Agnes Marton is a Hungarian-born poet, Reviews Editor at The Ofi Press Literary Magazine, and linguist. She has been working in academic, art, and EU law publishing since 1991. Most recent publications include 'Sculpture/poésie' (France); 'Gateway: an Artists’ Time Capsule' (USA); ‘Penning Perfumes’ (UK), 'Estuary: A Confluence of Art and Poetry' (USA, poetry editor and contributor; got the Saboteur Award 2013 as Best Mixed Anthology); 'Shorelines' (UK); ‘Lines Underwater’ (UK); 'Drifting Down the Lane' (USA; shortlisted for the Saboteur Award 2014 in the Best Anthology category); 'Exquisite Duet' (USA), 'Glitter is a Gender' (UK). Recent commissions include 'Double Bill' (UK), ‘Like This Press Austen/Bronte/Shakespeare Anthology’ (UK), 'Telephone' (USA). Marton has been in collaboration with American/Japanese artist painter Midori McCabe and Polish artist painter Malgorzata Lazarek. These collaborations have been showcased in London art magazines. Composer Daniel Lee Chappell wrote music for one of her poems, and it was performed by the BBC Singers during the St Magnus International Festival, Orkney, Scotland. 'Guardian of the Edge', her forthcoming poetry exhibition (scheduled for November, 2014 at the Court of Justice of the European Union, Luxembourg) is going to showcase brand-new artworks by forty top international artists, all inspired by her poetry. ---------
Next
I woke up. My mother was alive.
She wanted me to challenge her
as if in the circus
for some treat.
I couldn’t recognize her face
but it was her.
You can’t miss your mum.
You just rub your head and neck
to hers
breathing in and out the familiar scent.
In and out.
That’s what I did this morning.
I tried to work out what she meant
by challenge.
She licked my nostrils,
the spines on her tongue tickling
until I laughed.
We softly gnawed each other.
She pushed me
only by the weight of her whiskers
to make her hop
into a box.
Cats like hiding in boxes, fine,
but it was a confiscation cabinet.
Not of cheat sheets,
magic tattoos, slingshots,
fake spliff, death stars,
‘Never leave me’ notes
of fidgety schoolcubs.
No,
these were objects taken away from Her:
a whip she’d grabbed with her teeth
out of a supposedly protecting hand;
photos from her youth when
(unlike most females)
she was wearing a mane.
There were no toys,
she hadn’t been allowed to play.
Nothing else.
There was a mask she used to love though,
with pieces of ornate mirror.
When she had it on, she mastered the moment,
couldn’t be caught unawares.
Now, by flicking her tail, she called me.
Not for nothing had she been —in secret—
practising her own trick all those years.
She learned how to disappear.
As she stepped on the grooving walkway,
distorted Agneses smiled back
from the mirrors, all nodding.
A breezy jungle grew
from the crest of my neck.
I knew she forgave me
if there’s anything I had done
or would do,
not that I have an idea
what innocence means.
I waved a fly out of my mane.
She caressed my cheek
with her transparent paw.