Have you ever read a poem
from the dying bed?
Have you ever heard a poem
out of the purest agony?
With thousands of poems
with all my suffering inside me
I truly doubt you had.
Words are senseless,
it’s pain ruling,
we are under it already
like dead under the ground.
Expect me not,
to write a last poem alike
about this stance
that’s just as a writing ghost.
So, take any poem of mine,
then name it last
because I am dead already,
I am a ghost.
Only those read my poems I tell
who knows me well and loves as well
as I am in nothingness, sailing
and I am good at soothsaying
because I faced in my dreams
silence itself as a human appears
and in my heart, there are sometimes mere
tigers and gentle deer.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila Jozsef, “Csak az olvassa…” (1937)
I’m releasing less attention
because I’m breaking under some tension
from the rules of nature,
being this carbonic ape-like creature,
but I’m still doing my best,
still living even if pain’s ripping my chest.
The days’ve been heavy,
my rhymes have become just as wacky,
rolling down some short-not shots
while playing a lunatic, mad poet’s plots
with loneliness as franchise
that’s sad, not, until the wretch dies.
No harsh feelings, that’s fine,
I’m still holding the line and that’s mine;
I’m born with bigger heart, naive –
this is how I’ll leave, nothing more to achieve,
but till my hands can tremble,
I note myself down, so you can remember.
What a talent, what a treasure,
but has nobodoy to share this pressure,
talking as if it would be shareable
my crazy selves, nothing like cherishable;
no need of “pain, no gain” bullshitting –
I’m just here for some fire-spitting.
Dark, surrounding big-blue ocean,
I’m still burning on its surface in self-promotion;
my flames tremble, and are heavy,
none’s feeding them and I gave up already
since its hunger would eat up worlds,
but I’m just a poor poet who’s running out of words.
I was asked a couple of times
to choose my favorite poem;
what a rude demand,
just to choose for judging.
What should it be;
the most confessionalist,
something about nature,
mankind or poetry itself
while I’ve been just writing?
I can’t even choose the worst;
the most ridiculous,
something about whining,
one with bad rhyming
or one that doesn’t fit me at all?
If you read all my works,
you should know…
but why would you anyway…
so, I inform you:
I’ve been just writing.
Now, I call it my worst poem,
looking for my best of all
because at some point
we are the best and the worst
while we didn’t exist at all.
Pocket poets have no good stories,
but what is a good story
We are none else more than fantasies
in some stranger’s fairy
So I’m happened no one sees
nay me, writing this story;
I’m just history.
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.
Here’s the fellow who’s not mellow
I’m born rotten and forgotten
I had had poems, kind of solemn
But here I am with crying rhyming
I’m good in bad moods and vice versa
I tried to be a smartass, but proven the least smartest
I’m still unknowing, and not going
I’m a born clown, pulling down
I’m in a vortex, out of context
I can’t heal, I can’t feel
I’m surely nut and I am not
The glass is full-poured, but still empty;
there’s inside me a thirsty envy
to write, to write, to write,
but first of all to live.
For mere poetry,
we give up finance, romance