I now have all of Michael Slippkauskas' translations of Joszef. I shall be reading through them slowly and painfully, particularly after reading the above prose. Here are two more of Joszef's very early poems.
A Tired Man
Some solemn peasants in the fields
face home and silently depart.
We’ve laid us down, the stream and I.
Soft grasses slumber near my heart.
The hushed stream rolls us to our rest.
Within, dews rinse me free of care.
Not youth, Magyar, brother nor child,
he’s just a tired man, lolling there.
The falling night distributes peace
and I’m a warm slice of its bread.
The sky winds down. The stars sit out
on Maros and on my bare head.
Pure Of Heart
I have no father, have no mother,
have not your god, nor any other,
no homeland, cradle, burial-shroud,
no lover, not one kiss allowed.
For three days now I’ve had no food,
not scant amounts, nor plenitude.
I have the strength of twenty years.
I’d sell them all. I have no fears.
And if the twenty go unsold
the devil then might make so bold.
Still pure of heart, I have a plan
to break in, maybe kill a man.
They’ll catch me, hang me from a tree.
With blessed earth they’ll cover me.
And deadly grass will prick and start
to grow above my lovely heart.
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