Weekly servings

Dear All,

I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I cannot do daily poems any longer, I am simply too tired with other commitments. So I will make this weekly. Updated every Wednesday. Except today, I have already done a poem this week. People are welcome to post poems in the comments, like Steve had done, and also to propose corrections to the translations -- not for my own poems though :-)

Miklós

Purple sky

If only I could believe, like a child
That a star was born, the day you died
I would find you on the sky
And though I could never reach you
I would know that you know that I can see you
And this knowing would be speech between us

But I know too much, and too little
To believe, like I once did
I cannot make sense of the words, or the stories.
Perhaps one day the curtains will fall
And the little someone directing it all
Will suddenly appear from behind the screen

He will be small, like a caged little mouse
All the more reason, to feel awkward
Is it my heart to see him like this?
But then I will ask him, straight up
I know you get this, tons
But why could I not believe?

Why did I not hear that quiet, still voice?
Was I too busy, was I engrossed?
Why did I fear every sunset that came
Why is it only, the pain that remained?
Why didn't I thank, every blessing you gave?
But mostly: where were you hiding that day?

no poem

There's no poem today, I'm trying to submit a paper which it appears should be done so in six hours.

Birthday greeting

It was the birthday of my cousin Dani today (well, unfortunately, it's become yesterday already), so I tried my hand at translating a traditional birthday greeting. It is rarely sung, partly because its melody is so melancholic, but it is a beautiful song nonetheless. The link I found here contains three verses, but I am only familiar with the first one, I am not entirely convinced the other two weren't added as an afterthought. Also, I am not very happy with the last line (an unusual way of using impart, and there is perhapse the false implication that the blessings are imparted by the dew..) -- I welcome your suggestions for improvement!

May you live to see many happy years
May you count them all without shedding any tears
May the dew in the sky refresh your heart
And a flood of blessings on your house impart!

You know there's no forgiveness

This was again a translation done for Arty Farties.. I'm running out of these previously translated poems, but I feel a little unwell, so I needed to "use this card". Original. Sung. Like in the sung version, I have left out one of the verses, basically about getting messed up by psychoanalysis.

You know there's no forgiveness
Sorrow, tears are useless
Be what you'd be, a man
The grass grows in your footsteps.

The sin, it won't be mended
Your tears, in vain they are shed
That you are proof of this
Dare not be thankless.

Do not judge, do not swear
Don't ever fool yourself
Don't conquer or be conquered
Don't get conscripted.

Remain someone useless
Avoid seeking secrets
And this humanity
For you're a man, do not neglect.

Remember, how you groaned
In vain, you implored

Became a false witness

Of your own just cause.

You believed carefree whisper
Those you payed a wager,
And look, no one ever ever
Told you how good you were.

They cheated you in love,
You cheated, now you can't love
So press 'gainst empty heart

The loaded shotgun.

Or throw away all ideals
Keep hope in loyal love
Believe, like a dog believes
In him, who'd offer trust.

Tell no one... tell everyone

It turns out the doctor who helped with my collar bone is rather into poetry. Spurred on by his enthusiastic comments, I tried extra hard to make the rhythm of the poem acceptable. Yes, some of the rhymes are a bit forced.. but (at the risk of committing poetic blasphemy) this is also the case with the original!

As I said previously, if you have any ideas on improvement, do let everyone know with a comment! It will make the whole exercise of this blog much more interesting.

This is a favourite saying of my Dad, if he wants to keep something secret: I can't tell anyone, so I'll tell everyone. Original.

I can’t tell anyone

so I’ll tell everyone.

I whispered, by mouth and by ear

To each of you, in tones soft but clear.

The secret, that’s one-on-one

No one must know, but one and one.

The secret that, when dug up,

Tells my birth in filth and blood.

The word, the secret, that magic song

That seeks, and whispers: pass it on.

It’s almost out, out in the daylight

But it got stuck, somewhere in midflight.

I can’t tell anyone

so I’ll tell everyone.

One got hot and flustered

She kissed as she whispered.

The other froze up, encased in fear

Went to the grave, and left me here.

I can’t tell anyone

so I’ll tell everyone.

The third one, stared in my eye

Started laughing, and so did I.

As I child I promised this:

I’ll call on god, if he exists.

But no burning bush, wine or bread,

Had shown me then where he tread.

I waited in vain, in hunger and envy,

I would have believed, if he had in me.

I can’t tell anyone

so I’ll tell everyone.

That it hurt when they teased and bullied

That it would have helped, to be the bad kid.

’Cos sin is an illusion, goodness doubly so

But reality is greater than any illusion show.

That I already am and that I am still here,

That I see the sun, and see it disappear.

I am no god or even a world,

Or an aurora, or even a bird.

I wasn’t better or worse, than any man who lived

But still the most possible: I was a man who lived.

Everyone’s relation and acquantaince

Everyone’s descendant and ancestor.

I can’t tell anyone

so I’ll tell everyone.

I will tell it, I would tell it to you now,

But my mouth stutters, and my hand is rather slow.

I will tell you, the end of the road you’re on

But to do that, you need to lead me on.

Raise me, to talk, see and live,

Here in the dust I cannot speak.

I threw away the rattle and don’t have a bell

Down in the dust there’s no way to tell.

A foot stepped on my chest and I…

Lift me up, lift me up high.

I rent a pedestal, one of many

I’d climb its stairs, if you let me.

What I’ll say? I don’t yet know

But it’ll be good news, I feel it so.

The good news, secrets and butterflies

To you, whom I loved

Waiting for magic, eyes open wide

That thing, that I cannot tell anyone,

That thing, that I will tell everyone.

Journey in 50 words

I was really happy to hear from an old friend today. I remember how he once told me of a writer (I can't remember who unfortunately...Samuel Beckett? James Joyce?) who used the world luce, which meant light in Italian but also sounded like lucha in Spanish, which means fight..

Well, about a year and a half ago, as I was making mental preparations for the big move back to Hungary, there was a competition in the Isis magazine, Oxford, for a writing of no more than 50 words with the theme of journey. It didn't get published.. but here I publish what I like! This little poem also has a word play or two, some more subtle than others.. Dedicated to Guy.

How much an hour? Thirteen? Since the punt had been helpfully pushed off the bank, it had clocked up the hours of an odyssey. Deposit, ID, disappeared from the clerical box.. sleight of hand?

With deeper streams, jettisoned pole, and a metamorphosing bark; the prigionero’s break di Oxford. Destinazione: Venezia.

Maundy Thursday

By Jenő Dsida. Original.

There was no connection. They said
six hours' delay and in the suffocating dark
I sat six hours in the waiting room at Kocsárd,
on Maundy Thursday.
My body was broken and my soul burdened,
like someone who set off on a secret mission at night,
on a fateful earth to the sound of stars
escaping from fate, and yet going against it,
who with well-trained senses could feel
the enemy's stalking steps from afar.
Beyond the window, train engines rumbled,
the dense smoke, like a broken bat's wing,
slapped me. A dull horror
had gripped me, a deep, animal fear.
I looked round: I'd have liked to exchange
a few words with good, familiar people,
but the night was damp and cold,
Peter slept, John slept, Jacob slept,
Matthew slept and everyone slept...
Large drops set off from my forehead
and rolled down my crinkled face.

Dawn on the boulevard

I don't know why, but these translations seem to be getting harder and harder. Or maybe I'm just more tired from work.. Well, here it is. Original.

Dawn on the boulevard (Árpád Tóth)

The dawn was blind, filthy, gray. The shops
Still slept with glassy eyes
And the sleepy cleaners, with tired strokes
Kicked up the dust over rocky outcrops
Like slow jinn or morose sprites.

Suddenly, between two firewalls,
An ember lit up the Eastern sky:
Onto every glass, a hundred small suns dropped
And on the dirt of the asphalt rolled
The million carats of Infinite Light.

The street stood enchanted. A thin
Acacia breathed the precious sun with deep swirls
And as her bun of hair turned green
A hesitant movement of pale, spring
Treasure: flowers from a few curls.

No earthly sound yet replied to the Light
But the birds of colour did tell
The world of the purple tie
In the shop window; and then, from far
There swelled a mellow bell.

A solemn factory siren came on,
A tram on worn-out tracks wailed
It was day, the workman set off with a slow run
And it was late, no one saw how the gold Sun
Threw a kiss on the hands of a maid...

Don't be rash...

... Attila József tells us. Seems fitting in a world where even academics are pressed to publish, publish, publish! Origin.

Don't be rash
Though you work for others' cash
work with precision, let time slowly by
just as the stars move across the sky

'tis the only way.

I was tempted to make up a new phrase by writing, "let time slow by". I really like the phrase but others (all three of you) may find it annoying.

Toldi

János Arany, one of the greatest Hungarian poets, wrote many historical poems, often with an intended message for his day*, when Hungary was under the rule of the Austrian empire. Of these, the Toldi trilogy was based on the life of Miklós Toldi, who had previously been described in detail by Péter Ilosvai Selymes (hence the quotation marks in the last line of this translation). As a child I used to love listening to an LP recording of this work, narrated in the deep, powerful voice of Zoltán Latinovits. Alas, the LP is gone. If anyone knows where to get one let me know.

This is a translation of the first words I always heard when the record started playing (the prologue). Origin.

Update: the narrator was actually Lajos Básti! Thanks to my cousin Bábi for letting me know! Here is the recording in question, of the prologue.

Update II: oops I meant to say prologue instead of epilogue! I corrected it now.

Like a shepherd's fire on an Autumn night,
On a sea of wasteland, a far-flickering light
So Miklós Toldi's figure appears to me, ablaze
Nine-ten generations have not sullied his gaze
I can almost gather the sturdy way he stood
In destructive battle, his strike of solid wood
Almost hear the thunder in his voice
Which today you'd mistake for God's wrath

He'd be your man, when the water rose high
These days there's no match from near or afar
If he rose from the dead, then seeing all his feats
You would not believe them, you'd take them for tricks
His mace, three of you could not bear
Nor his sling-stones, or even his spear,
You'd be aghast, seeing his fearsome shield
'And on the boots he wore, spurs that could have killed'

*Did you notice the references to "today", "these days"?

RULE III

When translating, I NEVER look at the translations of others. This may make the end result worse, it may make me look arrogant or obstinate, but I want the translation to be my interpretation and I fear that if I look at someone else's translation, I will not be able to get out of my head a certain "solution", or feel sure that I would have chosen the same solution had I not seen the translation. It's a bit like solving a science problem. The result may be right or wrong, but it's mine.

Bóbita

This is a children's poem by Sándor Weöres, who was a very gifted poet. His poems often lent themselves to be made into songs. Apparently babies in the womb who hear a song will recognise it later when born and it can calm them. We tried singing this to Leo. Sometimes he seemed to like it, but it did not generally work as a calming "trick".

Bóbita is a sort of fairy, pronounced bow-bit-ah, with 'ah' a sound between an English 'o' and 'a'. Original. Song.

Bóbita Bóbita dances
Round her angels are sitting
Frog-swarm playing the flute
Locust-swarm on violin

Bóbita bóbita playing
A spell and the pig has wings
Sits on it, promises kisses
Flies on and laughs at him

Bóbita bóbita building
A castle with dawn-fog-walls
The halls are filled with guests
Son, daughter of King Dwarf

Bóbita bóbita's sleepy
Lies on an autumn leaf
Deep in the midst of branches
Two snails guarding her sleep

Memorial Concert

A memorial concert, I said.
Congratulations! he said.
But she does not live any more, I said.
I'm sure it will be nice, he said.

Play along to the game of time
Where we congratulate ourselves
On life and death
and death.

Or love, or what's left of love
And be the essence, free of time
With faith, from faithlessless

And, nearing sleep, "lighten our darkness ...
and by thy great mercy defend us
from all perils and dangers of this night"

[The concert itself was very good, with a very touching piece by György Kurtág Jr. at the end]

Poor acousticians

By Gáspár Nagy. Prize goes to person who can best explain what this poem/stream of thoughts is about. Original.

Poor acousticians!

  -- Random supplement to Marek Nowakowski's stories --

Here they sit amongst us, stroll in our city, maybe sometimes read out of boredom, or watch a shop window with a telescope, stopping bored at the aching points of the city and say: HEY-HO! then twice, each time louder, so it can be heard, almost felt, this HEY-HO at the acoustic junctions, and it shall be as it is written in the good book of law, since the usual tone of disagreement becomes louder from these shouts, and as it must, this SOUND obeying the laws of physics, already makes its way along a separate corridor, it reaches its destination, gushes forth, flows from where the telescope, where it nests, sits, stands the pain, suspicion, fear, and what not... verily, it's already puffing there, like some self-satisfied, punctual locomotive reaching its final station, whereupon they study the various acoustic possibilities, seek confidential answers to confidential questions, pose such questions as to lead the fish into its net, for instance what can one do with this flopping about, if we avidly want that it have some use as well, and that the desire for the highest degree of vibration and punishment should be unquenchable, so that our telescopic, poor acousticians may feel: their existence is not pointless and that behind their boring hours, the city dwellers will see telling costumes, it will be good to keep order in the city with eyes and ears, to quieten our cities into silence, then everything starts from the beginning, but it is from the same book that we make the city untouchable, gaseous and most of all, noiseless.

On my birthday

My father likes this poem. It was written by my great-great-grandfather, Gyula Vargha. It is obviously sad to think of death, especially those of loved ones. So it was not altogether fun to translate this, but thought-provoking. If I had one positive thing to say about the thought of death, it is the realisation of the futility of petty arguments. But sometimes even these we get into when we know it's pointless. E.g. I get quite worked up about media outlets publishing false (or one-sided, biased) stuff, and then my complaint not being printed. But then I hope that at the end of the day, if someone is really interested in the truth (and yes I do believe there is just one truth, even if sometimes we can only get close to it by balancing opposing points of view), they will hopefully dig a bit deeper. But it's easy to be sucked into an argument. Anyway, time is calling, I have to send this. Original.

On my birthday

When you've worked off seventy years
The hope of new tastes disappears
The handshakes and compliments
Hearty words, encouragements
Mean little else, but farewell
You have to go, if you hear the bell
The sky covered in darkness,
We'd gladly stay a few more minutes
But the horses outside
Are scratching the ice
How can the guest stay any longer?
Yes, they say, "please stay"
And it warms the heart to know
They're not getting bored.
But he's put on the fur coat
Here he shakes hands, there he embraces
And to the sound of Rákóczi's bell*
Sits on the sleigh, holds on tight
And sets off, into the blind night.

* Rákóczi's bell is a large, loud bell in Hungary that is struck in remembrance of men.

A childlike state

I've got two translation requests but unfortunately I'm a bit tired and the translations aren't straightforward, so I'll post something I've translated a while back. It's a very nice poem, Gyermekké tettél (You made a child out of me -- let me know if you can think of a more compact translation for the title) by Attila József. I translated this for Kinga as a birthday present -- although I should stress that of course my situation is rather different to that of Attila József, e.g. I was lucky enough to have a very warm upbringing, unlike him. One verse though that really resonates with me is the last one, which is a very nice culmination of the entire poem.  Original.

You came -- I'm now a child again

Across thirty years of creaking winters

Pain had grown and nurtured me. It was all in vain.

I can't walk, or sit idly away. My limbs draw me to you, my legs give way.

I hold you firm -- like a dog, whose pup rests in his mouth

I'd love to flee, to escape these suffocating crowds

These broken years, this fate of constant pain

Each moment throws, each falling drop of rain.

Feed me -- I hunger. Cover me -- I need your warmth.

I'm stupid, so take care of me! Don't leave me in this cold.

Your absence passes through me like draught in an empty house.

Let fear depart from thence -- let me hear the words.

You looked upon me -- my hands dropped, everything fell

You listened. The faltered words stopped in mid-air.

Oh please free me, don't let me need you to carry on.

Please let me live, give me strength to die alone!

My mum threw me out -- I lied on cold stone

I tried to warm myself, but I don't have a home

And there's still this stone beneath me, still emptiness above

Oh, please let me sleep, I'm here! Do please open up.

There are many like me, with hardened hearts

Whose eyes still let the flow of tears

I love you deeply, dearest love

For with you, I learned to love myself.

Re: French Fries

I feel I should provide a few thoughts about the last song. This is because at first glance, the song's message may appear to be just a clichéd "look how shallow the West is". Although I cannot speak for the band, I think it's something more subtle than that. The song was released in 1994, not long after the fall of the Iron Curtain. Although I was quite young at the time, as far as I can gather there was a sudden influx of ideas/images from the West (I remember being horrified by the giant billboards), and along with all the positive things, some of the nastier facets of capitalism were also made apparent.

I guess this was a country that had been relatively "sheltered" until then, and its "immune system" (e.g. state institutions, regulations) was not strong enough to respond to the potential dangers of unbridled capitalism. Britain had grown out of the yuppie lifestyle by then, but in Hungary there was still quick buck to be made, not necessarily from sound investment, but from bribing officials -- dodgy privatisation deals were rife. The pre-democractic system brought a culture of corruption that was hard to shake off. I guess a lot of mistakes were made in those transition years, but looking back, we have to be forgiving (well, to those of honest intent), because the task was so great.

Viewed from this perspective, the ambivalence in the song is more understandable. But just as "Goodbye Lenin" is -- in my view at least -- unfairly labelled an "ostalgic" film, the song is less a satire of the West than a depiction of a confused country that wanted the freedom of democracy without the challenges it experienced when it finally came (e.g. inflation). The challenges were not democracy's fault, just as the debt inherited by a government is not the government's fault ... but invariably they are the ones being taken to task on it.

Anyway, tomorrow I plan a return to poems for a while, as I feel I've done enough songs for now.

French fries

Kispál és a Borz: Sültkrumpli. (song, original lyrics)

Chips and fried meat are today’s best treat

With a greener life on the side

But on the horizon we see marching in line

The lads of latest design

Weapons, Tanks, Superman,

Land Rovers, the woman as Land

Uppers, downers,  turning stile

A Rutin job rising to the sky

Everyone when the two combined

Are present in the desired

Quantity and life’s blue

Seas others will sail too

Twin-peeks, Mad-macs, Dan-dog, But-man

Redbull, Pitbull, plus my new Tan

Best-ever elements testing my flesh

When I got mixed in, my soul came out

He owns the castle and sees far

He sits well-tempered in his distant bar

A drink in his hand, the seasoned stylist

Makes a character for my suit to fit

Two small feelings, between them shame

That my feeling feels a bit short-changed

But you see it’s that harsh childhood

That’s determining me for good

What can I do, I shrug my shoulders

And think this and that, doctor’s orders

What can I do, I shrug my shoulders

When I got mixed in, my soul came out

 

Half-way to Southampton

I thought we should make this more interactive... any guesses as to the name of the original?

There she stood, the right side of the road

Against her head, a withered yellow rose

She just stood waiting, a creature forlorn

Halfway there, to Southampton

The Autumn sunshine, in its sleepy haze

The Autumn sadness, falling on her gaze

She seemed so familiar, who knows where from

Halfway there, to Southampton

I called out to her, though with a heavy heart

I’ll take her to ’hampton, and after that we part

She watched me in silence, dreamy and withdrawn

Halfway there, to Southampton

I waited a minute, perhaps not even that

Was angry at her, was she deaf or what

I called out again, if she stays I’m moving on

Halfway there, to Southampton

She turned from me, blank without reply

The Autumn sunshine sparkled in her eye

A teardrop twinkled, and gently rolled down

Halfway there, to Southampton

I gave up trying, the concert drawing near

The lousy stage, the broken chandelier

I left her and others, all put upon

Halfway there, to Southampton

Since then I’ve watched, the road’s right lane

Maybe one day, I’ll see that girl again

If I see her, I won’t let her pass on

Halfway there, to Southampton

If I see her, I won’t let her pass on

Halfway there, to Southampton

Comforting someone

Once when I was sad Kinga sang me this song and I was very touched. It's really hard to console someone and perhaps even harder to console a child when something very bad has happened. János Bródy is one of the greatest Hungarian songwriters and I encourage you to listen to some of his songs, some written for children, some for adults. Here's a recording of this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8IEZGrUkXeQ, with the last verse sung a bit differently than the version on which this translation is based. Basically, the sung version says "I cannot promise tomorrow we'll be some place new", whereas this one says "I cannot promise tomorrow I'll still be with you"...

János Bródy: What can I (possibly) do (Mit tehetnék érted)

I wasn’t born a magician, miracles I cannot do

You know I’m not the good fairy, who appears out of the blue

But if the dark clouds around your face cleared like the morning mist

I would surely know that miracles still exist

What can I do, my dear, to chase away your gloominess

To break that evil spell in your soul’s very depths?

What can I do, my dear, to let your heart be full of joy?

What can I do? Please tell me now!

I don’t have a magic wand that makes anything disappear,

And there are so many things around us, that refuse to go away

But if the dark clouds around your face cleared like the morning mist

I would surely know that miracles still exist

What can I do…

I don’t have seven-mile boots or an invisibility cloak,

I cannot promise I’ll be here forever, our lives are like a puff of smoke

But if the dark clouds around your face cleared like the morning mist

I would surely know that miracles still exist

What can I do…

Lullaby

Gosh, this takes me back... I was proud to be a member of the trio (the others being Miguel Farias and Jennifer Broughton) who had started the Arty Farty Society at Jesus College (the name was Jim Williams' idea). Anyway, it was a great, very welcoming place to read poetry and perform music. We also had college staff, including Mr. Banana Man from the kitchen, now sadly gone, performing their eminently enjoyable pieces.

Anyway, enough nostalgia. This is one of the poems I translated for them, Attila József's Lullaby. (Balázs, Hungarian for Blaise, is pronounced bah-lage, a bit like bagage in French, but with an l; "ah" is a sound between English 'o' and 'a'):

The sky closes her blue eyes,

The house too, says good-night,

A quilt covers the sleeping fields --

Go to sleep, my dear Balázs

The bug and the wasp lie asleep,

Buzzing stops, they no longer fly,

Their heads resting on their feet,

Go to sleep, my dear Balázs

Sleeps too, the weary tram, and

Whilst it slumbers from its dash

From its dream, it tinkles a bit

Go to sleep, my dear Balázs

The coat sleeps on the chair,

On it sleeps the tear

It will stop growing tonight,

Go to sleep, my dear Balázs

Getting a rest are the ball and the whistle

The forest, the caves, all kinds of surprise,

Even the sugar rests in sweet bliss,

Go to sleep, my dear Balázs

Space and Distance you will receive

Like glass marbles, a giant

You will be, only: Close your eyes,

And go to sleep, my dear Balázs

A fireman you will be, a soldier strong and brave!

A shepherd chasing wolves from a hide

You see, Mum's no longer awake

Go to sleep, my dear Balázs

And, appropriately enough, Kinga is busy trying to put Leo to bed..

That Autumn feeling

I promise my poems won't all be about doom and gloom. However, it is the 4th of November today. To bring you the historical context, read these heart-wrenching SOS teletype messages a week later in 1956, when the invasion had been completed.

Anyway, here is my translation of Sándor Csoóri: "In Remembrance of November 4" (original):

It had been autumn, autumn, for days, weeks,

perhaps years: despotic autumn.

The wind checked the identity of every stray,

stateless leaf on the street corner,

every chestnut in a battle helmet.

And the wind stopped me as well.

I shivered in a spring coat

near Boráros square,

like the dew-nipped

refugees by the borders.

I had no gun,

or flag,

or knife,

no suspicious statue fragment,

but under my skin I carried

the names and faces

of those executed at Maria Theresa barracks.

One need only have

shouted from above: stop! who are you?

and what are these mournful leaflets

you are carrying up and down this ruined city?

Perhaps a well-aimed

sniper-finger would have been enough.

Enough, enough, I would have there and then confessed,

that I’m like the blood-martyred country’s dead,

every last one of them,

and whether I go North or South, there is no escaping myself.

No way, nowhere,

since even in verses,

muddy tanks and corrupt,

scabby rose gardens stand in my way.

The wind … it was as if

cling film wings creaked

and gillette blades snapped under boots.

Who forgot

to shout at me that autumn?

Who had failed to bring me closer

to my destined death?

Some rules

If I and my readership (be that a metaphorical desk, or actual people) are to be satisfied with this blog, I should lay down a few rules and make a few clarifications. First, as the blog description says, I intend to post a new poem or poetic fragment every day, though I cannot promise which time of the day it will be.

Second, since my intent is to make Hungarian poetry known to an English readership, the emphasis will be on translating poetry, but at times I may write a poem myself -- at this stage I cannot predict the relative frequency of these. And here comes the clarification/disclaimer. I provide no guarantees about the quality (or otherwise) of my translation/writing. I am not a literary scholar, and a good translation relies on a "proper" interpretation of the poet's words. I will take the liberty of putting my own -- perhaps misguided -- interpretation on the poem, which may arouse criticism, but is better than translating word for word. Since many of the poems have already been translated, I will aim to post translations of lesser known poems. One humble claim I will make for my translations: at times I have read translations whose wording is rather archaic, and I feel that my own, perhaps simplistic wording may engage the reader more. Rather like reading the NIV Bible instead of the King James -- the comparison is rather arrogant, but you get my drift.

I will post again in the evening. At your service,

Remembering Nov. 4th, 1956

Gyula Illyés' "A Sentence about Tyranny" is a long but powerful sentence that has been translated quite ably by George Szirtes (http://www.hungarianquarterly.com/no139/p15.html).  The poem was published on Nov 2nd, 1956, two days before the start of the Soviet invasion of Hungary in response to the Hungarian Revolution.

Let me turn my attention to a lesser known poet, Sándor Derzsi, who when addressing Marx in an eponymous poem, had these unforgiving words to say about some of his self-professed followers:

"Jesus forgives you
You were true, pure in heart
Jesus forgives you
You toyed with poet-words
Jesus forgives them
Those who bask in your name
Jesus forgives them
But I don't: they tinker
And murder."

And, as the net was closing in on him (the original Hungarian folk song starts with "Hey fishermen, fishermen"),
"Hey hunters, hunters / How your guns shine / How your eyes sparkle / When you chase your prey"
(source: Ottó Derzsi, Domokos Varga: "Derzsi Sándor Emlékkönyv")