Attila József: HOPELESSLY

Slowly, pondering

Man is finally reaching to a sandy,
sad, watery plane,
he looks around thoughtfully, and cleverly
he nods, he doesn’t hope.

This is also how I try without cheating
looking around easily.
Silver slash of an axe revealing
is playing on the tree’s leaf.

My heart is sitting on the branch of nothingness,
its little body is soundlessly shivering,
it’s surrounded with meekness
by the gazing, gazing stars.

In iron-colored sky …

It rotates in an iron-colored sky
the lacquered, cool dynamo.
Oh, noiseless stars in the sky!
The words sparkle between my teeth – –

In me, the past falls like a stone
through the void voicelessly.
The silent blue time leaves me alone.
A sword’s edge blinks up: my hair – –

My mustache like a mellow caterpillar enfolds
my fade flavored mouth.
My heart hurts, the words get cold.
But to whom could I tell – –

Benyamin Bensalah

16.05.2021

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Reménytelenül” (1933).

Attila József: SILENCE

It’s alarming like the roaring sea
And just like the endless snow.
In the depths of his mask sad Death’s below-
Ah, it grabs into the comet of a cowardly Man, me

I throw my trembling soul in front of it.
I listen to my heart – is it still knocking?
And I’m tired of this monotonous music,
Though it’s so good if it beats and it’s solid.

I feel like walking on a swamp
And woe, the ground is sinking beneath me,
But still some soft resistance is whispering in me,

But my ears are stuffed. – Oh, what is still waiting
For me, who is now mute, numb.
With my head down, I succumb.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.05.2021

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Csend” (1922).

Edging story

Monsters give birth to monsters;
they lay their eggs,
spread them with their acids,
scar them,
deface them with claws –
and when they leave the hive,
suffocating from terror,
facing a toxic world
that can’t surpass their own..
..their own toxic pumping
in their very heart
full of scars;
they say
mostly nothing,
but sometimes
they say:
yes, we are just monsters.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.04.2021

Pocket bard

It’s neither my pleasure, nor my style,
but I’ve been drinking for a while.
We already know it why:
some nights are just too heavy being dry.

I had been suffering and crying
even before alcoholic supplying,
but since I have it
I say: freck it.

I’m not looking for acceptance;
I hate myself even in this stance,
but surely I am passing time,
and I find words for my rhyme.

My dear Lord, Dionysus,
is tottaly not like Jesus;
he lets me do my own sacrifice,
and eases me directly by the price.

How should I thank him more
than just live and drink a bit more?
Life is hard even as a drunkard,
but it’s the life of a pocket bard.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.04.2021

Pooethics

Here’s the fellow who’s not mellow
Anymore
I’m born rotten and forgotten
Anyway
I had had poems, kind of solemn
Anyhow
But here I am with crying rhyming
Anywhere
I’m good in bad moods and vice versa
Anywise
I tried to be a smartass, but proven the least smartest
Anywhen
I’m still unknowing, and not going
Anywhither
I’m a born clown, pulling down
Anybody
I’m in a vortex, out of context
Anyplace
I can’t heal, I can’t feel
Anything
I’m surely nut and I am not
Anyone.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.04.2021

Weakling creeking

*the door creeks*

“Ah, I’ve been waiting it for weeks.”

“It’s surely the Reaper, my ordered undertaker.”

*waiting for nothing*

“Maybe, he has another job. The door creeked, but he sent one of his slow helldog to do the job.”

*the void avoids my thoughts*

“Hellhound or a fluffy bunny, stop me feeling so numbly dummy!”

“Somebody, take my thoughts and take my voice! Don’t let it to be my choice.”

*waiting*

*no creeking*

Benyamin Bensalah

28.06.2018