Mark and Golias,
Thanks for appreciating these. Golias, the genius is all Jozsef's. I have only to say what he said in meter and rhyme. The aforementioned Martin Seymour-Smith puts him in the top 20 poets of his century in any language, with Vallejo, Hagiwara, Rilke, Laura Riding (I know, he's a bit eccentric), Lorca, Guillen, Machado, Valery, Pessoa, Quasimodo, Kavafis, Hardy and others and far above Auden, Yeats, Eliot, Stevens and others. The poems Tim has posted so far are very early, when the folk-element had not yet been fully assimilated.
Tim,
You are correct. The poem is Janos Vitez in Hungarian and has been sometimes translated "Johnny Kernelcorn". The stupendously brave, arrogant, clever, handsome, yellow-haired hero is nicknamed "Kukorica" Janos, Johnny of the Corn-ear. It is for children, but much more than that, as all great children's literature is. But even Jozsef is loved by children -- Tim, you'll find a few children's poems in that file. And the Hungarians prepare their children with some very adult material! As a translator I do try to be faithful to my source. My firmest admirers so far are my Hungarian friends, who say I do the impossible. This is more humble of me than it sounds. I seek never to "improve" or embellish. I know that music -- meter, rhythm, rhyme -- is the meaning. Dick Davis has pointed out that the translators who give themselves all license in form often go farthest afield lexically. A paradox, but one that metrists should understand.
Tim, thanks again for starting this thread. Here is "Terror" at your request.
Terror
A one-room flat in semi-dark.
Behind the alcove, slumbering,
with pursed mouth, in worn blankets, mark
this weepy, little thing.
As though in autumn wind, gray water
wrinkles the frigid pavingstone.
In reverie, the older daughter
sits awkward and alone.
Both share the alcove where a host
of hatreds and desires was born.
A stuffed dog frays and, there, the ghost
of Rákóczi hangs torn.
The girl is seven. Here inside
she cannot run about or leap.
The mother to the girl has tied
this babe, this stinking heap.
How she’d run! . . . Now, insensible,
and almost drowsing off, spellbound,
she feels such strength that she could pull
a city to the ground.
He opens swollen eyelids. Storms
of wailing rack the imbecile.
The girl takes stock of him and warms
the milk. Then all is still.
Taciturn, stiff, she turns to stare
upon the boy-child’s purpling face.
Like a dead moth in wan, lank hair,
her ribbon of soiled lace.
And now, into his howling round
she shoves the bottle’s milky pap.
He coughs. His cries and chokings sound
like dry sticks when they snap.
His frame convulses like the sea.
This leaky tap, this nipple, drips.
She presses, while in agony,
he swallows, howls and grips.
And now, she forces knowledge in:
should any comfort come, a shard,
she grasps the bottle at his chin
and yanks it from him, hard.
The child can’t know, should he delight
or go on weeping without end?
His anger quakes him. Frothy-white,
his tummy’s lees ascend.
He’s crimson as though newly-born.
His skull’s veins seem to writhe and cling
like maggots on an ear of corn.
His toes are stiffening.
He howls while sucking empty space;
he champs at twilight. Deadly errors.
When Titans birthed the Olympian race
they did not know such terrors.
The child is damp for fear of her.
Why does she tease and torture so?
The girl’s cold as a murderer.
A blind man sings below.
She plays thus half an hour or more.
She does not say a word, nor smile.
A neighbor woman taps the door.
She leaps, all wheedling guile,
and calls out softly through the chink,
“The poor, sweet thing is teething, see?”
The alcove waits. Thin fingers link
and unlink, absently.
Evenings, the mother takes her son
upon her lap. Some weeks she’s spent
in worry that he seems to shun
the sweet milk’s nourishment.
He sees the bottle; squalls begin.
Into her lap’s strong warmth he shies.
As though an old man, creaking, thin,
he trembles, shuts his eyes.
His mother doesn’t know what’s wrong,
(she drops her kerchief on the bed).
The little girl rings out, sing-song,
“I fed him when you said!
“Let me cook dinner, mama, please!”
She rings out, gaily chattering.
Mama is wilting, tired. What ease
a little sleep would bring!
At night, no constellation burns.
They weep, the seasons and the skies.
In dreams, the mother weeps and turns;
she thinks her baby cries.
A silent whimper’s frozen there.
His mother rises from the bed.
He seems to smile. She’d stare and stare
but lies back down instead.
It’s off to work as morning breaks.
She packs herself a morsel now
and leaves. The older daughter wakes,
gets dressed, repeats a vow.
But solitude comes pressing in.
The pain is sharp – she wants to play!
the child cries. Thus these three begin
the cycle one more day.
Attila Jozsef (1905-1937)
November 1934
[This message has been edited by Mike Slippkauskas (edited July 05, 2006).]
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