Budapest Anthology 2013

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The Dovetail project gives people in Nottingham, Karlsruhe and Budapest the opportunity to tell each other their stories using creative writing workshops, visits to local heritage sites and a five-day meeting in each of the three cities. The second international workshop was held from June 5th 9th 2013 in Budapest. This anthology includes photos and creative writing texts, based on the inspirational workshop programmes, connected to given aspects. The texts were created by the project participants and reflect the experiences they made during this time.


<ul><li><p> Budapest Workshop </p><p>June 2013 </p><p>Nottingham Budapest Karlsruhe </p><p>In Memoriam Katalin Budai </p></li><li><p> 2 </p><p>We all have stories to tell. </p><p>Stories about ourselves, </p><p>our lives, our cities, our </p><p>history, our culture. </p><p>About the Project </p><p>As part of the European Union Lifelong Learning Programme, the </p><p>Dovetail project works with adult learners to improve writing skills </p><p>through the creative writing method. The Dovetail project gives </p><p>people in Nottingham, Karlsruhe and Budapest the opportunity to </p><p>tell each other their stories using creative writing workshops, visits </p><p>to local heritage sites and a five-day meeting in each of the three </p><p>cities. </p><p>The second international workshop was held from June 5th 9th </p><p>2013 in Budapest. This anthology includes photos and creative </p><p>writing texts, based on the inspirational workshop programmes, </p><p>connected to given aspects. The texts were created by the project </p><p>participants and reflect the experiences they made during this </p><p>time. </p><p>The workshop was organised by Katalin Budai, who can no longer </p><p>be with us. This anthology is dedicated to her memory. </p></li><li><p> 3 </p><p>"Every encounter that touches our </p><p>soul, leaves behind a trace that </p><p>never disappears completely." </p><p>Kata Budai, the Hungarian coordinator of the </p><p>Dovetail project was tragically killed in a car </p><p>accident on 9 September 2013. </p><p>She played a very active role in organising </p><p>Hungarian literary and cultural life and </p><p>participated in creating and running the 5K Centre </p><p>from the beginning. </p><p>We are thankful for her work and dedicate the </p><p>following poem to her memory: </p><p>Gone! Her Voice Flying on Dovetail </p><p>A warm stranger held my hand </p><p>She had a crown of fiery flame </p><p>Gentle and kind she held my arm </p><p>Like a couple of others in the group </p><p>She walked with me across the slippery snow </p><p>As we ventured into Nottingham Castle </p><p>Marching along like a herd of cattle </p><p>In the icy flakes that give me nightmares. </p><p>In Budapest, she went out of her way </p><p>Warm and welcoming to all </p><p>Making sure we had wonderful days </p><p>Suddenly without warning she departs from us </p><p>Gone! Her voice on the waves, flying on Dovetail </p><p>We hear the heavens rejoice and hail. </p><p>by Naa Ahinee Mensah </p></li><li><p> 4 </p><p>Budapest Workshop Programme </p><p>The 5K Centre hosted the Dovetail workshop in Budapest. The </p><p>project participants from the Nottingham Writers Studio (UK) and </p><p>GEDOK (Karlsruhe, Germany) arrived in the morning, both groups </p><p>were welcomed at the Dominik Panzi (14th district, Chzr Andrs </p><p>utca 3., </p><p>Who was not tired enough, </p><p>could come with us to visit the </p><p>city centre, starting with the </p><p>New York Palace, where Kata </p><p>used to work. </p><p>Petfi Literary Museum </p><p>The first programme of the </p><p>workshop started in the Petfi </p><p>Literary Museum (, </p><p>which is hosted in the Krolyi </p><p>Palace, a relic of the capitals </p><p>neoclassical architecture and the </p><p>most important of the 19th-</p><p>century aristocratic palaces in </p><p>Pest. Before the introduction and </p><p>the creative writing programme we were guided in the palace that </p><p>has a unique collection of writers belongings, manuscripts, books </p><p>and photographs. The PIM runs the Translation Support Project, </p><p>which enables foreign publishers to issue books in Hungarian. </p><p>Besides that, they run a project to buy contemporary authors </p><p>digital rights in a monthly payment form (Digital Academy) and </p><p>publish them on their website, which is also an interesting practice </p><p>in the copyright world. </p></li><li><p> 5 </p><p>The themes of the first writing workshop were the following: </p><p>1. Arriving and first impressions in Budapest (What does it </p><p>look like, how does it smell, etc.) </p><p>2. The cult literary figure Sndor Petfi (How did the </p><p>exhibition inspire you?) </p><p>FIRST IMPRESSIONS </p><p>Wie fhlt sich Budapest fr mich an? </p><p>Durch den wenigen Schlaf bin ich wohl </p><p>berdreht. Flug etc. alles Ok! - Ankunft! - </p><p>Der Himmel ist bedeckt und malt ein </p><p>gleichmiges Licht auf alles. - Auf der </p><p>Fahrt vom Flughafen zum Hotel freue ich </p><p>mich ber die Grnstreifen neben den </p><p>Straen. </p><p>Das Gras ist hochgewachsen, das Gras ist sehr unterschiedlich, voll von </p><p>Krutern und Blumen, verschiedenste Grntnungen, roter Mohn, </p><p>unterschiedliche Gelbtne, lila, blau etc. opulenten, es begeistert mich! Die </p><p>Bsche und Bume vom Wind durchweht zeigen auch die silberigen Grns </p><p>der Unterseite ihrer Bltter. </p><p>Die Straen sind gut ausgebaut, berall auch Bordsteineinfassungen, neues, </p><p>altes, alles gut gekehrt fr eine Grostadt. Kleine Vorstadthuser wechseln </p><p>mit Fabrikanlagen, altes wird abgerissen, Baustellen, endlose Straen, breit, </p><p>zeugen von dem Dasein in einer Hauptstadt. Prachtvolle alte Faaden, </p><p>brckelnd oder neu renoviert. Die Verziehrungen sind ppiger als sonst </p><p>gesehen, die Formen der Architektur oft geschwungener, runder. Altes Grau, </p><p>Braun Ocker, meist helle Farben, neues Glas ... Das Wetter angenehm - </p><p>Wolken, trocken nicht zu warm nicht zu kalt. Auergewhnliche Wrter auf </p><p>den Plakaten, viele , , yyy ... ungewhnlicher Klang der Sprache. </p><p>by Joachim Hirling </p></li><li><p> 6 </p><p>Was sagt mir Budapest? </p><p>Ich bin lieb, ich bin wie meine Heimatstadt (Sofia), durch die </p><p>unterschiedlichen Bauten, sozialistisch, realistisch, durch die freundlichen </p><p>Gesichter. Ich bin nicht reich an Geldern, ich bin reich an Geschichten, ich </p><p>bin reich an Blumen, ich bin reich an Substanz. Und ich bin sauber und </p><p>aufgerumt und sehr, sehr kultiviert. </p><p>Sie fgte hinzu: Ich gebe dir kstliche Speisen, ich spreche zu dir durch nette </p><p>freundliche Menschen, durch angenehme, belesene Frauen mit der Sprache </p><p>der Kultur, mit der Sprache der Wrme. Komm, fass mich an, ich mchte mich </p><p>offenbaren. Und sie meinte auch: </p><p>Ich leihe dir einen Rahmen, dadurch, dass ich institutionalisiert bin. Ich </p><p>verehre meine ferne Vergangenheit, ich preise Autoritten und geschichtliche </p><p>Stile. Vielleicht sollte ich mich noch gegenwrtig verwirklichen und </p><p>untraditionelle verrckte Ideen gedeihen lassen! </p><p>by Maria Hirling </p><p>Our journey across the city </p><p>was made on foot and wheels. </p><p>We meandered through vintage </p><p>shops, sat outside on the kerb </p><p>of change wearing </p><p>multicoloured smiles, our pink </p><p>tongues tugging towards the </p><p>cool vanilla essence of history. </p><p>We learnt that the swirls of </p><p>Hungarian ice creams are so </p><p>strong they can stand 10 inches tall, perhaps that's why statues hang from </p><p>every building guardian ice cream angels waiting to see who's twist is the </p><p>tallest. Hands displaying signs of wrinkles fought to push the wheelchair, </p><p>excitedly tilting her towards silver weeping willows, book stands, ruins and </p><p>even a breasted sphinx. </p><p>by Lila Randall </p></li><li><p> 7 </p><p>Fragments from Budapest </p><p>Here crows unhood themselves and don jackets in the park. </p><p>Towering timepieces stand still, a half realised dream. </p><p>Buildings, enwrought by entropy pulsate with hypnotic beats and bleed </p><p>bohemian art. </p><p>And we wonder, what does the word ruin really mean? </p><p>Here a swollen river slices though the city and splits its heart in two </p><p>Children gather at the waters edge and skim stones on to rooftops. </p><p>Friendships are forged, dogs are disguised and food is reimagined. </p></li><li><p> 8 </p><p>And a once strong communist foothold is transformed into a resounding </p><p>symbol of unity. </p><p>I close my eyes, place my hands on the cold metal and listen to the past </p><p>sound of bricks breaking </p><p>Inhale the rust deep into my lungs and feel the echoes of revolution rumble </p><p>through the streets. </p><p>A sunset bruises the sky </p><p>A father and son stare out at the horizon </p><p>And even the air tastes different here. </p><p>by Aimee Wilkinson </p></li><li><p> 9 </p><p>Wheeling in Budapest </p><p>A nightmare came true </p><p>Staring at it, all I saw was limitations </p><p>A free being in mind and spirit trapped </p><p>I found myself reluctant to enter </p><p>My body desperately screaming for it </p><p>And yet my mind desperately averse to it </p><p>In Budapest came my first public outing in a wheely </p><p>Up and down the bus </p><p>Up and down the train </p><p>Up and down the underground </p><p>Ladies and gentlemen </p><p>Pushing, wheeling and carrying </p><p>A sense of quilt overwhelming me </p><p>A snail halting down a group of running cheetahs </p><p>I heard voices of the peregrine falcons repeating it's not that far </p><p>I thought yeah right! Try my body for a few minutes </p><p>My first day in the wheely brought me a young friend </p><p>A young boy and his charming mother </p><p>I slowly started to feel a sense of ease </p><p>Miss Smiling L became a child again </p><p>For a moment she took ownership of my borrowed rounded legs </p><p>Watching her spinning the double rings as you would stir a car wheel </p><p>Made me feel a sense on normality </p><p>Smiley L and vocal D brought excitement to the spinning wheels </p><p>With her aching heels fascinating H wished to be pushed in the seated </p><p>wheels </p><p>And there I was feeling awkward in it. </p><p>I felt a sense on commonality when others sat in my adopted lower half </p><p>There you go, being in the wheely is not so bad I thought to myself </p><p>Wheeling in Budapest </p><p>Out of my nightmare came warmth </p><p>Thoughtfulness and the kindness of humanity </p><p>Germans, Hungarians, British, everybody aiding </p><p>I was touched to see adamant K fighting my corner </p><p>I was touched to see wonderful A empathising </p><p>both Fighting to get me a wheely, my nightmare and my support! </p><p>Such love for humanity! If only the whole world was as wonderful as these </p><p>by Naa Ahinee Mensah </p></li><li><p> 10 </p><p>PETFI EXHIBITION </p><p>Petfi </p><p>The air flowing through the terminal </p><p>breathes him into my lungs. </p><p>Poppies grow alongside roads he walked </p><p>paved now, choked with cars. </p><p>Even the names of the roads speak of him. </p><p>He comes to us in the bow </p><p>of a violin-player </p><p>with a moustache, with the foxs dance. </p><p>The notes of Greensleeves are not </p><p>English on his strings. </p><p>His language </p><p>screeches patriotism across Heroes Square </p><p>under red-and-white stripes. </p><p>Words ordered differently, </p><p>his poetry gives this country </p><p>a better kind of love. </p><p>A face painted on a beech tree </p><p>could be his </p><p>even the children know him. </p><p>I gently kiss his cheeks. </p><p>by Pippa Hennessy </p></li><li><p> 11 </p><p>University Library / Grandio Br </p><p>After the guided bus tour in </p><p>Budapest we visited the </p><p>University Library of ELTE and </p><p>the exhibition of calligraphies. </p><p>From the Library we went to a </p><p>ruin-pub called Grandio Br, </p><p>where we got new writing </p><p>exercises. </p><p>First we had to think about the word ruins and its meaning in </p><p>our life. Then we formed mixed groups of about 4 people at different </p><p>tables and each member pulled a "Dixit card" as a driving force to </p><p>write a common story. </p></li><li><p> 12 </p><p>RUINS </p><p>Ruinous Regeneration </p><p>We skip our way between tram </p><p>tracks and cobbled stones. We are </p><p>all in the place we should never go. </p><p>All week I have heard people </p><p>mention the flood through hushed </p><p>voices and clenched teeth. As if to </p><p>discuss the disaster openly would </p><p>call forth the devil and bring a </p><p>further curse on their fair city. </p><p>They say fifteen people have died in the villages. They say that it hasnt flooded </p><p>like this in living memory, and that the water, at nearly nine meters above its </p><p>usual level, has not yet reached its peak. </p><p>Do you see how big it is? How much it has risen? whispers our guide on our </p><p>first day, as we drive over one of the bridges out of Pest and into Buda. But I </p><p>have seen many rivers before and this is just another. Rivers rise, tides flow </p><p>and the sun sets, its what they do. Its the natural order of things. Its not </p><p>until my fourth day in Budapest that I truly </p><p>begin to understand. </p><p>We have been walking so long I have been </p><p>encapsulated in time. We have been walking </p><p>so long I have forgotten to worry and can </p><p>only wonder. Scores of people clamour </p><p>through the streets and congregate at the </p><p>waters edge. The swollen river stretches </p><p>before us, its vast expanse cutting through </p><p>the heart of the city. Rooftops of houses and </p><p>well-loved monuments peek through the </p><p>surface like giant stepping stones. Trees </p><p>bend with the onslaught of the water and </p><p>sandbags stockpile the streets, yet the </p><p>tenacious river snakes through. </p><p>I follow the crowd of people as we pick our feet carefully between jagged stones </p><p>and smooth tram tracks. The tram itself, unable to move as all stops are </p></li><li><p> 13 </p><p>flooded, remains sedentary behind me, its doors closed like a sleeping animal </p><p>curled in on itself. What was once a road winding down to the river is now </p><p>transformed into a harbour, and I watch children paddle in the water and </p><p>skim stones on the surface. There are no strangers here, and bound together </p><p>by this spectacle, we lend a helping hand when one slips on the tracks, or take </p><p>the time to point out some new marvel the person next to us may have missed. </p><p>I lean over a rail and inhale the humid air deep into my lungs. The sunset </p><p>glints silver and gold on the surface, yet the water surges past at </p><p>immeasurable speeds. I shield my eyes from the sun and look over to the other </p><p>side. With the river at this size, it is too far to make out anything other than </p><p>the Renaissance buildings that contribute to the citys character. I imagine </p><p>crowds of people gathered on the other bank. Perhaps there too is a woman, </p><p>much like me. I wonder if she has made the same mistakes, dreamt the same </p><p>dreams, felt the same fears. I wonder if she has been able to conquer her </p><p>demons and keep in her life the clarity of only what truly matters to her. If she </p><p>has done so she is a stronger woman than I, and I want to break through the </p><p>looking glass of the water to ask her how she has achieved such a thing. But </p><p>the water is too wide, and the tide is too strong. </p><p>I turn away and follow the crowd towards the Hungarian Houses of </p><p>Parliament. Here the river Danube has also broken her banks and sweeps </p><p>against the building's walls. The sun has now set, and an enchanted half-light </p><p>hangs around us. </p><p>This is a city well-versed in reconstruction. After decades of occupation and </p><p>changing ideologies, it has uncloaked itself to rediscover its true identity. Like </p><p>this city, I too am well-versed </p><p>in reimagining myself, and the </p><p>concept of new beginnings is </p><p>not so new to me. I watch the </p><p>play of city lights on the waters </p><p>deceptively calm surface, and </p><p>remember that through ruin, </p><p>regeneration is born. </p><p>by Aimee Wilkinson </p></li><li><p> 14 </p><p>Ruinen </p><p>Ruinieren sie die Langeweile! </p><p>Ruinez vos attentes! </p><p>Laissez-vous surprendre! </p><p>Mein Ruhm ist ruiniert, zerstrt ist </p><p>das Gebude der Fremdperspektive. </p><p>Jetzt bleibt mir nur mein selbst. </p><p>You've ruined my heart, </p><p>now all I have left is a bipass, passing </p><p>through my stomach... Ein Bauch voller Schmetterlinge </p><p>Deine Blicke ruinieren meine Figur. </p><p>by Maria Hirling </p></li><li><p> 15 </p><p>Ein Haiku </p><p>Der Ehemann: </p><p> ein stolzer Pilzhuttrger </p><p>in der Ruinenkneipe. </p><p> by Maria Hirling </p><p>Ruine </p><p>Ruine Trume, Vergangen heit, trume Zukunft. </p><p>Ruinentrume, Ruinenrume, </p><p>Ruine, ruhe in Ruinensteinen, </p><p>Ruin, ruiniert. </p><p>Bruchstcke, Fragmente, Steinbruch fr </p><p>Neues. </p><p>Ruinen Steinbrche fr Geschichten </p><p>und Geschichte. </p><p>Ruinen Orte der Heimat, der Herkunft. </p><p>Geborgen, verborgen im/ aus Irgendwo. </p><p>Frag Mente, er-sie-es kann es dir </p><p>mitteilen lies! Oder aber lass es! </p><p>by Joachim Hirling </p></li><li><p> 16 </p><p>STORYBUILDING WITH DIXIT CARDS </p><p>The Story of Anonymouse </p><p>Anonymaus </p><p>Im groen Lecutturmland lebte einst </p><p>eine Maus. Von einem dieser Trme </p><p>wurde ein Schuh </p><p>heruntergeschmissen, vermutlich </p><p>von einem Lecuttu...</p></li></ul>