Poems and stuff by Maté Jarai…
Poems and stuff by Maté Jarai…


arrowsThe wind tunnels through the room

heavy and hot. Thoughts hazing my head, more

powerful than exhaustion. No force

to put me down, to let me

dream. And outside the sea rolls

crickets play their beat and the sun

rises, turning up the heat. I leave the sheets behind

sweat dripping, thoughts roaring, circling

not tired enough, not now, in this

dawn. The mountain walkers cry, their friend

a carcass, gone, that one from the night

before, burned and rotting in its cave

up yonder, at my back, inside my back, twisting

my spine. The crickets grow quiet

as I recall what I miss, potently, far from adequately

yet all too physical is this need. Wind grows, blows, burrows

through to where I perch wide eyed from

fear and knowledge. Not a kid

anymore, anxious and verging on helpless. Verging on

the verge, nerves like power lines, but the sea rolls, sits.


I watch its lines, etched blue and deep, growing

paler with the heat, colour sucked out, depleted

slowly as the goats call to one another. In the rocks

where their former friend sleeps for eternity now, they will

sing in turn for the departed, stomp hooves and send

a special being to the skies. He will dream on and alone

I will sit, scattered and tired but never

at rest. Too much is uncertain

other than love. Love is stronger

than ever. Her knees were buried in sand

as crashing consumed the moonlight. Back arched

leaning towards the water, a bridge to depths

made whole by dark eyes and a smile. Connected

to the earth and the sky

still we could no sleep. No pain or ill feeling

or sores on on our feet, only blisters, heaving

but ready to heal, when the waves, the goats and crickets, my mountain

are long gone.


I’ll remember them, as now, the morning after

the final day of the old times. Yesterday the world

was distant. In it now for ever, like the sleep

of that carcass, just as black, just as void. Wrestling forever

in the shallows as tides turn over and we fall

into that space below, the upside down, gravity

a dream like unicorns, starry, running wild, comets

at their hooves, a most potent mystery

I trick myself into. All of it comes, you come

with it and I fight, knee deep in sand, growing muddy

with my swings. And I wonder

now as I always have, but for the first time

these dreams are strides away. I sit

alone, a bitter taste in my teeth. One

that contracts anxiety once more, deepens it, bringing

my edge to the ropes, though not sharp enough. Never

sharp enough. So, ready to leap I stand but this readiness

is fiction like my solitary state. I don’t have knives or flint

or fire or claws, only a roar, so I roar and

the waves roar back.


The journey forth is my

adventure, like Indiana Jones, the one

I choose to take, that I craved in fantasy

only now there is added sickness

which cannot be culled. No magic weapons

or strong lungs, majestic creatures hidden from

all of us, the answers and the maps written on

their bellies in depths unreachable. A wall

erected by the greedy is our first trial, one that will

determine all from hence forth. ‘Do I have the bones

for this?’ and then ‘Do I have the steel for this?’


I had a friend

who was a wooden gargoyle

and he burned because his friends hated him

for being wooden and he did not have

the bones for this. I miss him every day. I think

of him every day. If he were still here, alive, he

would have fled long ago, taken me with him

to places I can’t fathom, that you

snigger in relation to. So it’s alright

that he’s dead.


Years on I question my own words, scribbled

by a kid they seem ambiguous and incorrect but

‘seem’ means nothing and I roar again. I roar for all the

things that ‘seem’ because they all ‘are.’ I teeter here

up high on a balcony that continues to sway, lines on the water

spreading to the air, a continuous band of streaks, like

visible wind or air with a way and a mind, and I concede that

I am nothing.


The crickets have resumed their audacious

contagious racket but she remains still

when I turn to her, bare in the sheets like deserts

we crossed, all white, clean and peaceful

fluttering her eyes as she dreams. I thank the stars

and the unicorn and God, just in case, that she is this way

and not like me, never to become like me, because

angels deserve to rest, deserve bones thicker than this

of compounds more that this.


A former self seems distant now, increasingly so, deftly

vacant like my roar already forgotten. The old pages are wet

and coming apart somewhere only sea horses

can read them. Heat grows. Wind wains, and I sigh

and throw new pages into the abyss only they don’t fly

they fall. They fall fast and I don’t even watch. I smoke and

I don’t even watch. Curtains fall shut and I see her

no more, feel her no more. The balcony has risen

atop a solitary tower and I am the lone

inhabitant, but there is another way.


There always is, in any story, real

or unreal, a figment or an all encompassing

odyssey. As one collapses another

will break free. Simply follow

the butterfly. Hold her hand and don’t ever let go

because she’ll keep you safe, fly or fall, she

will. A road is barren lined with rocks that were there

always, others are trembling, having tumbled

from the hills, kicked down by feet and hooves or

something else. That is what you must watch for, as

I do, that something else, a few steps byond the rocks

where there are dead things like anywhere.


I wait and

I wait and I wait

and the golden dawn

grows richer but

means no more

than it did when

it was dark and the moon

was somewhere

but not here. I cannot

see beyond

the water and the hills

and my mountain and this is

Ok, I tell

myself, ‘This is Ok.’


Hand in hand with my butterfly I wait, smiling

at the sun, a tune in my ear, growing louder, vivid, oh so

real and right, ‘Every little thing…’

And she opens her eyes and peers

at me. She grins sleepily, she roars.

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