet in the United States, is easily seen that the past is dust in each verse, as life itself collapses into the harbinger of the future uprooting and that the poet easily fall into the depth of three depths: a groping recognized Hungary, the butterfly Colombia severed, and Oregon, city of light, gradually overshadowed by the desire to see the cracks in it being vague transient of two countries, provided amalgamated by hatred and revenge:
After birth and before dying
These brief moments of light
should not waste it on trivia. [v]
Split
not forget, is re-offend again, poetry is to unify the two solid chances in a mortar-and-run memory. Let's open the door for Berger-Kiss, an exile from this land it still hurts and swells in the eye, we present its existence as transient absence in My three homelands and a handful of dust.
OMAR ALEJANDRO GONZALEZ.
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