Gingerbread and latte

Gingerbread and latte
Are more than treats
When your sister prepares them

Sea

I found this poem while cleaning the flat. I am posting it as it is without trying to improve on it.

The sea rolls back and forth

And you, who lies on mossy rock

Who left the sea -- oh, long ago

Who calls toe-dipping pearl diving

And her blueness brown dumpling

You lie from mossy rock

Telling fish to leave the water

To sun-dried dock

A false whale to eat a false prophet

and dump him on a false beach,

a mossy beach

Winter delicacies

Winter delicacies, by Sándor Weöres. Original. Song.

Candlelight
Hope so bright
Christmas pudding, blessed night

Once I witnessed how
the sky unfolded on the earth,
giving all, without selling,
sparkling stars
gently raining

Candlelight
Hope so bright
Christmas pudding, blessed night

Then I saw a place
where in the houses
dishes sang and danced together
around them, fluttering angel hair
the end of year, but still this year

Candlelight
Hope so bright
Christmas pudding, blessed night

finished book

I lie on my bed.
It's the early hours,
I'd like to rest;
but thoughts are twirling in my head.

A train rumbles past
and with it,
memories, light and heavy,
like passengers sitting by bags of coal.

Every day this advent
was about opening one's heart
and the courage, to wish,
feel.. even pray, like a child.

http://m.blog.hu/wi/wififalu/image/deva/bcs.jpg

Blue and yellow

Not a poem as such, but I like it. By Ervin Lázár, renowned children's author. First saw it here. Original. 

Once two spots of paint – one blue and the other yellow – fell beside each other on a piece of paper. Right next to each other, with their sides touching.

     “Excuse me, could you move a little further?” said Blue, irritated.

     “Would you mind moving yourself?” replied Yellow. “And anyway, you could have at least said hello or something.”

     With this she was prepared to back away, since Blue was anyway a far too common colour to be bothering with, if only it wasn't so hard for spots of paint to move.

      “Me greet you? A Yellow?” grunted Blue disdainfully, and he would have surely pouted his lips if he had any.

      “You're not trying to suggest I should have greeted you first?”

      “I'm suggesting exactly that. In case you haven't noticed, I am Blue!”

      “Allow me to laugh!” said Yellow in a sarcastic voice. “Why, you're the most common colour in the whole world, one cannot even mention the two of us in the same breath... and anyway, stop elbowing me.”

      “First things first, you're elbowing me; secondly, I am the one who paints the sky, the sea, the waters; the prettiest flowers are blue, and blue eyes are also the prettiest. Could you imagine a girl with yellow eyes.. urgh.. or yellow water! Anyway, how do you even dare to speak in my presence?”

      “I always knew you were very common, but this much! What a joke! Blue flowers the prettiest? Have you ever seen a primrose? Or a forest in autumn? You know what your problem is? You're too greedy. You paint the whole sky, the whole sea, everything is blue.. bo-ring! Me, I've got style, I know when to hold back, so I never become dull... I beg your pardon, but you really are becoming insolent, this is too much, you're practically climbing into me.. As I was saying, I hide in shades, I appear in little specks. And anyway, I am from the Ochre family, don't you know.

      “Ochre? Is this your big boast? So you have a family name do you? Well, my ancestors are a much finer breed than your lot. They would never jostle like you, for instance. For your information, I am an Ultramarine.”

      “Pah!” so started Yellow's dramatic reply, but by then the two colours had long mixed, and she couldn't finish her sentence, since the boy from whose brush they fell saw them and said:

      “What a pretty spot of green!”

Benke and Pierre

By Géza Bereményi, sung originally by Tamás Cseh. Video, sung by Quimby, at Tamás Cseh memorial concert. A rebel called Pierre appears in the film Time Stands Still co-written by Bereményi (thanks Gyuri Baglyas), does anyone else know other references to Benke and Pierre? Original.

At half past two, dawn -- true to their custom
Benke and Pierre appeared in my dream. 
I said to them: "so you're here again"
and pulled the blanket up by a bit.
"Tell me, from where did we appear?"
I asked Pierre.
"Tell me, from where did we appear?"
imitated Benke,
and slipped in, next to me.

Then in my next dream Pierre was coughing
so I said, "Benke, reach your arm out,
between the ashtray and the books,
on the chair you'll find a glass of water.
Let's all drink a gulp,
the three of us, and then,
let's put ourselves away til the morning,
Benke, Pierre and me."

Executable

When does a series of yeses and nos
               ever amount to anything?
When you know what's being said yes and no to.
When do words amount to anything?
What question(s) do they answer?
What do meaning and purpose
              mean and purpose?

Déjà vu

Like the vow you didn't keep
Like the crossroad out of reach
And the lie that wouldn't stick
As you leave that roundabout
Again.

It's the dead of night
And, past the zeroeth hour
You still think oh go on
I'll have another one
Again.

There's a cycle you've to break
And a circle to escape
To avoid the same mistake
That defines your sorry fate
Again.

Again.

ECT

9,8,7, and as the drugs take hold
two pads clasp your head
and your hand, gently tenses
and lifts upward

the limits, the troubling limits
that man hits
when he sees more than life
but feels less than god.

freedom

   to eat
   to drink
   to sleep

   to find warmth
   in a story long told

   from tyranny
   from oneself
   from freedom itself

   of conscience
   from hell
   whom to love
   and whom to tell

...

(and freedom to decide,
how many lines
each verse should have,
which of the lines
-- if any --
should rhyme,
and which rules of
punctuation should
be put on hold
for a short time)

Let me closer

A big mix of emotions, not altogether positive, but all the more real. Republic: Engedj közelebb. Lyrics. Video.

tell me to not fear or doubt,
the fire we lit is not out
tell me nothing can hurt,
you'll wait without a word
keep lying to me

tell me: I have countless lives,
that we speak, just with our eyes
tell me that no one can hurt me,
in the dark, or in an alley
keep lying to me

tell me, everything was true,
every word, that time I believed you
bring warmth to me when I'm cold
tell me words I'd like to be told
keep lying to me

let me closer to you
let me be there too
I want to see all I can
and feel again, like a man
let the fire light us both
I want to see you close
closer than words
lie to me, if it hurts

let me closer to you
let me be there too
I want to see all I can
and feel again, like a man
let the fire light us both
I want to see you close
and be adored
the way it's not allowed

Of wolves and men

This is a request from Brooks Ferebee, an old family friend, and a loyal reader from Germany: Farkasok (Wolves) by Ferenc Buda. Original. The poem is only three verses long, but it was quite hard to translate, and I'm still not happy with the finished product. So do make suggestions for improvements in the comments section below the poem!

Ever since the world's been round
a head is hit and axed to ground
for man is a wolf to another man
an enemy, a one-man clan

Yes, wolves are wild, but
compared to us, they're almost kind;
merciful, smart, obedient, loyal,
they only kill when out of hunger

Sure, it happens, it's no surprise:
you spot a wolf with evil eyes
but think about it! it's the truth
that wolf is a man to another wolf.

fresh wind

on the glazed screens
ghostly pixels which
make/mark/carve up
images you mistake for love

the movements and moments
you once saw in your dear one
replayed, in a perverted show
to tickle something buried, long ago

and from behind the screens
-- screams --
to remind you that sirens need not sing
that beautifully

yes, even the muck draws us flies in

...

and when,
longing for that clear breath of wind
to breeze through you
and clean your soul

you indulge in a tear;
you tear the screens down
and you're shown life
as it's meant to be lived

and you make this lesson
your own

Through a narrow street

Through oceans wide and deep
through space and time and sleep
through apathy and inertia
the loneliness that hugs a paper
on the deserted street

through pain and insult and memory loss
morning coffee, in a tin pot
you can stay here if you work here
and keep the throat from going moist
and Brighton, with lights on

that's where you saw the sea
for the first, and last time

through doubts, self-harm,
the doctor's anti-depressants
"that'll help you, my dear,
plus it saves me from having to listen
as I shuffle uncomfortably, I'm not your shrink!
and this shoulder's not for crying on"

that's when you trusted the NHS
for the first, and last time

through your food, your clothes,
your hair, your skin
each bit you loathe
I came to say I love them all
and most of all
I love you

You could do worse..

I had a lovely time in England, my friend Andrew had just been ordained as deacon in York minster. What a lovely service! I travelled quite a bit by train during my short stay, since I also went to see Andrew's first sermon as deacon in Cottingham the same day.

You could do worse

than get on a train,
take aimless aim
and go coast to coast
in England,

watching her sun
rise and set, rise and set
at each station
a new thought kept, new thought kept

and see purple dots
appear here and there
among green fields
lulling you to sleep...

then, stirred by majestic human outcrops
cast votes on which houses are best--
grey-smoked stone by black country
or the thatched rooves of Wessex

or the regional dialect --
as your ticket inspector chimes
"cheers, sweetheart!" in Yorkshire
but, further south, you become sir

it's hard to go a few miles
without spotting some canals
and marvel at a narrowboat
that passes through a lock

and as the coach gently stops,
waiting for the oncoming train
to rush past, and perhaps sound a horn
you realise why you

left home,
took aimless aim
and went coast to coast
in England.

Better

I just met one of my neighbours, who is a little feared for his outbursts. However, talking to him, he's just this shy, awkward person (even more awkward than me). I didn't feel better than him, just felt sorry because I saw myself in him. But often, this is not the case, often I do size people up, and the poem below is a sort of public confession, my version of the traditional confession ritual.

Look at that teen

puffing away, like some James Dean --

you're better than him

or that homeless person

sorting through trash

why, he could build roads

and earn some proper cash

and that girl over there,

waiting for the bus

you eyed her up,

you've got the one up

and that person staring at you

who does he think he is?

better than you?

no, you're the better one

that bank teller, babbling away

you switch off, you're on a higher level

or even your colleague at work

you know what's up, he hasn't a clue

your wife, your parents

they don't stand a chance

they don't know what

you've got in your mind

... so goes the poisonous voice

who just told everyone

the little things that make you

stupid, ugly, hateful -- put simply:

worse.

Come to think of it, maybe the greatest danger in this whole affair is reducing someone to some animated puppet. The alternative (perhaps) is to start seeing someone as intriguing, as someone who cannot be quickly assessed but behind whom there is an interesting story that you will never fully learn. I remember Alister McGrath saying that Christianity is different from other religions because it's not about ideology, it's about a personal relationship. So you never reach a dead-end, because you keep discovering. This claim may be refuted, extended to other religions, etc. etc. but nevertheless the thought behind it is interesting.

Happy

Happy is (s)he
who sees the leaves
of a gently swaying tree

Root

As I rooted, once, for you
to not miss a single step
in life, as in a game of chess

As I pondered, shall I let you
fall for your mistakes
or correct them, before they're made

So shall you root for me
as I approach
the twilight of my years

But each step the more painful
each opponent greater
and you'd often look away, yes look away

Were you not my son
were you not my son
yes, you'd rather look away

Than see your Sun, your strong Sun
fall down.

Squeaky clean brains

Listen up, now!
It's time to switch your brain off
And let your life be guided
By an advisor, by a dictator -- or both

How sweet it is
To not have to think for yourself
And if that nagging voice
Should ever dare raise itself

Then call it the devil, or worse

But sweet becomes sickly
And as the chickenfeed loses its taste
You will yearn for something more
For worlds whose doors you've once closed

To open like before

For as you stop the flow of senses
The flow that held back your recesses
Whole worlds, whole people, whole pain
Will rush back in

And though your leader or newsreader
Tries to narrow down your mind
If you switch your laptop off
Before your brain wanders off

Then you may see, even live, life in full

Man's best friend

"D'you like the baby?"
The dog barked.
And as the boy smiled,

A hundred elders whizzed past.
Warriors, mothers, thinkers --
and some tinkerers.

The dog barked again.
And shuddered
At the thought of them.

When exactly...

 

 When exactly

the spark lit my cave

I cannot remember

but I felt;

at first it was

deep sounds around,

while tethered, I floated

in warm sea;

then shaken,

faint sounds and light

and then there was energy,

building up from inside;

until it was time to flee,

to more light;

though fleeing, I also held on

to that something, someone warm.

Then there was cold, and a splash

and the first cries, the first fear

but the warmth came back,

held me strong;

and as it held me, I sucked on warmth…

I fell away many times

but each time anew

shapes drifting, speaking – curious, but I held on:

to that something, someone warm.

Each time the shapes came clearer

round faces, soothing tones

but they turned silence, when it came on

the voice of something, someone warm.

Soon the cave filled

with toys and laughter all around

and always, that warmth:

I gave her a name: I called her Mum.

you weren't enough

"It wasn't enough", by Gyula Illyés. Original.
The translation is far from perfect, but that's why I need YOU, dear reader, to provide feedback!

Your house stood here -- it flew away!
That you see and gather. What you fail to get
is the way your home met its end --
but it's a wonder it hadn't done so earlier!

Cos it wasn't enough for home
that your dinner's digestion
wished for the wine of these hills
and the bread of these plains.

And it wasn't enough for home
that you smiled and even looked
that way, when the maid
spoke in flavoursome Hungarian

And it wasn't enough for home
when at night, you put down your book,
swallowed a tear for Bottyán,
and said: "now he was something, that man!"

And it wasn't enough for home
that you looked out your train
and thought of the reapers:
"these people deserve more!"

And it wasn't enough for home
the three colours that you insisted
were once a symbol: liberty,
equality, fraternity for all!

And it wasn't enough for home
that you let your nerves
be traversed by the heady verse
of Ady, József and Tóth

And it wasn't enough for home
the rockets on Gellért Hill
the bouquet at Városliget
and the speech that cut through the bone

Or that dinner by grapehill
that chant, when from your glass
the moonlight in the wine
with tiger-eye, gave a quick glint

Or when you held your fingertip
to the sky, like every magyar
when the music comes on, since millenia,
our struggles told by Gracza, our arrival by Feszty

Or if, enjoying the danger
and lust of saying: "I told you so",
you listened to secret transmissions
/and to cool off, some gypsy music/

And the tall sky of Hortobágy
the long shadow of a seesaw well
and the crown of the first king
to give your coins meaning

And even if you called her your other half
and, though you judged him,
called your father dear,
and on the wall you placed a painted tile:

It wasn't enough for home,
wasn't enough for it not to fall
know that the miracle was this:
that it hadn't collapsed years before.

Because cajoling and lying
sticking the name of a king or leader
to some hilltop
did not make her yours

It wasn't enough, it wasn't enough,
neither the fidelity nor the tenacity
the stuff that brings a country together
and makes a nation out of a generation

And bravery wasn't enough either
Though they did leave their fates
To martyrdom, each on their own
There was still no escape.

For no strength, no wisdom
can be enough, to protect
that house, whose dweller
can't make it his home.

apologies -- requests welcome!

Dear All,

I feel quite embarrassed that I haven't written anything here for some time. Especially since I noticed I've been getting visitors from such far-flung places as Singapore and the Philippines.

The truth is I'm not sure what to translate -- so please let me know your requests by commenting on this post!

Best,
mc losh

we don't know...

we don't know
who he was

but someone, somewhere, sometime
was killed

he said forgive them,
for they don't know their guilt

he said many things
that ruffled some feathers

and many things
embraced by others

if only I'd been there to see
those wounds that Thomas saw

that's my weak excuse:
then, I would believe

until then, help me
in my disbelief

if only...

if only
resources were pooled
or pulled together
how much
efficiency
would increase

-- ten, hundred, thousand fold? --

but we're still left
with flies smeared on walls
that release we seek
that we'd like to take hold of
still eluding
our sorry souls

if only
we could make reality
our own
to take our being
down data highways
never to be forced
into a choke hold

if only

but the world's not ours to make
our belief counts for nothing
except for saying:
we were here once
and you can't erase that past
you can't erase that space-time
being/nothing

circles and friends

the quick wit
and sharp tongues
the fast fire
and loose guns

it's hard to keep up
with clicking clocks
with pennies in freefall
and tightening knots

you'll never be invited
with cards neatly laid
into the smoking room
where the deals are made

I understood you, though
you spoke clearly
as you quoted C.S. Lewis
and divine mystery

you told me once,
not to wear masks
lies, pretence,
are not for us

at what point it's us,
at what point it's them, though
I do not know

as every circle, every contact
every bit of info
pushes you further out
from people, as a whole

you try to make your food --
your food is made
you try to make your bed --
your bed is made

just one thing left to make
a land divorced from people
a people divorced from land
to wed again

a city swept by dust
swearing muffled by storm
faces on the tram, to forget
or to transform

and when they...

and when they
gnawed at your soul
and you gave them
every piece, willingly or forced

there was still a bit left
that was not yours to give,
with his imprint and breath
in so much as he exists

Why won't you write me

And one last poem for today, to celebrate a "treasure trove" of old poems I found on an old hard disk. Written seven years ago, addressed to (but not sent to) Kinga.

why won't you write me
why won't you grace me

with a few of your words
I'm not picky any words

will do, anything kind
I'll read and take in kind

anything warm I'll respond to
anything warm to respond to

I keep scraps of you as keep-sake
flakes in my memory to keep-sake

tiny hints of a smile to treasure
you don't know how much a treasure

you're to me, I don't know either
shall I forget or hate you

I can't choose either I don't know how much I
love you

but if I did I wouldn't miss you
and any reminders of you

like e-mail why is it why can't you
mail me sometime

you can't be so busy
that you don't have time in two weeks' busy

schedule to write just a couple of lines
have I scared you with my cowardly lines

with their affection are you scared that
I may love and care for you is that

the idea what is your idea
of me do you love me?

Don't be afraid

And a poem I wrote nearly seven years ago.

Don't be afraid little child,
I know what you feel
I know what you fear
That truth is false
Cold is hot, love is naught,
That any small lapse
Will bring the collapse
Of existence crashing down,
Into the cold void.

Don't be afraid little child,
I know what you feel
I know what you fear
But these nightmares
They are just that, no more
Horrors made up my man
Withdrawals from what really is.

Don't be afraid little child,
Face the world, face it
With your fist, with all your might
I'll be beside you, around you
Grasping you from danger
No, you're mine, I won't let you fall.

Yes, I've made you suffer,
I wept in space, in truth,
If there'd been another way,
I'd have chosen it.
The Great Experiment is on,
To make gods out of filthy clay,
Consider not the worldly cost,
You'll realise its worth one day.

So don't be afraid little child,
You won't be taken,
I will keep you whole and sane
I will envy for you
I won't let anyone touch you
I called you and you're mine!
So don't be afraid, little child.

Two years

This is a poem written by my grandfather Apja (pronounced up-yuh). Unfortunately I can't find the original. Two years refers to the time he spent as a political prisoner.

Those blasted kids were again seized
All running at me: Apja, what did you bring?
I just stood there at the door
Already, my neck carried three or four
They reached my pockets, trampled my shoes
My case was quickly emptied flat
Trousers torn, hand snapped at
And all in a chorus, were shouting:
“Apja, what did you bring?”

Give them the grim look? But the beasts,
They well know: I can't wait for the evening
To get home, flooded by their noise
Filling every corner of my soul
With their buzz and bluster,
A rot bathing in life-giving water
The crippled body touched, enlivened
Making me healthy, quick and fresh

But, wishing to heighten the scene,
I shout, cruelly: "I brought nothing!"
And a beat in their small chests is missed
But their fright suddenly lifts
As Kisdombi, like a bull stirred
Stops, lifting his four-year old head
And stubbornly cries: "Oh yes, you did!"

His look cuts through my heart
While with his voice he chides
There's even contempt, that their father
Would swindle his own son or daughter
And now all the younger kids
Join him in shouting: "Oh, yes you did!"
I reach into my pockets, and search until,
I give myself up, and shout: "I brought indeed!"

Yes, but sometimes it wasn't a ploy
I brought nothing to quench their thirst for joy
Lost in my troubles and strife
I badly injured their hearts

They stand. "Oh yes, you did", carrying on in solid belief
Each one, another blood-sucking monster
"You did bring!" and they almost slobber
At the thought of a sweet in my pocket
They watch, faces exhausted
Voices go mute, lips in a quiver
Yearnful faces growing ever longer
And Kisdombi cries out: "Bad Apja!"

It was all long ago.. and I must think
Will they still shout: "Apja, what did you bring?"
Can we continue life from the point
It was so ruthlessly stopped?

I dream: I enter and the wild gang
Jumps on my neck, amidst laughs and cries
Kismagdus too, who was still in nappies
When I left her, not to see her for two years;
And now she dances round me, inquisitive,
Seeking to find who this hairy, big-nose is
And the rest can't but laugh:
"Who else, silly, but Apja!"

Will it be so? If only but!
For painful reasons, they will just
Stand there and cry
It dawns on them, the life
Full of joy, being no more
Only now will they guess what they've lost
Their bodies shaking with disgust
And in their eyes, two years of trouble and anger
As they squeal out the truth: "Bad, bad Apja!"

Where home lies

"Happiness, come home", by Zsuzsa Cserháti (she may have had a songwriter write the song for her -- if so, anyone know who it was?). Thanks to my wife Kinga for her extensive help, which has greatly improved the rhythm of the translation. Any remaining issues are my fault.. Original lyrics. Song. Kinga prefers this version (click on Letöltés, Film zenéje (mp3))

Between two rooms the silence, a distance greater than the sea
And once we called these two rooms, our home for all eternity
I don't blame you but you should know, every night I waited so,
And I'm not crying it's just, the cig'rette smoke and dust, that's what's bothering me.

Happiness, come home
It's getting late, come home
From where you come, I don't care
But this loneliness I can't bear.

The way you looked at some girls, often gave me quite a fright
 But I forgot it all, when you held me through the night
And there's no one happier than me, when you're around it's ecstasy
And I'm not crying don't fear, it's just the lights my dear, that's what makes me weep.

Happiness...

Outside the mist is clearing, the street noise gently dying down
I look at our son sleeping, all quiet with a tender frown 
 I hate dreams and I hate conceits, but I'll bear them if we'd only meet
And I don't really know why, since I'm about to cry, but still my eyes won't weep.

Happiness...

Last week

Unfortunately not all ambulances in Hungary are equipped with defibrillators. There's info on how to donate money for equipment to the ambulance service, unfortunately only in Hungarian.

I saw a man last week
   lying on the floor
Some medics pumped his chest
   then pumped him some more
Some men had gathered round
   soaked in alcohol
What was our man thinking
   just the night before?
No matter by next day
   he'd left his earthly hole.

Where the tree lies

Tamás Cseh. Lyrics. Song.

Anna

Three days in the northern wind,
Trembling and battles wearing me thin
Your smell on my pullover
Where is this leading?
Well.. what is this?

What a sickening, cancerous life
I look here, and you look there
For the place where our fir
Bends to the wind
And where flies its leaf.

That's how I'll fly away soon
and that's how you'll bend towards
that train
that I'm on
on the way home, alone.

Then I cheat on you for a year with my wife
And you'll cheat on me with your lover
That'll be autumn and winter
Full of twisted excuses
Twisted lies.

But this time next year homeward bound
by the window the wind comes round
and on my pullover your smell...
That's right, it's the only way?
This way? It's the only way?

Thus I fly, you bend and I watch you.
I say again, this sickening life
that's how it will bend again to the wind
that fir, that only one
that stupid tree, that only one
you stupid tree.

Just a dance

I regret that I've been so quiet lately.. I need to be more inspired and not let things weigh me down.
A pleasant song by a charming but troubled singer called Pál Szécsi. Original lyrics. Video.

Twas only a dance, that I asked
Then everything went as smooth as glass
We went home together on the road
And the rest I don't know.

Twas only a kiss, that I stole
A happy moment, in front of your door
You kept saying, "I need to go"
And the rest I don't know.

The door creaked, then opened further
Who should it be, but your stern mother
Growled at you, "come on in,"
"they'll be no more dates with him".

Twas only a dance, that I asked
But now I need more, come and be mine!
Marry me, first thing tomorrow
And the rest I don't know.

The door creaked, then opened further
Who should it be, but your stern mother
Growled at you, "come on in,"
"they'll be no more dates with him".

Twas only a dance, that I asked
But now I need more, come and be mine!
Marry me, first thing tomorrow
And the rest I don't know.
And the rest, I don't know.

A train window that separates

I took a few more liberties with this translation than I usually do, but I think I still managed to convey the meaning of the poem. However, you are welcome to suggest improvements! Stralsund, by Dezső Kosztolányi. Original. (It seems Kosztolányi liked to travel by train, as evidenced by his popular novel, Kornél Esti.)

Looking out the carriage window,
A boy stares at me from down below.
He sits in a garden on a cobblestone,
And plumes himself, bored, alone.
Clearly this is his lazy afternoon,
Dreams of flying to the moon,
Nothing of interest in his whole life,
Thinks living my life would be quite nice,
As he sees me in my genteel heaven,
Among pillows, in fine, white clothing,
But oh! my boy, the trains do run,
time does fly, don't search my soul,
see, I'd like to be a kid, like you,
not a weary, first-class bore.

Happy Valentine's!

Dedicated to my wife Kinga. "Bájoló" (who knows a good translation of the title?), by Miklós Radnóti.  Original. Song. The poem has such a magical feeling! I wish I managed to get some of that magic across.

With twitching eyes
I sit in light,
Across a hedge
Rosewood in flight,
Light jumping too,
Clouds forming storm,
Flash of lightning
Above horizon
Already talks back
Thunderous roar
Wild thunder rolls
Fades blueness of
Lakes down below
Their mirror swells up,
Come get inside,
And throw your clothes off,
Outside it's raining,
Shirt off, that's better,
Let the rain wash
Our hearts together.

No snacking

"No snacking in between meals," she said,
And as my condescending smile faded
-- rules and patterns so out this season --
I realised: she is smarter and more self-restrained
Than 1.5 billion adults, give or take.

(Including me, whose eating excesses
-- unjustly --
have so far had a limited effect on my shape.)

Ember: küzdj és bízva bízzál!

This is (part of) the famous last line in Madách's Tragedy of Man. I hereby declare a competition for the best translation of this line. Below is my modest translation of a finishing segment of the play. Do help out with suggestions, especially the bits in square brackets where I was confused.

 

ADAM
My Lord! terrible visions do trouble me,
And I know not which of it is real.
Do tell, do tell, what fate awaits me:
Is this tight-bound existence all there is,
Whose strife filters my soul,
Like wine, which, on clearing
You pour on dusty ground?
Or have you ordained this noble spirit for something higher?
Will my race move forward,
Ennobled, approaching your throne,
Or, while running the mill, will it tire to death,
Unable to break the circle it treads?
Is there reward for the noble heart
Whose martyrdom the petty masses do mock?
Enlighten me, and I will bear any fate;
I can but win, since this uncertainty
Is hell itself.

THE LORD
Ask no more
Of the secret that, with good intentions
Providence has covered from your keen eyes.
If you could see that your soul's stay
Is but temporary, beyond which waits eternity:
Suffering would no longer be a virtue.
If you could see, your soul would be drunk up by dust:
What would spur you, by great ideals,
To leave the delights of passing hours?
While now, with the mist of your future sparkling through
If you are struck down by the weight of temporary existence
The feeling of eternity will lift you up
And if its pride would take hold of you
The span of your being will hold you back
And greatness, virtue, will be restored.

LUCIFER (laughing)
Truly, wherever you step, your path will be glorious,
And greatness and virtue will be your guide,
These two words, which can only take form,
If superstition, prejudice and
Ignorance are standing guard.
Why did I ever have high hopes for Man
Who from mud and sunshine formed
Is small on knowledge, but big on blindness.

ADAM
Don't mock me Lucifer, you of all people:
I saw the clear creation of your knowledge
It was very cold for this heart of mine.
But oh! my Lord. Who will uphold me,
And keep me on the right path?
You took away your guiding hand
When I tasted the fruit of knowledge.

THE LORD
Your arms are strong, and your heart is exalted
The space, which calls you to work, is infinite.
If you pay attention, a chorus sings to you
Without pause, to warn and elevate you,
Just follow it. And if your busy life
Should mute the heavenly chorus
Then this fragile woman's cleaner soul,
Standing further from the dirt of interests,
Will hear it, and through her veins
Will become song and poetry.
By these two means, ever by your side
In times of plenty and in times of want,
She will be to you [?] a reassuring, smiling genius.
And, you, Lucifer, you too, a ring in my
Universe – keep working:
Your cold knowledge and futile rejection
Will enliven and bring to the source [or to the boil?]
And hold Man back, if only for a minute.
But let your eternal punishment be to see continuously:
That what you wish to pervert
Will always have a pure, new seed.

CHOIR OF ANGELS
To choose freely between sin and virtue
What a great ideal
And to know all the while
That above us stands as shield
God's great mercy.
Act boldly, then, and grieve not
If the masses are ungrateful,
Since self-esteem is not the only goal
Of those who do great things,
The shame of doing otherwise
Debases the coward
But exalts the few.
But, on the majesty of your road
Do not be blinded by the idea
That what you do to glorify God
Is really your doing,
As if He were dependent on you,
The tool of his execution.
No, you win His ornaments, if
He lets you act in His place.

EVE
Oh, I understand this song, thanks be to my God!

ADAM
I can also fathom something, and will follow it.
But that end! If only I could forget!

THE LORD
I told you, Man: fight and trust with trust!

A quick note...

If you like this blog, do recommend it to friends!

Roses

Apologies for the late post. It is hard to find time to translate something properly. I hope this translation has been able to preserve the delicate tone of the original, by Sándor Weöres. Song.

Roses, roses, in the midst
Ladies, birds and cloudy mist
Ladies, birds and cloudy mist
Flash of tear-drop, vapour-kissed

Flaming heaven, lightning dawn
Wounded lips in fiery storm
Wounded lips in fiery storm
Each kiss, a fresh new thorn

Every gush and quake gives way
Looks at you, then floats away
Looks at you, then floats away
God only sees their way

Though your hair's blown far away
Your laughter is here to stay
Your laughter is here to stay
Like your scarf on the chair

Roses, roses, in the midst
Ladies, birds and cloudy mist
Ladies, birds and cloudy mist
Flash of tear-drop, vapour-kissed

Under attack

In 1848 Hungary was fighting for her independence with cannons, guns, and swords. 163 years on (not too long, if you think about it), the weapons have changed. But anyone with a pure heart can only wish the same: a life in dignity and liberty.

When in 1849, Hungarian prime minister Lajos Batthyány was about to be executed for his part in the struggle, he wrote to his wife: "bless the children and kiss them for me, let them not be ashamed, for they should not be ashamed of their father, the shame of my death will -- sooner or later -- fall back on those who have killed me in injustice and ingratitude". Thus it will be with the character assassins of the current Hungarian prime minister (or indeed of any decent person).

The title of this poem is Life or Death. It was written in 1848 by Sándor Petőfi, one of the greatest Hungarian poets of all time. This is an excerpt (first two verses). Original.

From the Carpathians to the Danube
An angry cry, a violent storm
With straggling hair, and bloody forehead
Stands the Magyar, all alone.
Had I not been born Hungarian
I'd still treat it as my place of birth
Because it's forsaken, the most forsaken
Out of all the nations from the earth.

Poor, poor people, my orphan nation,
Why have you been left to die?
Why do god, the devil, and all their henchmen
Seek to destroy your tree of life?
And why with angry hands do they tear
At the green leaves in angry glee,
Those, who for centuries had rested
In the shade of this great tree.

Leaf

How long 

Have I been pining for

That leaf, that tasty leaf

But the

Leaf curls away

Since I am a slug, an ugly slug

And with

Every move, the leaf shrieks:

For what it sees, is a ball of pus

I will be old...

Lighting by Gyuri Baglyas, of Beyond Budapest.
Taken after a long walk with him in the Budakeszi forest.

Finale, by Lajos Áprily. Original.

Unfortunately I couldn't find video link to Kaláka playing it to music.

i will be old, older than the winter sun
my mood dark and my hair white
and like a stream quietened at its mouth
the blood will slow down in my weary heart


when night befalls with dew-cool, i will tremble
the strife that whizzed past fails to warm
and if I attack, I miss the jump
like wolf Akela, of the jungle born


i wait only for silence, and a glum envoy
and fall back into the hazy cave
while a band of young wolves runs to a hot clash
and in their honour, the forest resonates