That you were as cold as ointments.
This was left over from that summer.
To cuddle in the shadow of your sentences,
as if under a tree.
Plus, the difference of pressure,
which turns the breath into sigh.
The problems like empty tin cans
were rattling in your chest.
I think I’m confusing you with your memory.
If I want to reach you,
I have to stretch through time
like through a mirror.
Back then you were the one
who I am looking for now.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Péter Závada, “AKIT MOST KERESEK”.
I can’t expect rescue
I can’t expect care
But still I do respect you
And I do not really care.
Is it rhyming, is it good,
I am hidden under my hood,
Still I’m splitting just as rude
As I’m ruled by my mood.
It’s been a riddle,
I’m not dead, nope,
But I’m in the middle.
Is it rhyming, is it good,
Too much money too much food;
Of course I deserve no good;
I’m the drunkard of the neighborhood.
Upon a time I wished rescue,
and a sip of care,
I’d like to find them in you,
but no worries; I’m self aware.
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 – –
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Reménytelenül” (1933).
Even my scars are from hard work,
not from blades,
I wear a wide smile all the time,
not crying for anyone,
my body is so pure and kind,
but my soul’s spoiled.
How to express I’m depressed?
I’m copying with happiness.
How to express I’m oppressed?
I can only flex.
Who would understand these all?
I’m in a constant fall.
I’m lost in a way that there’s no way;
I see colours, but everything’s grey.
I can say hey, but not tomorrow;
I am stucked up in my sorrow.
I would borrow… someone,
but… I’m already gone.
The years are already blurry.
They create a false reality,
my mind. I don’t trust what it is saying though
like problems will disappear by tomorrow.
As a naive child, I hope so too
that I will live, and it is true
that I will see a tiny part of happiness.
I might clean my sight from stress.
I want to see it, but I can’t
because I know it wasn’t meant.
As if there were no tomorrow, it’s in hurry,
this decade is leaving me with a quick sorry.
I’m lost in the dark and I’m afraid;
I myself got myself chained,
and I know I could be anything better
if my light had just a bit flattered.
Alone, on the last word’s right,
I say I won’t reach more height
because here, even my self-hero flees
from my false realities.
I can feel how it loosens,
my grab to the sense of reality –
I’m afraid to ask, to know
whether it is too late…
whether she’ll be there at time…
but she is always here
in my mind
You know there’s no forgiveness
so, it’s vain to turn to sadness.
Be what you meant to be: a man.
After you, there still grows grass.
The sin will not get lighter,
so, it’s vain if you water.
That you are an evidence to this,
thank what you could acquire.
Don’t blame, don’t swear
don’t be a jerk to yourself
don’t worship and don’t seduce
don’t join the army unaware.
don’t look at the secrets.
And with humanity,
since you are a man, don’t be reckless.
Remember you growled
and in vain you implored.
You have become a false witness
at your own record.
You called Father being fallen,
man if you found none in heaven.
And you found grown bad spots
in your psychoanalytic canon.
You believed in easy talking,
in friends been just acting
and see, never, never anyone
said that you were worthy.
They cheated, they loved me so
you cheated and you can’t love also.
Now, grab the loaded gun
and squeeze it to your empty torso.
Or throw away all the principles
and still hope for faithful love-riddles,
since like a dog you would believe
in anyone who’d see you still love-able.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Tudod hogy nincs bocsánat”(1937).
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.
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 to me?
You came with a stake, not with flower,
you quarreled with the wild blue yonder,
you promised gold with a big container,
to your mother and now you’re just here, sitting,
like crazy mushrooms on the tree-stump,
( so is the one, if there’s any, to a lil chump),
you’re locked as the Seven Towers’ dump
and you’ll be never be escaping.
Why did you bite into stone with milk teeth?
Why did you hurry if you left beneath?
Why didn’t you dream under your sheet?
What should we have finally said?
You always made yourself uncovered,
you always scratched your wounds, never recovered,
you are famous if it’s that you desired.
And how many weeks are the world? You mad.
You loved? Who was bound to you?
You were hiding? Who chased you?
Win what you can, if you can cope through,
you have no knife, nor a loaf of bread.
You are locked into the Seven Towers,
rejoice if you can afford hot showers,
rejoice, for there are soft bolsters,
to lower down nicely your head.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Karóval jöttél…” (1937).