Have you ever asked the toy
you were playing with
if it liked to be your toy?
It is all nice that it’s a toy,
fulfilling its purpose
to play with, innit?
No matter leaving it
in the darkness of the night
for hours, right?
Or forgetting it in hurry
for a hell of a weekend.
No thoughts of such
as the first minute hurts
just as the 1440th and so.
The minute of turning off the light
heading out or to the fridge
hurts the same infinity.
You haven’t thought about it
how is it to be alone
How is it to swing
between having a purpose
and being in senseful nonexistence?
Oh, how would you
when your grief lasts no more
than a minute when it disappears?
Frighten me, God,
I am in need of your wrath.
Hurry, arise from the flood,
don’t leave me in nothingness as bath.
I, pushed up by the horse,
and from the dust I barely appear,
not human sized heart’s
knives of torment I am playing with here.
I am inflammable, and like the Sun,
I ignited such a flame – take it!
Shout at me as it’s wrongly done!
Snap at my hand with breaking hit.
And let your vengeance or grace
beat into me: sinlessness is a mistake!
Since having such an innocent face
burns me more than hell’s lake.
In wild, foaming salivary seas
I rotate like a bite when I am to lay
all alone. And I would dare all what man sees,
but nothing makes sense to stay.
To die, my breath
will held back if you don’t beat me with stick,
and like that I will be the gazing death
against your human-faced lack!
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “BUKJ FÖL AZ ÁRBÓL” (1937).
The Past been a nightmare to wake from,
sometimes eating up the present,
being unable to tell whether it has an end;
the Future been the past’s mirror image,
warning signs or either sirens’ songs,
nothing that possibly cannot go wrong;
I was likely anchored, cornered to Present,
more like pulling the chains than living,
but this was already much from a dead being.
I walked every step with a blind resignation,
a person died and revived in me,
like someone stealing life and trying to flee;
the anchors I tried to undress so hard
kept undressing me slowly,
and here I am standing like nothing can control me;
the anchors I were fighting, life, have gone,
it feels no more grief, no more agony,
I’ve reached freedom through fatal cavity.
There’s no past I could face anymore,
none of me waits me in the future,
but here I am where I could have been sooner;
losing the pain through losing life,
I am free with a huge cavity,
and I am as ready to live as to face mortality;
I feel eager, no more than any,
just to live a bit more,
imagining there’s an anchor that makes me stay more.
My indifference surpasses Earth’s billions species,
my wild philosophies boil hotter than Venus,
my grief’s still colder than Pluto’s deepest valleys,
my carelessness embraces the whole space;
still, there’s a crying child in me
who doesn’t want more than being loved
and told motherly that this is your very place.
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.
Time has been no more just a deception.
Where are the uncountable years on chain?
How to count the unceasable pain?
What measure can contain all the knowledge
of one’s griefing observation
on the self and what imprisons it?
The world is no more than a foolery.
All the pain grew shield on our skin, still..
Still, the scars are under our scales;
they are graved into the heart –
no teeth, no claws can defend us from;
this ruthless form is meaningless.
Life is a ceaseless demolition.
There’s no defense from this dark magic;
it creates spears and useless scales against,
then some wizardry chains us in caves
because we burnt the bridges, burnt the gates,
but weren’t we created for that?
None does matter,
but everything’s from a matter;
countable in a measure,
surrmountable as a leisure –
where’s the meaning then
when we arrive to the fin?
Too much sugar;
it’s sweet no more,
too much pain;
it feels no more.
What to love, what to hate?
What is mistake?
What is fate?
What has any meaning anyway?
None does matter,
but everything does at some point;
forgiveable in a level,
liveable as a pleasure –
can we have less meaning then
and some ease reaching our fin?
Carressing with paining hands,
breathing with heavy lungs,
standing up with an aching back,
loving with a broken heart;
what else absurdities do you have for me?
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.
There’s a super massive blackhole
right at the center of our Milky Way,
so, I am not sentimental if I say
I love you for ever, and we can call it a day.