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 #2 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 10:00 am Endre Ady: Behold My treasures, darling in Hungarian: Nézz, Drágám, kincseimre |
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Endre Ady :Behold My Treasures, Darling
Behold my treasures, darling,
they are less than a Biblical farthing,
behold the fate of a true and faithful life,
look at my grey hairs departing.
I didn't wander afar
sadly I was proud to be a Magyar,
and I got a misery, woe, misfortune
and I have reaped troubles galore.
At loving I was pretty good
couldn't be outdone even by a God
as I conceived of it as a child.
Look at me now, in pain, blood, and fever defiled.
If you hadn't come mt way
my lamenting mouth would have nothing to say
behold the mockers of integrity
sending me into the coffin.
Behold me with your love, my darling,
it was you I found while fleeing,
and if there's a smile left in this loathsome world
you are the smile of my heart.
Behold my treasures, my darling,
they're less than the Biblical farthing,
let them be dark and youthful to you,
look at my grey hairs departing.
Endre Ady
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 Kati Svaby
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Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #3 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 22:19 pm Attila József: Belated lament -in Hungarian: Kései sirató |
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1935
Attila József :Belated Lament.
My fever's ever thirty-six degrees and still
mother, you're not with me.
Like any loose, easy girl when called at will,
You have lain down by Death's side readily.
From the gentle autumn landscape and many
kind women I try to piece you together,
But there's no time left as the all-consuming
fierce fire grows hotter.
As I was returning home for the last time
the wars had just ended,
And in entangled and ruined Budapest
Many shops were left breadless and empty.
Crouching on train-roofs I brought you potatoes,
While the sack was filled with millet already;
Stubborn me, I had got a chicken for you,
But you were nowhere to be.
Your sweet breast and self you took away from me
and gave them to the worms.
My, how you consoled and chid your son, but see:
False and deceitful were your kind words.
As you blew on my soup, stirring it, you said:
"You're growing big for me, eat, my precious, eat",
But your empty lips taste oily dampness now -
How greatly you misled me!
If only I'd eaten you!.. You brought me your supper
but did I ask for it?
Why did you bend your back over the washing?
That now in a box you should straighten it?
See, I'd be glad if you would strike me once more,
Now I'd be happy for I'd return your blow;
You are worthless for you're trying not to be,
You spoil it all, you shadow.
You're a greater swindler than any woman
who deceives and betrays.
Stealthily you deserted your living faith
You bore out of your loves amid your wails.
You gipsy! what you have given, cajoling,
In the final hour you stole back the lot.
The child feels a quick impulse to swear; mother,
don't you hear it? Tell me off.
Slowly light enters my mind and the legend
has vanished like a dream.
The child that clings to the love of his mother
now realizes how silly he's been.
Deceit awaits him who's born of a mother:
He's either deceived or to deceive he'll try.
If he struggles on, he'll die of this but if
he gives in, of that he'll die.
Translated by John Sz�kely
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Kati Svaby
I'm a Communicator ;-)
Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #4 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 22:21 pm Attila József: By the Danube-im Hungarian: A Dunánál |
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1936
Attila József:By the Danube.
1.
As I sat on the bottom step of the wharf,
A melon-rind flowed by with the current;
Wrapped in my fate I hardly heard the chatter
Of the surface, while the deep was silent.
As if my own heart had opened its gate:
The Danube was turbulent, wise and great.
Like a man's muscles when hard at his toil,
Hammering, digging, leaning on the spade,
So bulged and relaxed and contracted again
Each single movement, each and every wave.
It rocked me like my mother for a time
And washed and washed the city's filth and grime.
And the rain began to fall but then it stopped
Just as if it couldn't have mattered less,
And like one watching the long rain from a cave,
I gazed away into the nothingness.
Like grey, endless rain from the skies overcast,
So fell drably all that was bright: the past.
But the Danube flowed on. And the sprightly waves
In playful gaiety laughed at me again,
Like a child on his prolific mother's knee,
While other thoughts were racing through her brain.
They trembled in Time's flow and in its wake,
Like in a graveyard tottering tomb-stones shake.
2.
I am he who for a hundred thousand year
Has gazed on what he now sees the first time.
One brief moment and, fulfilled, all time appears
In a hundred thousand forbears' eyes and mine.
I see what they could not for their daily toil,
Killing, kissing as duty dictated,
And they, who have descended into matter,
See what I do not, if truth be stated.
We know of each other like sorrow and joy,
Theirs is the present and mine is the past;
We write a poem, they're holding my pencil
And I feel them and recall them at last.
3.
My mother was Cumanian, my father
Half-Szekler, half-Rumanian or whole.
From my mother's lips sweet was every morsel,
And from my father's lips the truth was gold.
When I stir, they are embracing each other;
It makes me sad. This is mortality.
This, too, I am made of. And I hear their words:
"Just wait till we are gone..." they speak to me.
So their words speak to me for now they am I,
Despite my weaknesses this makes me strong.
For I am more than most, back to the first cell
To every ancestor I still belong.
I am the Forbear who split and multiplied,
Shaped my father and mother into whole,
My father and mother then in turn divide
And so I have become one single soul.
I am the world, all that is past exists:
Men are fighting men with renewed anguish.
Dead conquerors ride to victory with me
And I feel the torment of the vanquished.
�rp�d and Zal�n, Werb�czy and D�zsa,
Turks, and Tartars, Slovaks, Rumanians
Fill my heart which owes this past a calm future
As our great debt, today's Hungarians.
I want to work. For it is battle enough
Having a past such as this to confess.
In the Danube's waves past, present and future
Are all-embracing in a soft caress.
The great battle which our ancestors once fought
Resolves into peace through the memories,
And to settle at last our communal affairs
Remains our task and none too small it is.
Translated by John Sz�kely
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Kati Svaby
I'm a Communicator ;-)
Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #5 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 22:36 pm Dezso Kosztolányi: I dreamed of coloured inks./Mostan színes tintákról á |
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from: LAMENTS OF A POOR LITTLE CHILD
I dream of coloured inks. Of every kind.
The yellow is the finest. Reams and reams
of letters could I write in yellow ink
to her, the little schoolgirl of my dreams.
I'd scrawl something that looks like Japanese,
then try a bird, most intricately scrolled.
And I want other colours, many more,
like bronze and silver, emerald and gold,
and then I want a hundred more, a thousand,
or rather, I will have a million:
dumb-charcoal, funny-lilac, drunken-ruby,
enamoured, chaste or brash vermilion.
I ought to have some mournful violet,
a palish blue, a brick-red-like maroon,
like shadows seeping through a stained glass window
against a black vault, in August, at noon.
In reds I want a blazing, burning one,
and blood-red, like the blood-stained setting sun
and then I'd go on writing: with a blue
to my young sister, mother will get gold,
I'd write a prayer in gold ink to my mother,
a golden dawn with golden words re-told.
I'd go on writing, in an ancient tower.
My colour set, so fine and exquisite,
would make me happy, oh my God, so happy.
I want to colour in my life with it.
_________________
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Kati Svaby
I'm a Communicator ;-)
Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #6 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 22:49 pm Sándor Petőfi:I'll be tree / Fa leszek... |
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I'll be a tree
I'll be a tree, if you are its flower,
Or a flower, if you are the dew -
I'll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam,
Only to be united with you.
My lovely girl, if you are the Heaven,
I shall be a star above on high;
My darling, if you are hell-fire,
To unite us, damned I shall die.
Tr: Egon F. Kunz
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Kati Svaby
I'm a Communicator ;-)
Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #7 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 22:55 pm Sándor Petöfi: AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER :: Szeptember végén |
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Sándor Petöfi: AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER
The flowers of autumn still blossom in the garden,
the poplar's still green in the valley below,
but you surely must see how the days start to darken -
the peaks of the mountain are covered with snow.
The flames of the summer still ray in my bosom
and the youth of our springtime still glows in my heart -
but notice my dark hairs - to white streaks I lose them -
as the hoarfrosts of autumn my head's winter start.
The flower will wilt - fleeting life fades tomorrow.
Come, dearest of wives, hug my shoulder a while...
You cling to me now; will you not in deep sorrow
be seeking my grave over many a mile?
Should the scythe of death cut me before you - confess it! -
will you cover this hull with your tears and shroud?
Could the love of a youth turn your head and so press it,
that you quit for his name - our name once so proud?
Should you choose to discard your attire of a widow,
make a marker of it! Pin it onto my grave!
I shall rise from the darkness to veil up its window -
this, my Flag of Defeat, I shall treasure and save!
It will do as a kerchief to soak up the water
My eyes will have shed at your heart's cavalier,
facile oblivion, just so that later
I can go on to love you - fore'er and a year!
Another translation of this poem...
THE garden flowers still blossom in the vale,
Before our house the poplars still are green;
But soon the mighty winter will prevail;
Snow is already in the mountains seen.
The summer sun’s benign and warming ray
Still moves my youthful heart, now in its spring;
But lo! my hair shows signs of turning gray,
The wintry days thereto their color bring.
This life is short; too early fades the rose;
To sit here on my knee, my darling, come!
Wilt thou, who now dost on my breast repose,
Not kneel, perhaps, to morrow o’er my tomb?
0, tell me, if before thee I should die,
Wilt thou with broken heart weep o’er my bier?
Or will some youth efface my memory
And with his love dry up thy mournful tear?
If thou dost lay aside the widow’s vail,
Pray hang it o’er my tomb. At midnight I
Shall rise, and, coming forth from death’s dark vale,
Take it with me to where forgot I lie.
And wipe with it my ceaseless flowing tears,
Flowing for thee, who hast forgotten me;
And bind my bleeding heart which ever bears
Even then and there, the truest love for thee.
_________________
Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend. |
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Kati Svaby
I'm a Communicator ;-)
Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #8 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 23:24 pm János Arany: The bards of Wales /Welszi bárdok |
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János Arany: The bards of Wales
Edward the King, the English King,
Rode on a dapple grey charger
‘I wish to know the worth’, said he,
‘of my Welsh lands over the border.
Is the grass rich for sheep and ox,
Are the soil and rivers good?
And are my provinces watered well
By rebel patriots’ blood?
And what of the people, the wretched people
Do they seem a contented folk?
Are they as docile, since I subdued them,
As their oxen in their yoke?
’‘Your Majesty Wales is the fairest jewel
You have in all your crown,
River and field and valley and hill
Are the best you may come upon.
And as for the people, the wretched people,
They live so happily, Sir,
Like so many graves their hamlets stand
And none there even stir.
’Edward the King, the English King,
Rode on a dapple grey charger,
Around him silence which way he want
In his Welsh lands over the border.
Montgomery the castle’s name,
Where he that night remained,
The castle’s lord, Montgomery,
His monarch entertained.
There was fish and flesh and whatever else
To sight and taste seemed good,
A rowdy throng, a hundred strong,
Bore in the heavy load.
All kinds were there, that isle could bear
Of meat and drink, with these
was bubbling wine that sparkling shone,
Carried from distant seas.
‘Ye Lords! ye lords! will no one here
His wine glass with me clink?
Ye lords! ye lords! ye rude Welsh curs,
Will none the King’s health drink?
There is fish and flesh and whatever else
To sight and taste seem best,
- That I can see, but the devil I know
Dwells in each noble’s breast.
Ye lords! ye lords! ye vile Welsh curs,
Come greet your Edward;
Where is the man to sing my deeds
A Welshman and a bard?
’Each night upon the other looked
Of the guests assembled there;
Upon their cheeks a furious rage
Paled to a ghastly fear.
And strangled breath from lips like death
Was all that could be heard;
When, like a white defenceless dove
Arose an ancient bard.
‘Here there is one to tell thy deeds,’
Chanted the ancient seer;
‘The clash of battle, the hoarse death rattle,
The plucked strings made them hear
.The clash of battle, the hoarse death rattle,
On blood the sun setting;
The stench that drew night - prowling beasts.
You did all this, O King!
Ten thousand of our people slain,
The rest are gathering
The corpses heaped like harvest stocks –
You did all this, O King!’
‘Off to the stake! this song’s too harsh’.
Ordered King Edward.
‘Come, let us have a gentler tune’
Forth stepped a young Welsh bard.
‘Soft breezes sigh in the evening sky,
O’er Milford Haven blown;
Maids’ sobbing tears and widows’ prayers
Within those breezes moan.
’‘Don’t bear a race of slaves ye maids!
Mothers give such no more!’
The King spoke and the boy caught up
The old man sent before.
But though unasked, yet recklessly
Advanced, unmoved, a third
His lyre’s fierce song, like the Welsh bard strong,
And his word must be heard.
‘Our bravest fell on the battle field,
Listen O Edward -
To sing the praises of your name
There is not one Welsh bard!
’‘One memory sobs within my lyre,
Listen O Edward -
A curse on your brow every song you hear
From a Welshman and a bard!
’‘Enough of this! I orders give’
Answered the furious King,
‘To send to the stake all the bards of Wales
Who thus against me sing!
’His servants till their task was done
Their searching never ceased;
Thus grimly in Montgomery,
Ended that famous feast.
Edward the King, the English King,
Spurred his dapple grey charger.
On the skies around, stakes burning stand
In the Welsh lands over the border.
Five hundred went to a flaming grave,
And singing every bard.
Not one of them was found to cry
‘Long live King Edward!
’What murmur is this in the London streets?
What night song can this be?
‘I will have London’s Lord Mayor hanged
If any noise troubles me’.
Within, a fly’s wing must not move,
Outside all silence keep.
‘The man who speaks will lose his head
The monarch cannot sleep.
’‘No! Bring me the music of pipe and drum,
And the trumpet’s brazen roar,
For the curses I heard at the Welshman’s feast
Ascend to my ears once more!
’But above the music of pipe and drum
And the bugles’ strong refrain,
Loud cry those witnesses of blood,
Five hundred Welsh bards slain.
(This
poem was written when after 1867 Compromise (Ausgleich of 1867) Franz
Joseph ,Austrian Emperor and Hungarian King' came to see Hungary.)
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Kati Svaby
I'm a Communicator ;-)
Joined: 26 Nov 2009
Posts: 6198
Location: Hungary |
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| #9 (permalink) Mon Nov 14, 2011 23:41 pm Karinthy Frigyes: Prologue |
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