Poós Zoltán - A cloud amelyről nem tudott az ég

Anyone who once fell in love with a poem by Zoltán Poós will love all of them. There is a mysterious paradox in this poetry: on the one hand, you can feel in every poem the keenest attention to anything that is trendy, up-to-date and today, on the other hand, a painful nostalgia for everything that has passed, that is tradition, that was yesterday - but also for what happened a minute ago. Perhaps the reader's heart sinks into the subtle tension of this contrast. Zoltán Poós's new book of poems is full of such jokes. What can be said about rural life in Hungary after the turn of the millennium by a couple of seemingly incidental lines of poetry: "on the way I see a funeral home. / Why are you looking?! Because there is a seesaw there? / Yes, ten years ago he was still in kindergarten, so what." The tragedy of the liquidation of an old family home is almost covered by the idyll: "Sunday lunches, they blow the surface of the soup. / Someone always started scooping before time. / From the cupboard - its drawers were scribbled with a felt-tip pen - / four bags of incendiary were found. About fifty kilos." We feel these pictures of life as sad, but so natural that we almost don't remember that this book is not only about a homeland and the death of a father, but also about the wider world: yes, a country becomes empty, a continent grows old, and in / the sky. Only the earth remains the same." And yet: Zoltán Poós's poems, without beautifying anything, affect their readers like painkillers. (István Kemény)