Bogi's Story Corner

To Mr. T.S. Eliot

After the morning bread and butter
When I had apologies to mutter,
After sun followed rain
And icing froze upon the cake,

After making compromises
With all who wear disguises,
After crying and denying,
And sighing then reviving,

After answers revealed the question
So we wouldn’t blame the tension,
After painting crimson red the pain
And remembering the cloudy day
When you held the sun in your hand
And smiled at my girlish content,

After coffee spoons were not enough to measure
The pure and bouncing pleasure
Felt in distant woods in fairyland,
Where witches still take their stand,

I stopped for a moment to consider
If I could accept what made me shiver.
Tell me, Mr Eliot, if it’s worthwhile
To drink tea and whisper “alright”,
Or after tea and cake and painting
I should roll the dice and leap in.

Thinking of parents and our boundaries, I wrote a poem.

Motherhood

My body is like a vessel,
Come, Love, bring your parcel,
Show me your little treasures,
And I’ll guard my hidden pleasures.

My soul is in endless bloom,
Once a full, once a crescent moon,
I’ll follow the beaming sun
While you spread your wings, son.

My energy flows in and out,
There’s not one I could do without.
I’m a mother, not a saint,
I juggle what I lose and gain.

I keep a table for two, three, four,
Step inside and close the door.
Bring me flowers, and your mess,
My wish is simple to guess.

I give you my body, I give you time,
But not all the words that rhyme.
I’m always here when you come,
Just kiss me before you run.

Openings

Lately, I’ve been wondering about thresholds and boundaries – especially in relationships.
How do we define our personal boundaries in different types of connections? What happens when we cross an unspoken line? Can we step back and start over, or does something between us shift forever? How do we communicate our intentions and feelings without always having to explain ourselves? And how much should we open up?

While reading "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert, I stumbled upon this line: “I don’t really want to open that can of worms.” I started pondering about things we can open, from the everyday to the existential.

We can open, for example:
• a can / jar / tin / bottle
• a book
• a present
• a drawer
• a shop or restaurant
• an app on our phone
• a ceremony
• a door or window – both literally and metaphorically
• our eyes or ears – again, physically and symbolically
• our heart
• our mind
(See more definitions here: https://www.ldoceonline.com/dictionary/open)

Does the treasure behind the threshold feel more valuable when opening it takes effort? Do we always want to know what’s beyond? We often want clarity – but that doesn’t mean we’re ready to confront the skeletons in the cupboard.

A few English idioms come to mind:
• doors open up – opportunities arise
• to open one’s eyes – to realize or acknowledge the truth
• to open a can of worms – to invite a complicated or messy situation
• as one door closes, another one opens – endings often bring new beginnings
There’s a playful paraphrase of the last idiom in "Eat, Pray, Love": "Because God never slams a door in your face without opening a box of Girl Scout cookies (or however the old adage goes), some wonderful things did happen to me in the shadow of all that sorrow."

So “opening” in language often suggests opportunity, revelation, or truth. In myth and stories, this meaning goes quite deep, as related themes are explored.
Consider Janus, the Roman god of doorways and gates – the guardian of beginnings, endings, and transitions. He had no counterpart in Greek mythology. With his two faces, he looked both forward and backward, and was often associated with time, the sun and moon, movement, and change. It’s great to imagine that a simple doorway could be a portal to the cosmos.
At the same time, opening something can often be painful. In Greek mythology, opening Pandora’s box unleashed all the evils of the world – disease, destruction and death becoming part of our lives. Only hope remained trapped inside. Today, “Pandora’s box” still means something that releases unforeseen trouble – much like the “can of worms.”
Folktales carry similar warnings. In "Bluebeard", a young woman marries a mysterious man and is forbidden to open one particular door. When she inevitably does, she discovers the horrifying truth. The message seems to echo Pandora’s: female curiosity leads to disaster. But we instinctively know that a woman must be curious by nature. The story tells us that clarity – no matter how painful – is often the only path to survival: to life, rather than the death of the soul.

And then there are the doors that lead to magic. My favourite one is in "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" by C. S. Lewis: "And then she saw that there was a light ahead of her; not a few inches away where the back of the wardrobe ought to have been, but a long way off. Something cold and soft was falling on her. A moment later she found that she was standing in the middle of a wood at night-time with snow under her feet and snowflakes falling through the air."

You get to decide for yourself whether it’s worth opening… Finish the sentence.

I forgot about Children’s Day two weeks ago. My son came home with presents from his grandmother, and I felt guilty. It was Sunday afternoon, and there was no chance of quickly grabbing something from a 24-hour shop. Knowing how much Ádi loves bedtime stories, I offered to tell him two that night: one folktale I knew by heart, and one improvised just for him. Ádi loved the second one so much that I decided to write it down and share it here.

The Lake and the Elephant

Once upon a time, there was a lake in the middle of the savannah. Nothing ever happened around it, in it, or above it. It just existed – its surface as flat as a pancake. There were no waves, and no animals lived in it. The vast body of water called “lake” simply rested in its bed. It had been content with the way things were for a long time: a few trees standing motionless beside it, and still air all around.
But one day, the lake began to feel a little tension – a spark of discomfort, boredom, longing, or maybe curiosity. At first, it was just a feeling, like a mild tickle, the kind you get on the sole of your foot. Not enough to make you take off your shoes; just enough for you to press your foot hard to the ground, hoping it goes away. The lake hoped it would go away, too. But to its surprise, the feeling grew stronger with each passing moment – and slowly turned into a wish for something to happen.
The lake began to long for something – anything – to happen around it, in it, or above it – anything at all, as long as it was different from the nothingness.
One day, a giraffe came by – a tall and graceful creature with brown and sandy-coloured spots on its skin. It spread its legs apart, bent its long neck down, and looked into the lake, seeing its reflection on the surface. It stood like that for some time, curiously studying the figure in the water. Then it left. The lake felt lonely afterward.
The next day, a herd of zebras appeared on the horizon, galloping wildly toward the lake.
When they reached the water, they jumped in without a second thought and began drinking.
The lake was terrified. It was worried that the water level would drop – and that it would become… less.
But there was no time to dwell on that thought, because the wind began to blow. At first it was a breeze, gently ruffling the surface. Then it grew stronger, and stronger, until great blasts of wind shook the water. The zebras ran away. The lake began to tremble – and wasn’t quite sure if it was from the wind or from fear. It was concerned that its waters might spill over the edge.
Eventually, the wind died down. The lake felt a little relief – but not for long. Rain began to fall from the sky. Water splashed into the lake from above. This time, the lake was afraid it might become too much. What if it overflowed?
But it didn’t. The rain stopped. And soon, an elephant came strolling by.
“Hi,” said the lake.
“Hello,” replied the elephant, a little surprised that the lake had a voice. “Do you mind if I drink from your water?”
“No. To be honest, I’d be glad if you did. I’m worried I’m too much.”
“Are you kidding? You can never be too much!” exclaimed the elephant.
“No?”
“Everyone wants you all the time in a place like this. Look around... sand, a few trees, and nothing but heat… scorching, draining heat.”
The lake looked around. Then it looked at itself. Then back again. For the first time, it understood the reason for its existence – and felt a little proud.
“Would you like to stay a little longer?” asked the lake.
“Sure. I’ll just stand here beside you,” said the elephant.
“Thank you. I’ll just stand here beside you, too,” said the lake.

Csibém

My son decided to go on a trip today. He made the decision yesterday, and I carelessly said yes. I didn’t anticipate waking up this morning completely worn out, with absolutely no energy for making a ton of sandwiches.
Unlike me, my kid was in a helpful mood – he peeled so many carrots for the trip it would’ve been enough for a large family’s Sunday lunch meat soup. By the time I got to my morning coffee, carrot peels had been covering the entire table.
While I was putting on some light makeup, my son appeared in the bathroom to brush his teeth.
“Why are you putting that brown cream on, Mom?” he asked.
“To cover the circles under my eyes.”
“Why do you want to cover them?”
“To look prettier. I know the cream doesn’t do much, but at least the idea of it helps.”
“The circles are pretty, Mom. You’re good just as you are.”
Awwww. Of course, it’s excursion day, and I left all the planning to him – but still. He said it so naturally as if he was talking about the weather.
Once we were out in nature, my fatigue vanished. Just before we entered the forest, I saw graffiti on a stone wall – the first piece I’ve ever actually liked. I even took a picture of it, and I rarely take pictures. It showed two turquoise chickens, one saying “Csibém” (“my chick”) to the other. The one speaking looked as if it had been painted by Picasso’s worst student; the other reminded me of myself as a child when my mother was giving me a telling-off.
Oddly enough, it was my father who used to call me "Csibém" – not often, which made it all the more special. It always came with warmth, a caress, a sense of love. I wasn’t sure what "Csibém" was meant to convey in the picture. Irony? Affection? A gentle scolding?
I kept wondering how to translate this word into English. Would “my chick” work? As far as I know, “my chick” is often used to refer to a female romantic partner, sometimes in a condescending or dismissive way. In Hungarian, "Csibém" is a term of endearment for a child – or really, anyone we love tenderly. So the expressions don’t quite match.
Would it be a crime against the artist if we slightly altered the meaning by translating the speech bubble differently?
To find a better fit, I started collecting my favourite English endearments (ones that could work for both children and romantic partners):
• Honey (sweet and safe)
• Baby (classic)
• Sugar (a bit too much)
• Dearest (you’re the most important one)
• Kiddo (playful, teasing)
• Pumpkin (definitely the funniest)
I tend to avoid the soppier ones like "sweetheart". Either way, we should probably stay in the chicken family, right? What about "my baby chick"?
According to Reddit commenters, “chick” or “chicken” is still used as a term of endearment in Great Britain and Australia, especially among the older generation.
→ Reddit discussion on the term "chicken": https://www.reddit.com/r/etymology/comments/1fftcai/chicken_as_a_term_of_endearment/
→ Collins Dictionary entry for "chick": https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/chick
Anyway, my baby chick, the fruit of my loins, snapped me out of my reverie as I stared at the graffiti, waving his arms dramatically to show which way we should go next.
“Move, Mom, please!”
Feel free to leave a comment if you have a better idea for translating Csibém into English.

17 April 2025

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Kedves Látogató!
Szeretettel köszöntelek a Bogi’s Story Corner oldalamon. Molnár Boglárka vagyok, angoltanár, fordító, Metamorphoses meseterapeuta és amatőr jazz-zongorista. Jelenleg egy belvárosi gimnáziumban tanítok angolt nyelvet.
Ezen az oldalon rövid, angol nyelvű írásokat osztok meg, amelyek nyelvészeti és kulturális témákat dolgoznak fel személyes történeteken keresztül. Célom továbbá angol nyelvű társalgási csoportok szervezése. Hiszem, hogy a történetmesélés, önismereti módszerek és játékok, valamint az elfogadó közeg által a nyelvtanulás személyesebb, mélyebb élménnyé válhat.
Remélem, találsz inspirációt az oldalon – szeretettel várom a hozzászólásaidat!

Dear Reader,
Welcome to Bogi’s Story Corner! My name is Boglárka Molnár – an English teacher, translator, Metamorphoses healer through tales and amateur jazz piano player. I currently teach English at a high school in Budapest.
Here, I share short articles in English on linguistic and cultural topics, often interwoven with personal stories. This page is also a space for organizing English conversation groups. I believe that through storytelling, self-awareness techniques, and a supportive environment, language learning can become a more personal and meaningful experience.
I hope you’ll find inspiration here – and I warmly welcome your comments!