This writer comes originally from Trebišov, and she publishes her poems in magazines. She is sensitive to the experimental possibilities of poetry, and excesses like this are typical for her: "Just admit/ that I won’t fit/ into your calculations./ There’s always a left-over -/ my feet." She also manages some ingenious observations: "I have the kind of feeling/ that every morning/ I wake up/ inside someone/ else." The distinctive principle in her poems is two-layer interplay, which becomes a source of tension. The poet meticulously shapes her attitude to the model of the sensitive and cruel woman. She hesitates, confronting herself with her own self, but at the crux of emotion she is able to remain coolly balanced. Viewed as a whole, her texts record the message of today’s modern woman, buffetted by the age she lives in, with her appeal and effort for her own purification. The writer does not neglect to cement her observations into a composite of views of the world. She torments herself with the effort to address other people, but at the same time she waits constantly for the approach to come from the other side. Everything is somehow reduced to gentle touches, tentative contacts. The search for love does not simply have the character of an analytical attitude to the feeling of love between a man and a woman. Love is a primary feeling, and as such in places it turns into love as a general principle, the sense itself of the search. Various levels of female subjectivity overlap in these texts. There is a theme of ordinariness and everyday routine. But in her perception this everydayness conceals existential uncertainty, the inconstancy of things and relationships. In her poems Hilgartová reveals her own hypersensitivity (excitability, short temper, impatience), which also bring her into confrontation with the well-established norms of female behaviour, with the socially constructed definition of femininity. There is a permanent place here for sadness, confusion and doubt, and constant themes of loneliness and hidden desire for happiness. Perceptive readers, though, will also sense the ongoing search for a way towards harmony.
Richard Kitta
somewhere inbetween...
He set
on me
with all kinds of perfumes,
and with a word
he tickled
my ear.
Then
I fell
from the clouds
and woke up
on the balcony.
OUT
stuck in the window
in detail
I overhaul the sky
nobody has sent me
a balloon
an aeroplane
or even a seagull
through my head
rushes
a cascade of the fools
who left yesterday
Before I fall asleep
quietly
I hang up
my clipped wings
I stow away
my broken dreams
and then
every morning
I stick on a new feather