Peter Závada : Maybe

maybe it’s only the care’s false glamour
to believe: it is good for someone that you are
maybe only for that you are in need of someone’s amour
to make yourself believe that still lovable you are

maybe you never wanted to find her
it wouldn’t even hurt you if you did not
now, as she could easily be yours, maybe
it’s more important that she can be lost

so that you no longer have to blame yourself
because nobody wins this euchre
maybe what hurts you is that she weren’t really yours
and yet, you could still manage to lose her

Benyamin Bensalah

01.02.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Péter Závada, “Tán” (2011).

Limited words on a finite-limitless story

The happier she is, the more it will be her fault;
The sadder I am, the more I will be the victim
While it’s my guilt – it is always me and me
Who cannot get through of his thoughts.

My reasoning has weakened already;
I can only blame my long misery
And myself and myself again
For running in obscurity.

My words are limited;
I wasted so many
But not on her
Not for her.

Because;
It was
For
U.

(I just only wish if I had some more words
Like a thousand or a quadrillion
Turning back time again
To tell you I’m sorry.)

Benyamin Bensalah

28.01.2020

Parallel love affair

We were two travellers
Passing through the infinite possibilities,
And what we have found seemed impossible;
It was far beyond our dimension’s limits –
This is why it was so beautiful.

But, by matter of chances,
Our adventure was indeed impossible,
And now, we are both travelling parallel,
Similarly, but far away from each other,
In other infinite impossibilities.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.01.2020

How would I know

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

I’ve seen movies, I’ve seen couples
Doing things that I thought as love,
Pushing me to pursue love
With mere follies and troubles.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

My own mother has loved in silent,
As young, I couldn’t even see;
How should I not be violent,
If I thought nobody has loved me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

Nobody showed me whom to love,
But I was told: not her;
Nobody taught me how to act in love,
Then, I was told: don’t hurt her.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

With time, scars are healing,
Caused on and by me,
And with time, the truth’s revealing:
Love wasn’t meant for me.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

I’ve been loveless all the time;
It pursued me to search it,
But all stories end in painful rhyme;
I hope, finally, I learnt it.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

Benyamin Bensalah

26.12.2019

Attila József: Then

And then, it rained, thundered, and hurled
Then, I stayed away of my room’s hollow
And then, I rampaged and cursed the world
Then, I was badly beaten by sorrow.

And then, I prayed, desired and begged
Then, I cried truly from my heart
And then, I bitterly confessed, repented
Since then a girl was tore out of my heart.

Benyamin Bensalah

Translated from the Hungarian poem, “Akkor” by Attila József (1921).

26.11.2016

Péter Závada: SYNOPSIS

Just let only this May to burn out in serve!
It was so easy with you, and with me hard.
Our past lives today in every substantive verb.
It’s okay if you don’t believe.  Mainly, you hope.

Branch of sycamore tree to the hanging eaves:
So as I am spastically clinging to you.
I’m not an adult yet, but I’m neither more like kiddies.
I had neither a cradle, nor hobbledehoyhood.

Though every melt is followed by frost:
On the shelf, Rilke leans to a volume of Proust
– how much dreaming in the lost time of ours!
And how much beautiful hope music in yours!

Tell me then: if this is not going, like this, with you today,
how could anything go, without you?

Benyamin Bensalah

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Peter Závada, “Szinopszis” (2010).

18.12.2019

Silence written

O! As nearly all mortal beings,
I’ve tasten already the silence of night –
Sometimes broken, but never by the sounds of mine.

O! I’ve tasten all of its flavours;
Like the silence stuck in other’s empty home –
But after all, the emptiness of my heart gongs even terribly more.

Alas! Why am I tasting like a poet;
With a beating and feeling heart on every gustatory buds –
Who could understand the silence more, than a mute poet after love?

O! I’ve not even tasten all its flavours;
Thou, the old naive words of ours still re-animate my mind –
Still, with silenced tongue and heart, what I barely believe that I’m still alive.

O! We’re not even nearly mortal beings;
No silence can muzzle my written words in the fate’s puzzle –
Even if my tongue is cut off and my buds are burnt, my love is immortal – written.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.09.2018