I’ve been in an acid rain.
From the start.
Every drop falls.
Through my coat.
Through my face.
Into the heart.
I’ve been sitting in a pit.
It rains sadness.
Every drop laughes.
Into my ears.
Into my soul.
I’ve been waiting death.
I can’t wait.
In the years.
In the pains.
How long they last.
As my heart is still ribbed and robbed,
As my hand is still penly dropped –
By words, down on the paper,
By thoughts from a downer layer…
While enjoying life as a deadly drug,
While doing time by a languid shrug –
By God, I swear I am innocent;
By hazard, I may be evil or a saint.
As my hearten self is in daily oblivions,
As my drowsy heart-beats discharge ions –
By the heart’s sudden energetic spurts,
By them, last the lifer’s hurts…
While even my philosophy is dying,
While my old emotions leave their hiding –
By remembering Rome, a never seen land,
I wish for all its roads I know, to a dead end.
To what, all of us are ever subservient,
Sith, being inspired is being alive on its own;
Letting the soul to inspire the fresh reasons of life,
What-without, all of us are just junks of empty organs.
What is taken by the reciprocal goal
Of living for living, looking for no end, no beginning;
As plants, animals and we humans struggle in its vicissitudes,
The essence and quintessence all of this is living with a goal.
What is life itself, but not on its own
Since only an inspired, breathing soul can feel;
Feeling the love of the poet, the zeal in a painting,
By meaning of every day is an art, and art is the drug of every day.
What once is the meaning of life,
After a glance, the most painful drug a man can taste,
Brought by the sweetest venom of a woman’s play and demand,
Killing and enlivening by itself and by its drinkable, smokable antidotes.
What is fear’d, but inspires us the most,
Its single existence urges us to seize the day;
Seize it by love and art while we are still here, living,
Seize it by seeking inspiration in every moment of not being dead.
The sweetest dream
seems a mere nightmare,
The yesterday aches
by all pain of the future,
The present things
remain as they were,
All the disasters
of the news are neutral.
opiates or other drugs,
None of them
makes you feel alive,
But they may help
to forget all the goods,
Before the peace,
in form of death, arrives.
Bite on the lips
that get kiss only by ruth,
Stay in silence
on all the fake conversation,
you’re asleep or it’s the truth,
Then, enjoy the curse
of being a poet.
You, who pass by my book
(For the most part, innocent women),
And leave your regard on me;
Please, be aware.
I know how attractive I can be
With my strong book jacket,
The exotic title on my front,
And the well crafted words in me…
But please, just be aware:
My well-educated manner is none
But the cruel life’s handwriting;
My papers are from trees
Watered with poison,
And they themselves cried with sorry
For the holder of these pages
While being cutting out.
Please, be aware,
And turn away that look,
Drown to death the mere desire
To have a look at my pages;
It won’t be my fault…
At the end, it will be just you,
The fool who desired reading
Not beyond, but beneath living.
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.
Translated from the Hungarian poem, “Akkor” by Attila József (1921).
Write about fields – green meadows,
Write about wheats that fresh wind blows,
Write about woody hills – shady narrows,
Write about seas that everybody knows…
Write about anything that pleases the eye,
Write about anything just to hide the pain inside,
Since nobody cares about things that we can’t see,
Rather, we care about fields, mountains and seas…