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?