Budapest Workshop
June 2013
Nottingham – Budapest – Karlsruhe
In Memoriam Katalin Budai
2
“We all have stories to tell.
Stories about ourselves,
our lives, our cities, our
history, our culture.”
About the Project
As part of the European Union Lifelong Learning Programme, the
Dovetail project works with adult learners to improve writing skills
through the creative writing method. 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.
The workshop was organised by Katalin Budai, who can no longer
be with us. This anthology is dedicated to her memory.
3
"Every encounter that touches our
soul, leaves behind a trace that
never disappears completely."
Kata Budai, the Hungarian coordinator of the
Dovetail project was tragically killed in a car
accident on 9 September 2013.
She played a very active role in organising
Hungarian literary and cultural life and
participated in creating and running the 5K Centre
from the beginning.
We are thankful for her work and dedicate the
following poem to her memory:
Gone! Her Voice Flying on Dovetail
A warm stranger held my hand
She had a crown of fiery flame
Gentle and kind she held my arm
Like a couple of others in the group
She walked with me across the slippery snow
As we ventured into Nottingham Castle
Marching along like a herd of cattle
In the icy flakes that give me nightmares.
In Budapest, she went out of her way
Warm and welcoming to all
Making sure we had wonderful days
Suddenly without warning she departs from us
Gone! Her voice on the waves, flying on Dovetail
We hear the heavens rejoice and hail.
by Naa Ahinee Mensah
4
Budapest Workshop Programme
The 5K Centre hosted the Dovetail workshop in Budapest. The
project participants from the Nottingham Writers’ Studio (UK) and
GEDOK (Karlsruhe, Germany) arrived in the morning, both groups
were welcomed at the Dominik Panzió (14th district, Cházár András
utca 3., www.dominikpanzio.hu).
Who was not tired enough,
could come with us to visit the
city centre, starting with the
New York Palace, where Kata
used to work.
Petőfi Literary Museum
The first programme of the
workshop started in the Petőfi
Literary Museum (www.pim.hu),
which is hosted in the Károlyi
Palace, a relic of the capital’s
neoclassical architecture and the
most important of the 19th-
century aristocratic palaces in
Pest. Before the introduction and
the creative writing programme we were guided in the palace that
has a unique collection of writers’ belongings, manuscripts, books
and photographs. The PIM runs the Translation Support Project,
which enables foreign publishers to issue books in Hungarian.
Besides that, they run a project to buy contemporary authors’
digital rights in a monthly payment form (Digital Academy) and
publish them on their website, which is also an interesting practice
in the copyright world.
5
The themes of the first writing workshop were the following:
1. Arriving and first impressions in Budapest (What does it
look like, how does it smell, etc.)
2. The cult literary figure Sándor Petőfi (How did the
exhibition inspire you?)
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
Wie fühlt sich Budapest für mich an?
Durch den wenigen Schlaf bin ich wohl
überdreht. Flug etc. alles Ok! - Ankunft! -
Der Himmel ist bedeckt und malt ein
gleichmäßiges Licht auf alles. - Auf der
Fahrt vom Flughafen zum Hotel freue ich
mich über die Grünstreifen neben den
Straßen.
Das Gras ist hochgewachsen, das Gras ist sehr unterschiedlich, voll von
Kräutern und Blumen, verschiedenste Grüntönungen, roter Mohn,
unterschiedliche Gelbtöne, lila, blau etc. opulenten, es begeistert mich! Die
Büsche und Bäume vom Wind durchweht zeigen auch die silberigen Grüns
der Unterseite ihrer Blätter.
Die Straßen sind gut ausgebaut, überall auch Bordsteineinfassungen, neues,
altes, alles gut gekehrt für eine Großstadt. Kleine Vorstadthäuser wechseln
mit Fabrikanlagen, altes wird abgerissen, Baustellen, endlose Straßen, breit,
zeugen von dem Dasein in einer Hauptstadt. Prachtvolle alte Faßaden,
bröckelnd oder neu renoviert. Die Verziehrungen sind üppiger als sonst
gesehen, die Formen der Architektur oft geschwungener, runder. Altes Grau,
Braun Ocker, meist helle Farben, neues Glas ... Das Wetter angenehm -
Wolken, trocken nicht zu warm nicht zu kalt. Außergewöhnliche Wörter auf
den Plakaten, viele ööö, üüü, yyy ... ungewöhnlicher Klang der Sprache.
by Joachim Hirling
6
Was sagt mir Budapest?
Ich bin lieb, ich bin wie meine Heimatstadt (Sofia), durch die
unterschiedlichen Bauten, sozialistisch, realistisch, durch die freundlichen
Gesichter. Ich bin nicht reich an Geldern, ich bin reich an Geschichten, ich
bin reich an Blumen, ich bin reich an Substanz. Und ich bin sauber und
aufgeräumt – und sehr, sehr kultiviert.
Sie fügte hinzu: „Ich gebe dir köstliche Speisen, ich spreche zu dir durch nette
freundliche Menschen, durch angenehme, belesene Frauen mit der Sprache
der Kultur, mit der Sprache der Wärme. Komm, fass mich an, ich möchte mich
offenbaren.“ Und sie meinte auch:
„Ich leihe dir einen Rahmen, dadurch, dass ich institutionalisiert bin. Ich
verehre meine ferne Vergangenheit, ich preise Autoritäten und geschichtliche
Stile. Vielleicht sollte ich mich noch gegenwärtig verwirklichen und
untraditionelle verrückte Ideen gedeihen lassen!
by Maria Hirling
Our journey across the city…
was made on foot and wheels.
We meandered through vintage
shops, sat outside on the kerb
of change wearing
multicoloured smiles, our pink
tongues tugging towards the
cool vanilla essence of history.
We learnt that the swirls of
Hungarian ice creams are so
strong they can stand 10 inches tall, perhaps that's why statues hang from
every building – guardian ice cream angels waiting to see who's twist is the
tallest. Hands displaying signs of wrinkles fought to push the wheelchair,
excitedly tilting her towards silver weeping willows, book stands, ruins and
even a breasted sphinx.
by Lila Randall
7
Fragments from Budapest
Here crows unhood themselves and don jackets in the park.
Towering timepieces stand still, a half realised dream.
Buildings, enwrought by entropy pulsate with hypnotic beats and bleed
bohemian art.
And we wonder, what does the word ‘ruin’ really mean?
Here a swollen river slices though the city and splits its heart in two
Children gather at the water’s edge and skim stones on to rooftops.
Friendships are forged, dogs are disguised and food is reimagined.
8
And a once strong communist foothold is transformed into a resounding
symbol of unity.
I close my eyes, place my hands on the cold metal and listen to the past
sound of bricks breaking
Inhale the rust deep into my lungs and feel the echoes of revolution rumble
through the streets.
A sunset bruises the sky
A father and son stare out at the horizon
And even the air tastes different here.
by Aimee Wilkinson
9
Wheeling in Budapest
A nightmare came true
Staring at it, all I saw was limitations
A free being in mind and spirit trapped
I found myself reluctant to enter
My body desperately screaming for it
And yet my mind desperately averse to it
In Budapest came my first public outing in a wheely
Up and down the bus
Up and down the train
Up and down the underground
Ladies and gentlemen
Pushing, wheeling and carrying
A sense of quilt overwhelming me
A snail halting down a group of running cheetahs
I heard voices of the peregrine falcons repeating “it's not that far”
I thought yeah right! Try my body for a few minutes
My first day in the wheely brought me a young friend
A young boy and his charming mother
I slowly started to feel a sense of ease
Miss Smiling L became a child again
For a moment she took ownership of my borrowed rounded legs
Watching her spinning the double rings as you would stir a car wheel
Made me feel a sense on normality
Smiley L and vocal D brought excitement to the spinning wheels
With her aching heels fascinating H wished to be pushed in the seated
wheels
And there I was feeling awkward in it.
I felt a sense on commonality when others sat in my adopted lower half
There you go, being in the wheely is not so bad I thought to myself
Wheeling in Budapest
Out of my nightmare came warmth
Thoughtfulness and the kindness of humanity
Germans, Hungarians, British, everybody aiding
I was touched to see adamant K fighting my corner
I was touched to see wonderful A empathising
both Fighting to get me a wheely, my nightmare and my support!
Such love for humanity! If only the whole world was as wonderful as these
by Naa Ahinee Mensah
10
PETŐFI EXHIBITION
Petőfi
The air flowing through the terminal
breathes him into my lungs.
Poppies grow alongside roads he walked
paved now, choked with cars.
Even the names of the roads speak of him.
He comes to us in the bow
of a violin-player
with a moustache, with the fox’s dance.
The notes of Greensleeves are not
English on his strings.
His language
screeches patriotism across Heroes Square
under red-and-white stripes.
Words ordered differently,
his poetry gives this country
a better kind of love.
A face painted on a beech tree
could be his—
even the children know him.
I gently kiss his cheeks.
by Pippa Hennessy
11
University Library / Grandio Bár
After the guided bus tour in
Budapest we visited the
University Library of ELTE and
the exhibition of calligraphies.
From the Library we went to a
“ruin-pub” called Grandio Bár,
where we got new writing
exercises.
First we had to think about the word “ruins” and its meaning in
our life. Then we formed mixed groups of about 4 people at different
tables and each member pulled a "Dixit card" as a driving force to
write a common story.
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“RUINS”
Ruinous Regeneration
We skip our way between tram
tracks and cobbled stones. We are
all in the place we should never go.
All week I have heard people
mention the flood through hushed
voices and clenched teeth. As if to
discuss the disaster openly would
call forth the devil and bring a
further curse on their fair city.
They say fifteen people have died in the villages. They say that it hasn’t flooded
like this in living memory, and that the water, at nearly nine meters above its
usual level, has not yet reached its peak.
“Do you see how big it is? How much it has risen?” whispers our guide on our
first day, as we drive over one of the bridges out of Pest and into Buda. But I
have seen many rivers before and this is just another. Rivers rise, tides flow
and the sun sets, it’s what they do. It’s the natural order of things. It’s not
until my fourth day in Budapest that I truly
begin to understand.
We have been walking so long I have been
encapsulated in time. We have been walking
so long I have forgotten to worry and can
only wonder. Scores of people clamour
through the streets and congregate at the
water’s edge. The swollen river stretches
before us, its vast expanse cutting through
the heart of the city. Rooftops of houses and
well-loved monuments peek through the
surface like giant stepping stones. Trees
bend with the onslaught of the water and
sandbags stockpile the streets, yet the
tenacious river snakes through.
I follow the crowd of people as we pick our feet carefully between jagged stones
and smooth tram tracks. The tram itself, unable to move as all stops are
13
flooded, remains sedentary behind me, its doors closed like a sleeping animal
curled in on itself. What was once a road winding down to the river is now
transformed into a harbour, and I watch children paddle in the water and
skim stones on the surface. There are no strangers here, and bound together
by this spectacle, we lend a helping hand when one slips on the tracks, or take
the time to point out some new marvel the person next to us may have missed.
I lean over a rail and inhale the humid air deep into my lungs. The sunset
glints silver and gold on the surface, yet the water surges past at
immeasurable speeds. I shield my eyes from the sun and look over to the other
side. With the river at this size, it is too far to make out anything other than
the Renaissance buildings that contribute to the city’s character. I imagine
crowds of people gathered on the other bank. Perhaps there too is a woman,
much like me. I wonder if she has made the same mistakes, dreamt the same
dreams, felt the same fears. I wonder if she has been able to conquer her
demons and keep in her life the clarity of only what truly matters to her. If she
has done so she is a stronger woman than I, and I want to break through the
looking glass of the water to ask her how she has achieved such a thing. But
the water is too wide, and the tide is too strong.
I turn away and follow the crowd towards the Hungarian Houses of
Parliament. Here the river Danube has also broken her banks and sweeps
against the building's walls. The sun has now set, and an enchanted half-light
hangs around us.
This is a city well-versed in reconstruction. After decades of occupation and
changing ideologies, it has uncloaked itself to rediscover its true identity. Like
this city, I too am well-versed
in reimagining myself, and the
concept of new beginnings is
not so new to me. I watch the
play of city lights on the water’s
deceptively calm surface, and
remember that through ruin,
regeneration is born.
by Aimee Wilkinson
14
Ruinen
Ruinieren sie die Langeweile!
Ruinez vos attentes!
Laissez-vous surprendre!
Mein Ruhm ist ruiniert, zerstört ist
das Gebäude der Fremdperspektive.
Jetzt bleibt mir nur mein selbst.
You've ruined my heart,
now all I have left is a bipass, passing
through my stomach... Ein Bauch voller Schmetterlinge
Deine Blicke ruinieren meine Figur.
by Maria Hirling
15
Ein Haiku
Der Ehemann:
… ein stolzer Pilzhutträger
in der Ruinenkneipe.
by Maria Hirling
„Ruine“
Ruine – Träume, Vergangen – heit, träume Zukunft.
Ruinenträume, Ruinenräume,
Ruine, ruhe in Ruinensteinen,
Ruin, ruiniert.
Bruchstücke, Fragmente, Steinbruch für
Neues.
Ruinen – Steinbrüche für Geschichten
und Geschichte.
Ruinen – Orte der Heimat, der Herkunft.
Geborgen, verborgen im/ aus Irgendwo.
Frag „Mente“, er-sie-es kann es dir
mitteilen – lies! Oder aber lass es!
by Joachim Hirling
16
STORYBUILDING WITH DIXIT CARDS
The Story of Anonymouse
Anonymaus
Im großen Lecutturmland lebte einst
eine Maus. Von einem dieser Türme
wurde ein Schuh
heruntergeschmissen, vermutlich
von einem Lecutturmwärter. Der
Schuh war magisch und flog durch
die Lüfte. Der Maus gefiel das
zunächst doch dann hatte sie Angst.
Sie stürzte ab. Mitten über dem Meer. Voll in ein Boot. Mit diesem ging es über
die Milchstrasse ins Indianerland, ein warmes Wigwam. Zwei Rothäute
machen Rauchzeichen. Die Botschaft lautet: “Wir haben jetzt eine Maus im
Zelt. Wir kennen ihren Namen nicht, aber sie hat einen Schuh dabei.”
Anonymous
In large Lecutturmland once lived a
mouse. From one of these towers,
a shoe was throwndown, probably
from a Lecutturmwärter. The
shoe was magical and flew through
the air. Themouse liked
the first but then she was
scared. They crashed. Centers
across the sea. Fully ina boat. With
this, it went beyond the Milky
Way into the Indian country, a
warm wigwam. TwoRedskins make smoke signals. The message is: “We now
have a mouse in a tent We do notknow her name, but she’s like a shoe..”
by Heike Pitschmann, Renate Schweizer,
Heide Schlösinger
17
„Was ist Inspiration“
Im dichten Wald öffnet sich eine Schatztruhe – Hinein und Hinaus schweben die zwei komplementären Geister – unfassbar. Hier erscheinen sie in den lyrischen Klangwellen Verdichtungen von Gelb und Blau, auch bekannt als
„Ais (A#)“ und „D“.
Verborgen im Dunkel der Truhe kondensieren Sie zur Kraft, aus dem das Grün entsteht, auch bekannt als „C“ mit seinen Geschwistern „B“ und „Cis
(C#)“, auch Gelbgrün und Gelbblau genannt.
Sie setzen die Energie zum Auf- und Neukeimen der kreativen Energie frei. Es entstehen die ursprünglichen Klänge und Geräusche des Urwaldes.
Später wird ein Priester, weise wie ein Rabe, die leichten Federn die durch den blutroten raum schweben, bewegt von Luftzügen, nachsinnend schauen.
In der Hand hält er, im blauschwarzem Gewand, gegürtet mit violetter Schärpe, den Rosenkranz.
In Gedanken sieht er wie der allwissende Geist durch die hölzerne braune Tür den blauen Raum betritt. „Anonymus“ in weißer Mönchskutte mit dem
„Bauchauge“. Er geht hinein – beleuchtet vom Sonnenstrahl, erwidert vom Kerzenlicht mit bewegter Flamme.
Er kam zu dem für das bereitete Mahl hergerichtetem Tisch. Das Besteck
neben Tellern, Gläsern für Wein, noch leer ungefüllt seiend.
Klänge schweben um die Welten Erde. Die Sphären-Musik, gespielt vom Engelschor webt
zusammen die himmlische Musik. Kreativ in freier Leichtigkeit kommt auch ihnen
der Geist des E-Pianos, des Saxophons, der Klarinette, der
Oboe und des Schlagzeugs – Inspiration pur.
Erde – Blau, Universum – Schwarz, Wolken – Weiß.
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Kossuth Club – 5K Centre
On the fourth day we visited the
headquarters of the 5K Center, where
another reading-writing workshop was
organised and led by the renowned
Hungarian poet Anna T. Szabó.
ANNA T. SZABÓ, poet, writer and translator was
born in Transylvania (Romania) in 1972 and
moved to Hungary in 1987. She studied English
and Hungarian literature at the University of
Budapest and received her PhD in English
Renaissance literature. She was 23 when her first volume of poetry appeared.
She has since published four more volumes of poetry and has received several
literary prizes.
Anna T. Szabó: On Darkness (A sötétről)
Where the heart was, a word is beating: Forget.
There was heat, though; you lay back in the grass and felt the pulsations searing through your flesh, under your eyelids, there, where the sun was;
a mirage burns into the retina like the trace left by a touch upon your skin, the grass, the sun, the feeling cold, the drying
and the smell over cooling water of the wind… the word beats, stammers, forget it, let it drop
just as the warm, rough palm tenderly reaches, unexpectedly, almost devoid of weight, to touch the naked shoulder, while the beach
sinks into dusk, the water stirred by the wind, a shivering body filling up with warmth…
you dare not move. It's gone. Quite gone. The season is changing - oh so slowly the sky revolves.
Snow falls on the water, forget, forget, behind the eyes darkness without a flaw, which does not warrant tears, it has not the weight.
But if you let it drop, you too will fall beneath dark water cold as ice, oh such
a deep cold that there simply is no longer sun enough to melt it with a touch.
(Translated from the Hungarian by Clive Wilmer and George Gömöri)
19
Busyland
There once was a busy country with a Prime Minister who was determined to
do well. The people worked hard and kept the fires of the power stations burning all day and all night. But the fumes from the burning of coal and gas
made the air catch in their throats. The smoke blocked out the moon and the stars and dimmed the sun. The sky disappeared behind a blanket of cloud.
“Do something,” the people said.
The PM ordered them to build taller chimneys.
“So the smoke will blow further away,” he said. “Paint blue sky and clouds all the way round the cooling towers. Then everyone will feel better because
they’ll remember the colour of the sky,” which was true.
A high-pitched screeching was heard from the cages of the canaries that the people kept for their sweet songs. The screeching got louder.
“What a terrible sound,” said the PM. “Release them.”
So the people opened up all the cages and the canaries flew this way and that
searching for air that they could breathe freely. Many birds coughed and some died from air poisoning.
“Let’s stick together,” said the chief of the birds, “and head for the clouds.”
So the canaries flocked together to make a giant bird with a sharp beak and two huge wings and a tail. They flew vertically up into the air and though many were scattered by the strong winds and more were injured by the fumes,
enough birds broke through the thick cloud for the rest to follow through the gap that they made.
Free at last, the remaining birds glided on the jet stream over unknown miles of sea. At last, the clouds thinned and the shore of a faraway land came into
view. The air was fresh and clear and the birds spread out and drifted gently down to the beach where a father was teaching his young daughter to count.
The little girl looked up at the first yellow bird.
“How many?” she said.
“One,” said her father and when more arrived, “two, lots,” as the yellow birds drifted down like yellow snow.
The canaries made a home in that new land and back in the busy country the
PM was voted out of office and the people went on holiday.
by Nigel Smith
20
Nyitott Műhely
The last evening we presented our
works in a place called Nyitott
Műhely (Open Workshop) in the
Buda part of the city (12th district,
Ráth György utca 4.,
www.nyitottmuhely.hu).
We were the only guests in the
cosy art-cellar which is a gallery
and a restaurant at the same
time.
“The last evening together was a back to back rally of exchange.
Typical country dance steps were sandwiched between choruses of
'I want to have a female pope' and chorizo stew. From a writer being
published that day, to her son asking questions about their
country's history during the research, the Hungarian poet had cast
a spell upon us all.”
by Lila Randall
21
The Week of Books Festival
As part of the Vörösmarty
Square programmes, Anna
Menyhért was talking about
women’ s role in the art-
scene and presenting her
book Women’s Literary
Heritage.
In addition Anna was presenting her new
children book, together with three more
authors in Írók Boltja Bookshop - Writers’
Bookshop (6th district, Andrássy út 45.,
www.irokboltja.hu).
The place used to be a cafe, called
Cafe Japan, a gathering place for
writers from the 19th century up
until the mid-20th century. It became
a bookshop in the fifties. It is still the
place where writers do appear and
their presence is cherished.
22
Whispers…
I saw the shining gleaming twisting river from 40,000 feet in the air through
the clouds
I feel I should have been another 40,000 higher with the butterflies in my
stomach
The bus journey to the poppies by the roads illuminated the way
As did the road signs in foreign tongue
The buildings with such colour and structure and detail feel like Picasso or
Monet painted such great things and then there they stood
Survived
Proud
The streets and the vibrancy of Budapest
I could never express the magnificence of her or her beauty!
You were there to greet us and the first night we had dinner I tasted a closely
guarded secret.
The sweet bitter taste of fought for democracy the right to exist the right to
be standing alone tall proud and everlasting as the Danube
If the Danube could speak what would she whisper?
What secrets could she tell?
Would she tell you about Petofi?
Revolution?
His beautiful wife?
The Arrow Cross?
Their evil deeds?
The bricks of the bridges that fell into their watery grave in 1944?
Would it tell you story of the moving of the university and its scared books
one by one sailing down the river to their current home?
Would she speak of the Red Army and Stalin and Lenin?
23
Or would she tell you to walk down Andrassy Avenue and marvel at its
beauty?
Would she tell you about the law of nothing being able to be built within
Budapest and its city limits higher than the cathedral?
Would she whisper about the New York New York café?
Would she teach you how to spend her Forints?
Or lead you to dance upon Heroes Square underneath the founding
forefathers of Hungary?
Would she lead you to where the last chink of light hits the last sparkle upon
her bed at night?
Would she let you scale the castle walls to lay on the grass of the gardens in
Buda?
And marvel at all her glory from up above?
Would she show you the opera house with her bare breasted sphinxes
standing guard outside?
Would she let you look at the castle replicas and touch the Anonymous
writer's pen?
Now you see the Danube
she whispered to me the secrets…
Those secrets will be with me for the rest of my natural life.
YOU showed me the Jewel of the East.
And for that I am forever grateful and feel blessed and I am forever in your
debt.
THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART.
by Serita Blake
24
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