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.