Two Poems from Budapest

St. Steven’s Day, 20^thAugust 2006

If it were his, the Chain Bridge would be hers,

Not brick by brick, of course, because the view

From Margit Bridge would surely be enough

To show her what he means: the scale of it,

From parliament, past clusters of light to

The Citadel they looked at on Stephen’s Day,

Before a storm from Balaton crashed down

And took away what had been given her.

And months later, she’d speak about it still,

That sudden change: the cold, the driving rain,

The screaming, fleeing crowds – and marvel that

Just hours before he’d said the river view

Had been gifted: the bulbs on the bridge just

Fairy lights on a summer’s evening fair.

The Most of It

Though night had come, the mist on Buda

Brightened up the window pane,

And when he pulled the shutters down,

Something stayed that wasn’t there.

Though on his own, he thought it right

That God be thanked for it, as when,

Across the bridges, once he saw

The moon arise above the big

Basilica, as bright and clear

As bells that sound across the square.

Well, even lovers live alone.

They learn to make the most of it.