Ilona Martonfi, Wilde Rozen

The end of another workweek night. I sit down under ample ambient light. Ilona Martonfi’s Wilde Rozen (2024), Turret House Press, is laid out in front of my keyboard, I’m ready to write.

This is my first impression, mind you. I google a little for context. Ilona Martonfi is low-key a badass. I never leave the house or I reckon, by now, having lived in Montreal for x amount of years, we would have crossed paths.

I’m gonna skip the googleable and get back to the chapbook at hand. The cover, once again, James Hawes.

The first poem in the collection: gufo.

and looking through the window, she saw the street
faccia brutta, ugly face, he says. gufo, owl
as the street was for cars. the walled garden for apple
trees, lilacs. wild strawberries. there were four children
three daughters and one son. the afternoon and this
sketch. the owl turned to her: “leave! get out!”

I read on. The next poem is titled: shaughnessy village.

I’ll be honest, it’s a very different part of town from where I live now, which isn’t very far. It almost feels disingenuous to say as much. But, as she calls it, “the concordia ghetto,” and I know she mentioned this language in the 2020 Cult MTL interview above:

I [occasionally] read about the ghetto because of what’s happening in politics now in the States. It’s coming back, as if they hadn’t learned anything. So that’s why these poems are relevant.

Montreal is a funny place to be for those hailing from Eastern Europe with its frequent mention of ghettos. On a night out last month, even, someone mentioned the word in presence of my partner, hailing from Poland. In later conversation, she said it had made her laugh, but I don’t remember her actually laughing. Could do with less potholes around here, though.

It’s funny what gets passed around here as a ghetto, as former resident of the Plateau myself. What people call “ghetto” elements are the excesses of privilege of entitled McGill students, really. Full furniture on the sidewalks during moving day, all night parties with live music in the apartment the floor above you, irreverent disrespect of the culture all around you.

It’s common parlance for Ontarians, too. I remember a customs official grilling my partner on our way in from a summer in Poland, asking if her partner, me, hailing from Ontario, happened to come from Cornwall. “Meth town,” he added, for effect. She replied, “No, he’s from Kingston,” which he didn’t hesitate to parrot himself in response to, “meth town, too.” I’m from Waterloo, actually. No idea why he felt obligated to say so. Canada is a heavily privileged country, all around, regardless which banlieue or township you come from. It’s ridiculous.

Ilona Martonfi gets this.

ceramica di giarre

the walls of the loft are painted apple white, lined with two tall pine armoires, a glass book case, on the window sill eight terra cotta potted plants. a tiffany lamp, five framed mirrors. computer desk. an artist’s loft. a long comfortable space with an oak table in the centre and my four children’s framed paintings hung around it. i will live here for a while and watercolour smudge. the tree-lined street in shaughnessy village, downtown montreal. the sky is violet and high. crows flap in the ash trees and there is a ceramic water jug from giarre.

Her poetry is also that of the deep Canadian diaspora experience I am familiar with from my own late mother’s upbringing raised by expats and children of expats herself:

szilvágombóc

i remember
hungarian words

my mother spoke to me
in my mother tongue

i imagine the
sound of her voice

how my mother
taught me to love

madártej, floating islands
szilvágombóc

plum dumplings

I am left with only one impression from my first impression: it is time to read more Ilona Martonfi.