Max Gutmann
Speaking Hungarian

This tattered robe embarrasses my wife.
"My morning peep show’s here," she smiles. Her joke
exaggerates, but maybe not by much:
the rips, the cloth itself worn sheer in places,
the whole thing sagging open as the belt
slips down. She has a point, but, like a child,
I cling to my familiar, cosy favourite.

That’s how it is to speak Hungarian:
a shabby suit of clothes worn comfortable.
I circle round the holes in my vocabulary,
my accent and blithe errors freely showing
these aren’t my best clothes, asking for the same
sort of indulgence one is given by
a neighbour who drops over unannounced.

The childishness that tags along, at times
annoys, a baby brother making me
a fool in front of girls; more often though,
this soft, loose language sits on me more nicely
than my smooth, native English, which does flatter
my subtleties but feels, here, overdressing,
as if I’m always glancing in a mirror.

Of course, I ought to speak Hungarian better,
use more words, tighten up my flabby grammar,
and teach my vowels to sit up straight—and will,
just as I’ll someday buy another robe;
its even weight will hold more of my warmth
and please my wife, but the best thing about it,
it sometimes will remind me of this old one.

---

Max Gutmann is an American with Hungarian roots, now living in Budapest. His verse has appeared most recently in The Lyric, LIGHT Quarterly and Tundra.