As a little change in the Earth’s axis from the Sun
can turn the nicest weather into a tempest
so the little change in the tone of someone
can make a Jupiter-like silicone storm inside me endless.
My childhood’s broken reality haunts past, present and future;
dark traumas turned my fate to undergo on torture –
searing and healing, then searing and healing, and never relieving;
all my bad omens keep ceaselessly repeating,
sealed into my soul from the very first till the latest hour:
I’m happy for those whom I could save from this terribly cursed power
to being able seeing the cures of all the bad times
that themselves curse my every hope all the times –
a whispered ending that’s never ending: we are all alone,
whispered, but it’s waving through all the wall
that could separate a broken reality’s dope
from a seeding soil so real that it’s even deceiving, saying: there’s a hope.
I’m grave guilty, I think,
but I feel good.
The only that disturbs me in this nothing,
why I have no sin if there’s this mood.
That I am guilty is not doubtful.
But whatever I think
my sin is something else awful.
Maybe it’s a foolish thing.
Like a miserly lost gold,
I seek this sin;
I left a mother for it to be found
although my heart is thin.
And I will find it one day
as heroes of virtue ;
and to confess, I will pay a coffee
for all my crew.
I will tell: I killed. I do not know
who, maybe my father –
been watching as his blood flow
on a clotted night’s altar.
I stabbed him with a knife. I’m not coloring
since we are all in one manhood
and as we get stabbed, suddenly
then we fall down too.
I will tell. And I’ll be waiting (as it’s obliged),
who runs away busily;
I will watch who is surprised;
who dreads happily.
And I notice someone
who with his eyes, warmly
indicates just that: There’s other one
and you are not lonely …
But maybe, my sin is childish
and foolish really.
Then, the world will be tiny
and I will let it play silly.
I don’t believe in God and if there’s,
let him not bother with me ;
I will justify myself;
who lives will help me.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “A Bűn” (1935).
We loved each other, I did more than any –
You let me push you away, so did many –
Why couldn’t you do a lil fight for me?
We are not friends; I don’t have any –
You push me away, so do many –
Why can you return then to me?
We will forget, I will not do any –
You already did, so did many –
Why you let it happen on me?
There’s a feeling of eager like a binge eater
to talk out all the inner seethe in a bark,
to consume all the voices before you fume;
knowingly that no one would hear it willingly,
so rather you keep all inside within the dark.
Skipping talks of charity is an act of self austerity;
today’s chatter is tomorrow’s beggar –
selling one’s dignity for empty ears’ indignity
is just as bad like sleeping in the cry-soaked bed:
awkward for a minute, then more woeful afar.
This is a reason why I avoid such treason
to start a small conversation that would split me apart;
today is boastful, tomorrow’s awful:
only this what I saw, so
why just not stock things inside the already breaking heart.
No matter how I try to keep this law; however
there’s always a popping up stranger exchanger
who wants to know about me more
as if I myself could just slightly understand myself –
as if I could bring her more than a binger talk:
This is your fault stranger, you called the binger;
now, listen to my thoughts that I myself don’t know,
listen like a psychic, or rather like a sidekick
while I start sharing volcanoes from inside my heart;
listen well at our first and last conversation that now splits us apart.
Tomorrow, I’ll try forgetting all, just as you do all,
forgetting my venting as well as the funny inventing
that there’s someone who listens without it ends;
and I will be forgetting myself, remembering the law:
I’m alone with the voices of pain, and binge talks are only to prove I’m alone.
What a dread dream I had as a child
to be once one of the dead poets
seeing no remedial meaning in life
as I’ve been followed up with bad omens.
Now, as grown up, I couldn’t be more childish
to think I could change those bad omens
trying to bring the never had happiness to others’ life,
only luring them to mourn one of the dead poets.
The sadness doesn’t come from my failure,
neither from that I’m alone,
but rather that I’m seeing those lives’ remedy
in my absence; as I was the bad omen after all.
So many times trying to change,
shapeshifting, reforming, rethinking
from age to age –
How old I might be so far?
How many of myself have died,
then rejuvenated again and again
I wonder if there’s anyone who could tell me,
from my former lives
that who I am for real. –
All those people knowing someone,
then losing me
in great disappointment
has pity for a me.
Now, I am myself, but just for a while,
failing myself again and again. –
I don’t know who I am,
I don’t know who I was.
Just being, rebeing,
every body, including a self.
I wish I could be in war against myself,
so, at least, some of me could win,
but I hold no one in my hands,
and it was empty
for longer I could remember.
I wonder whether there was
a child of me,
an honest lover,
or anybody with belief
in that there will be a day
there will be more than a day
to be and die as some one.
“Benyamin, I want you to speak.”
Still darkness and silence.
“Tell me what is wrong.”
Sounds are reflecting from the deep.
“I won’t give up on you. Speak.”
My inhumanity is awakening.
“Are you listening to me?”
*I am obliged to listen since you speak.*
“Your stance is hurting me.”
*I am sorry?*
“What is wrong?”
*What is wrong?*
“You are not the same.”
*I am who I am.*
*I just need a little silence.*
*Don’t worry about me.*
(Neither I do, nor about you.
Also, if you can’t give up on me, I can do.
As well as on you.)
Is there any regret?
“Benyamin, I want you to speak.”