Come on the Palace!
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1923763614835487142#m
Published: May 17, 2025 15:32
Come on the Palace!
🦜 George Szirtes / @george_szirtes
@nitter.poast.org.george.szirtes@rss-parrot.net
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Twitter feed for: @george_szirtes. Generated by nitter.poast.org
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Posts: 11
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How late it is now. is it us, the world, or time itself? I listen to midnight traffic slipping ever further back into a file called The Past. A light breeze shifts past the window. The moon is thin. Something is eating it. How thin!
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1922787076522598433#m
Published: May 14, 2025 22:52
How late it is now. is it us, the world, or time itself? I listen to midnight traffic slipping ever further back into a file called The Past. A light breeze shifts past the window. The moon is thin. Something is eating it. How thin!
SOMEWHERE IN LANGUAGE Somewhere in language there is space for the world. See! Stand there and watch it appear then vanish. In script, in the yawning gap between parts of speech, there is a house, night, dogs, vicissitudes, murder, delight, the absurd or that’s what we say.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1922055613682450568#m
Published: May 12, 2025 22:25
SOMEWHERE IN LANGUAGE Somewhere in language there is space for the world. See! Stand there and watch it appear then vanish. In script, in the yawning gap between parts of speech, there is a house, night, dogs, vicissitudes, murder, delight, the absurd …
Spring waits on summer Spring waits on summer like an enthusiastic bride properly dressed for the occasion. Hawthorn, apple blossom, whites bobbing in the wind in mild excitement. Weddings are in season now. Surely something good is in the offing.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1921316398711578769#m
Published: May 10, 2025 21:28
Spring waits on summer Spring waits on summer like an enthusiastic bride properly dressed for the occasion. Hawthorn, apple blossom, whites bobbing in the wind in mild excitement. Weddings are in season now. Surely something good is in the offing.
SPECTROSCOPE The ripeness of pears is measured in sweetness. Count the increments on your specially made meter. Every micro drop is registered there. And as for skin, touch the peeled almost white surface. Use a spectroscope. Now taste. Taste again.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1919161534468461023#m
Published: May 4, 2025 22:45
SPECTROSCOPE The ripeness of pears is measured in sweetness. Count the increments on your specially made meter. Every micro drop is registered there. And as for skin, touch the peeled almost white surface. Use a spectroscope. Now taste. Taste again.
You’re awake so long you’re falling asleep. A year is just a night’s sleep. So your life is shaped. You feel its edges closing as you turn in bed. Since life is finite you wake and wake to the light at the edge of sleep, falling out of light.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1918432530719781044#m
Published: May 2, 2025 22:28
You’re awake so long you’re falling asleep. A year is just a night’s sleep. So your life is shaped. You feel its edges closing as you turn in bed. Since life is finite you wake and wake to the light at the edge of sleep, falling out of light.
You turn off the light and sense the room rearrange itself around you like a different space where you yourself are different. So simple to leave a world. So simple to stand still. Now you are here, now gone. Turn it off and walk, keep walking.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1916990791035113745#m
Published: April 28, 2025 22:59
You turn off the light and sense the room rearrange itself around you like a different space where you yourself are different. So simple to leave a world. So simple to stand still. Now you are here, now gone. Turn it off and walk, keep walking.
THE DOOR After a warm day the coolness of evening shocks the skin. It pleases and revives something that must have been felt after birth when the world entered through a sudden door and announced itself. How cold everything can be, it says. How alive.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1916226253448790374#m
Published: April 26, 2025 20:21
THE DOOR After a warm day the coolness of evening shocks the skin. It pleases and revives something that must have been felt after birth when the world entered through a sudden door and announced itself. How cold everything can be, it says. How alive.
RT by @george_szirtes: Huge interview in the works! This spring, three of us from @hlohungary visited Norwich to conduct a life interview with writer and translator George Szirtes! Here's a sneak-peek: on #georgeszirtes' relationship with language and identity as a Hungarian-born British poet...☕️
https://nitter.poast.org/OwenDGood/status/1915723770049732622#m
Published: April 25, 2025 11:05
Huge interview in the works! This spring, three of us from @hlohungary visited Norwich to conduct a life interview with writer and translator George Szirtes! Here's a sneak-peek: on #georgeszirtes' relationship with language and identity as a…
THE LOST When they arrive, they listen to their own breathing with rapt attention. Long trees lean in. Light hangs on the wall. Birds repeat their usual calls. Life attends on such things. To be lost requires intense concentration. Night will wait on their dreams.
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1912264360124104823#m
Published: April 15, 2025 21:58
THE LOST When they arrive, they listen to their own breathing with rapt attention. Long trees lean in. Light hangs on the wall. Birds repeat their usual calls. Life attends on such things. To be lost requires intense concentration. Night will wait on…
Night in Budapest in a quiet district past midnight. The sleepless turn in silent beds, listening to their own thoughts, neighbours in courtyards locked on to their lives. Where would night be without them? Where are the bright moons of their faint breathing?
https://nitter.poast.org/george_szirtes/status/1909009798143553984#m
Published: April 6, 2025 22:26
Night in Budapest in a quiet district past midnight. The sleepless turn in silent beds, listening to their own thoughts, neighbours in courtyards locked on to their lives. Where would night be without them? Where are the bright moons of their faint…