George Csaba Koller• Show poetry

The Grateful Slave
By George Csaba Koller

Out there, the cacophony of cars,
In here, gratitude grabs my heart,
How could I have known this,
That at sixty-one, I’d be working
Harder than when I was young.

Yet my family fuels my ambition,
To make sure that we pay off
Moloch, in order to be allowed
To coexist with those who have,
What we have-nots only covet.

Not the luxury cars, not HD-TV,
Not the House and Garden homes,
Not the manicures and saunas,
Not the jaunts to Las Vegas,
But the time to read a book.

My body aches, more often
Than not, while my brain
Constantly churns to come
Up with new ideas, new pieces,
New blogs to sell product.

And even though our child
Was diagnosed with autism,
She is a loving, bright girl,
And at eleven she’s starting
To mellow out more and more.

And while for a while there
She professed to hate me,
Now she looks into my eyes
And nuzzles me with her nose
Saying: Papa, I do love you!

For that alone I struggle
Each and every day,
To pay for Game Boys
And groceries and rent.
Plus DVDs of Bewitched.

She calls me the Fat Man,
Who lives in his wife’s
Basement, but her eyes
Smile as she says it,
So I don’t mind the putdown.

I’m still married, wear a ring,
Even though Mama and Papa
No longer share a bed.
But I respect my wife, how
Hard she strives and succeeds.

While the world rattles sabres,
And children are enslaved and
Raped and butchered in some
Lands, I am grateful that our
Family has its fertile oasis.

My wife’s garden is her joy,
And it gladdens the hearts
Of all who inhale its fragrance
And I take close-ups of blooms
And publish them in my blog.

We pray that we can move
Back to Salt Spring one
Day, and able to retire,
With our daughter in
The basement suite.

Vancouver, 2007


You fill up my senses

by George Csaba Koller

You fill up my senses
Like John Denver’s beautiful
Voice, like John Lennon’s
Love of Peace, like Bob
Dylan’s lyrical courage,
Like Joan Baez’ soaring
Spirit, like Janis Joplin’s
Aching Heart, like Jimi
Hendrix’ burning Guitar,
Like Leonard Cohen’s
“Everybody Knows,”
Like Sting’s so subtle
Fusion smooth songs,
Like Edith Piaf’s Gallic
Blues, like BB King
Licking on Lucille,
Like Richie Havens
Strumming “Freedom,”
Like Bessie Smith’s
Empty Sugar Bowl,
Like Fleetwood Mac’s
Rhythmic “Rumours,”
Like Little Miss Higgins,
Rocking Saskatchewan,
Like Brent Titcomb’s
“Oh Great Provider,”
Like Peter Tosh’s
Contagious Reggae,
Like Mick Jagger’s
Energetic Dance,
Like the Beatles’
“Strawberry Fields,”
Like Arlo Guthrie
Singing Story Songs,
Like Woody Guthrie
Saying we own “This Land.”

Vancouver, November 24, 2007



For Maria Baltazár Koller (191O—1993+)

by George Csaba Koller

Edesanyám, My Sweet Mother,
Maria please help me,
You came to me in a dream,
and embraced me, and kissed me,
one year to the day,
when angels came,
and took you away.

A long and fruitful life,
three children, a dutiful wife,
then at forty—six, abandoning all,
to escape Soviet terror, and find
freedom and acceptance in Lincoln
and Jefferson’s sanctuary, safe
from the sufferings and blood
that tore old Europe in two.

You had been there before,
my grandfather brought his family
to Pennsylvania, you in diapers,
and your first ten years
were spent playing hopscotch,
skipping rope, spinning tops,
and seeing a black boy tortured
just for being black.

After the First World War,
he took you back to Hungary,
and your sister, born in America,
would be destined to spend her life
in your ancestral village,
while the stars guided you
first to a convent school
then as a nurse in hospital
to meet my father the doctor.

I once asked you what you really
wanted to do with your life,
and you answered that back in
the thirties, as a young woman,
you had a secret dream to fly,
Amelia Earhart was world famous
and you wanted to be a pilot
to soar above the clouds,
but had a girl and two boys,
and ran a home instead.

My sister was your first born,
she had a large baby carriage,
and she was your little princess
judging from the many pictures
in the album you so lovingly
put together —— but on her
sixth birthday, an allied bomb
blew the basement shelter to
smithereens, and she has yet
to recover from that blow
to her psyche.

After the war, you traded
your radio, your jewellery,
your mink coat for food,
money was worthless,
my father’s monthly salary
was stuffed into a large
briefcase, and it would
buy maybe one dozen eggs,
but we all survived,
thanks to your tenacity.

The fifties brought rock n’roll
and duck tails at the diners
in the West —— in Budapest,
the people choked on tyranny,
had enough of deportations
and bread lines, and lies,
lies, nothing but lies,
and the Revolution tore
our family in two.

With my sister and I,
you started a brand new life,
it was very hard for you,
but you took stock of what
you knew how to do, and
became a dressmaker at first,
then an assistant designer
in the garment district
on Seventh Avenue.

Hunched over your sewing machine,
you sent us through college,
and made sure we always ate,
and the rent was paid.
With your meagre resources,
you were able to bring my
brother to America, and
saw him married and prosper,
and you were able to retire,
to your small, impeccably
clean and ordered apartment.

My life mate and I were blessed
to spend a week in your wee home
taking stock of your possessions,
packing up the clothes, sending
them off to your sister in Hungary,
discovering the small treasures,
my sister’s childhood drawings,
the poems I sent you in hospital,
the electronic gizmo designed to
ease your pain.

A long and fruitful life,
you passed away peacefully,
on a Sunday afternoon, waiting
for a call from me. And
my eyes fill with tears,
and every Sunday will
seem so very empty
without your voice
on our telephone.

Vancouver, March 1, 1994