About the poet
George Szirtes (b. 1948) came to England in 1956 as a refugee from Hungary. He was brought up in...
What colour would you call that now? That brown
which is not precisely the colour of excrement
The depth has you hooked. Has it a scent
of its own, a peculiar adhesiveness? Is it weighed,
by its own weight? It creeps under your skin
Like a landscape that's a mood, or a thought
and suddenly a dull music has begun. You're caught
by your heels in that grudging lyrical earth,
scraped and scratched, and there is nowhere to go
but home, which is nowhere to be found
is here, unlost, solid, the very ground
on which you stand but cannot visit
from The Budapest File (Bloodaxe, 2000), copyright © George Szirtes 2000, used by permission of the author and Bloodaxe Books Ltd.
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