Do you like learning languages?
Hungary
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December 9, 2007
Hello out there, I'm a many-sided, outgoing 29-
year-old Hungarian girl and I'd like to find
some female snail-mail or e-mail
penpals around my age. I
work as a teacher of English and I'm just
obsessed with languages. I have a wide range of
interests including
Psychology,literature,genealogy,reading,movies,li
stening to music
(esp.rock),cooking,shopping,going out and a
loads more. I think I'm a sociable,friendly
person and I just love sitting in a pub with
friends, drinking some wine and talking. I like
writing and talking about both deep subjects and
lighter ones so don't hesitate to contact me
if you think we might have
something in common. .E-mails are OK,too.
NO MEN (I'm in a relation) NO
AFICA
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11:30 AM Dec 09 2007 |
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cankurt
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December 9, 2007
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| Whoever enters this page, write about your penpalling stories. Have you ever met any of your penpals? When did you start correspondence? Who is your closest penpal? Why is it still so popular to write letters the old-fashioned, traditional way? | ||
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December 9, 2007
I've been writing poems since the age of 10, some of which have been published in school and local newspapers, anthologies. My first trial to write a poem in English was at college at the age of 22 but to tell the truth, only my English literature teacher saw it.Most of my poems are in Hungarian and I just tried to translate some of them into English in a way that they didn't lose either their rhymes or their messages.Not all my poems rhyme,though, in the way they should. I just try to follow my own senses and find an inner rhyme....so sometimes they are like free verses.
However strange it may sound, my poems are almost always gloomy .When I write, I am in an emotional crisis or in a bad mood and when I'm in a good mood I don't write any...
" Dying is an art
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell,
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say
I've had a call."
(Sylvia Plath
ady Lazarus)
(it's just a quote from Sylvia Plath...my final thesis at college was about her)
DOKTOR VIRÁG'S POEMS
BACK TO LIFE
From beyond the grave
I had a call:
Why do we fall?
Why do they have a
Hold on us?
Why should we be placed
Under the grass
Before we go grey?
Why should we suffer
In the grasp of a fate we both hate?
Did you see me crying?
Last night I was dying
With no blood-shed to show.
I wanted to bring you back to life.
You said: no.
Don't wait until
You bleed to death.
Read me
And you'll see what you get.
Burst into a blaze,
Don't be blighted by frost.
I'll search for the light you've lost.
It's not that I'm stronger
But I'll grope your way
So hold out your hands
And throw your mistrust away.
Believe me, a bolt from the blue
That kills
Is less sore
Than to hear you say:
"I can't love anymore."
WHAT TO CONFESS?
What to confess?
I have nothing to share with you.
Such a huge press destructs my soul
that no one can help me to hold back my horse.
That's all.
And I don't want to be pressed at all.
What to confess?
There are various colours in our eyes.
We all fight for sparkling wonders
But none of us know what is wise.
That's all.
And I'm not waiting for a heavenly call at all.
What to confess?
I've never made a confession before.
Say what you want, we are all equal,
You can be fifty or four.
Time is ticking
But until my heart is beating
I'm still sticking to my thoughts.
That's all.
And I don't wan to be pressed at all.
TWENTY MINUTES
Twenty minutes. It will be decisive.
I'm thinking. Now it's only nineteen.
Either I'll fail with tears
Or fly as a burning light foam.
Either you'll find me today
Or I'll stay alone.
WITHOUT SENSE
All my deeds are fatal.
I seek restfullness in the sky.
I search,give and find nothing.
It's just a late-born heart-beat why
Fate still stands by my side.
With rusty reason, far from ease
I urge my deeds and drink to the lees.
I've become an assailant.
I fight for the beauty of accidents.
Then it's the cracky noise of garden gates
That wakes me up in a dreary place
And half-naked, half-blinded
Leaving no trace I run away.
LOST
You don't follow my traces anymore.
The moment has stopped. Winter is at my door.
The wind annihilated all the footsteps.
With refrained cry you paralyze yourself to death.
Pleasure is a big traitor
But you don't mind it at all
When being pushed into fear
Both your eyes are closed.
When rarely you are sober
You never sail forward the coast
You rather listen to the open seas'
never-ending noise.
When struggling for happiness
You rather pour your cup to the brim
Than reveal the truth
The concealed prays in ink.
Your shelter is given by low faces.
Your hair is covered by dirty sheets
And it's a half-real mirror in which
You laugh at your ruined world and deeds.
However strange it may sound, my poems are almost always gloomy .When I write, I am in an emotional crisis or in a bad mood and when I'm in a good mood I don't write any...
" Dying is an art
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell,
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say
I've had a call."
(Sylvia Plath
ady Lazarus)(it's just a quote from Sylvia Plath...my final thesis at college was about her)
DOKTOR VIRÁG'S POEMS
BACK TO LIFE
From beyond the grave
I had a call:
Why do we fall?
Why do they have a
Hold on us?
Why should we be placed
Under the grass
Before we go grey?
Why should we suffer
In the grasp of a fate we both hate?
Did you see me crying?
Last night I was dying
With no blood-shed to show.
I wanted to bring you back to life.
You said: no.
Don't wait until
You bleed to death.
Read me
And you'll see what you get.
Burst into a blaze,
Don't be blighted by frost.
I'll search for the light you've lost.
It's not that I'm stronger
But I'll grope your way
So hold out your hands
And throw your mistrust away.
Believe me, a bolt from the blue
That kills
Is less sore
Than to hear you say:
"I can't love anymore."
WHAT TO CONFESS?
What to confess?
I have nothing to share with you.
Such a huge press destructs my soul
that no one can help me to hold back my horse.
That's all.
And I don't want to be pressed at all.
What to confess?
There are various colours in our eyes.
We all fight for sparkling wonders
But none of us know what is wise.
That's all.
And I'm not waiting for a heavenly call at all.
What to confess?
I've never made a confession before.
Say what you want, we are all equal,
You can be fifty or four.
Time is ticking
But until my heart is beating
I'm still sticking to my thoughts.
That's all.
And I don't wan to be pressed at all.
TWENTY MINUTES
Twenty minutes. It will be decisive.
I'm thinking. Now it's only nineteen.
Either I'll fail with tears
Or fly as a burning light foam.
Either you'll find me today
Or I'll stay alone.
WITHOUT SENSE
All my deeds are fatal.
I seek restfullness in the sky.
I search,give and find nothing.
It's just a late-born heart-beat why
Fate still stands by my side.
With rusty reason, far from ease
I urge my deeds and drink to the lees.
I've become an assailant.
I fight for the beauty of accidents.
Then it's the cracky noise of garden gates
That wakes me up in a dreary place
And half-naked, half-blinded
Leaving no trace I run away.
LOST
You don't follow my traces anymore.
The moment has stopped. Winter is at my door.
The wind annihilated all the footsteps.
With refrained cry you paralyze yourself to death.
Pleasure is a big traitor
But you don't mind it at all
When being pushed into fear
Both your eyes are closed.
When rarely you are sober
You never sail forward the coast
You rather listen to the open seas'
never-ending noise.
When struggling for happiness
You rather pour your cup to the brim
Than reveal the truth
The concealed prays in ink.
Your shelter is given by low faces.
Your hair is covered by dirty sheets
And it's a half-real mirror in which
You laugh at your ruined world and deeds.
