I’m like a semi-important page to print,
you don’t know why I’m important
by the second the queue gets stuck
I stay on pending with all the error before me,
then when you finally face the pain,
to restart the machine, you see the absence;
the absence of some semi-important page –
you search the folders for documents,
you try to track a trace on your browser,
but there’s nothing important alike,
then with a semi-sadness,
you accept to forget a page
that has never existed,
I wouldn’t love the past you,
but the past me definitely would
just as I fell in love with the present you now,
so even the present me loves the old you –
that how time is really entangled;
some theory says time is linear,
some says something totally different,
but I’m starting to see
that time’s been really just about you.
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”.
Find someone to replace me.
Find me in someone else instead.
The role is playing me,
if there is applause, I do not bow my head.
I’m the one who doesn’t dwell
on the way, like a message,
no chance to say, I’ve felt here well.
If arriving, show me passage.
Not the first and not one of many,
not a question and not an answer.
The one who can wait any,
beyond the time where no men were.
Who is blinded lifeless
lives dreams in darkness.
Translated from the Hungarian Poem of Tamás Filip, “Sötétben éli”.
Will it worth it? was it worth it?
Curve that was in line.
Where is the strength and the luck?
What casts you off? Who leads you in?
From her, to her, in her, for her,
at her, to her, though not, why not,
to here, from there, there too, not here,
then if, so that, and so, though not,
always, once, impossible,
oh, go on, no, not that, no, no,
sometimes though, never again,
with her, to there, for ever after:
how many opened and lost roads,
how many traps, how many zigzags,
dying slowly, killing fast,
inside the heart, out in fate,
and to believe there’s a winner – loser,
we get to the line:
was it worth it? will it worth it?
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Lőrinc Szabó, “ÉLET”.
Have you ever read a poem
from the dying bed?
Have you ever heard a poem
out of the purest agony?
With thousands of poems
with all my suffering inside me
I truly doubt you had.
Words are senseless,
it’s pain ruling,
we are under it already
like dead under the ground.
Expect me not,
to write a last poem alike
about this stance
that’s just as a writing ghost.
So, take any poem of mine,
then name it last
because I am dead already,
I am a ghost.
I’ve never considered myself living,
I’m the most dead without you
I’ve never considered myself happy,
I’m the saddest without you
I’ve never considered myself hopeful,
I’m the most hopeless without you
I’ve never considered myself normal,
I’m the normalest around you
I’ve never considered myself concerned,
I’m the most concerned about you.
If you leave me like the sun the horizon,
what else could I do but disappear like my sun,
whose heart could understand this pitiful me
if not even you feel, what you mean to me.
Translated from the Hungarian poem fragments of Attila Jozself, “Ha elhagysz“.
I want to: not to be important to myself.
Let me be a brick in an endless wall,
Stairs, on which someone else goes up,
A plow that works the ground, digging into it,
But the corn is not its merit.
Let me be the wind that carries the seed,
But not causing the flowers bloom,
And the people, when they are on the field – assume,
Let them admire the flower.
Let me be the handkerchief that wipes away tears
Let me be the silence that always eases.
Let me be the hand that caresses shoulders,
Let me be, and never let me know I exist.
Let me be the dream on the tired lashes.
Let me be the vision that appears
And doesn’t ask if it’s watched or not,
Let me be the mirage on the rune.
Let me be from the black heart of the old earth
A deep sigh up to the sky and forth,
Let me be the wire on which message goes through
And replace me if I’m worn.
Let me be the boat under many souls,
Simple, roughly clashed raft,
That’s taken by deep rivers onto the sea.
Let me be a violin that cries into the infinity,
Until the artist puts down the bow.
Translated from the Hungarian poem of Sándor Reményik, “Akarom”.
Purple madness emerged with black death;
Drums and dulcimers are the words now that were said,
Shrilling masquerade dresses the faces,
Modern design and fool norms are the old disgraces.