Bandi Barchi

February 22, 2008

Bandi, who we call Barchi
which is Hungarian for uncle,
has left a tub of swiss chocolate,
a small plate of twiglet circles,
an open atlas circa, 1956.

In the kitchen, Bandi Barchi,
has laid out breakfast – could be tea –
for each of us he’s told will come
at 1am to find his flat – several rooms
that live above

the Almentstrasse
.
On the table is a pencil
someone’s used to draw a flag.
The wax lined union jack,
is placed upon a cushioned chair –

at either edge, are cocktailed slips,
the kind you’d use to stick in cheese-
one Hungarian, one Swiss. Bandi Barchi’s
set three plates, stacked like dolls
with cups for tea. He’s left:

a loaf of bread,
two jars of jam,
a small tub of chopped apple,
three sachets
of powered soup.

At 2am we see the note,
that Bandi Barchi’s left to read:
For three bears who’ve come to Bern
,
he will call at 9am –
and we will meet.

Bandi Barchi

February 22, 2008

Bandi, who we call Barchi,
which is Hungarian for uncle,
has left a tub of swiss chocolate,
a small plate of twiglet circles,
an open atlas circa, 1956.

In the kitchen, Bandi Barchi,
has laid out breakfast – could be tea –
for each of us he’s told will come
at 1am to find his flat – several rooms
that live above the Almentstrasse.

On the table is a pencil –
double ended, blue and red,
that someone’s used to draw a flag.
The wax lined union jack,
is placed upon a cushioned chair.

At either edge, are cocktailed slips,
the kind you’d use to stick in cheese-
one Hungarian, one Swiss. Bandi Barchi’s
set three plates, stacked like dolls
with cups for tea. He’s left:

a loaf of bread,
two jars of jam,
a small tub of chopped apple,
three sachets of
some powered soup.

At 2am we see the note,
that Bandi Barchi’s left to read:
For three bears who’ve come to Bern,
he will call at 9am –
and we will meet.

Zurich Lake

February 22, 2008

On the pleasure boat,
I ask my uncle – whose dark eyes
are contemplating hills – the german word for lake.
He writes it for me, absent minded:

Zurichsee
the see as z.

‘The Zurich-zee is tooled glass,
it’s printed cellophane.
The Zurich-zee is silver fish,
slashed brail, misted zinc.’

My uncle sees a gliding gull, small castle,
at Richterschill – a blue and yellow tram.

The Zurich-zee is silver milk,
sleek bands of graying hair.
The Zurich-zee is spilt yellow,
watercoloured pale.’

My uncle makes the sounds
for places as we pass:

“Wadensail.”
“Richterschill.”
“Staf.”

I chew the pen and mark them down.
Like the ink is made of lake.
My uncle, words.