Five
Contemporary Hungarian Poets
translations by Michael Castro & Gabor G. Gyukics |
Michael Castro Author 's Links || Gabor C. Gyukics Author's Links |
Note:
bios of poets follow translations. Endre Kukorelly VIII. Not like this, in those small pieces, not like this, maybe (1) there is a silver-green fishknife, finely drawn, deep green (2) river, as it cuts the country to several pieces, here (3) I sleep to dream, too, (4) I dreamt, some torn mouth, shiny body (5) radiantly metallic, as it throws itself up on the stone and (6) falls back, it isn't closer to anything, the sky, the shore, the (7) water, up and down, in the air. the way I slashed it, it crumbled down like a sand castle (1) dried out pastry, evaporated, death had separated from it, from over there (2) it has no chance of falling back, sir, unless (3) it really wants to fall back, but it doesn't really want to (4) want, no will can reach over there (5) through the heady air, and if it would get back somehow (6) then it would have an infinite desire to be there, it's been chased there by every (7) pain, it's been torn up to pieces like this, by a piece we provided as he spirals up to the air and dives back on down, his head (1) hits the concrete and a few drops of milk-white something (2) flows out, blood--and from the river, that he (3) separated himself from, you can tremble now, that's how he is shaken by the ground (4) and there is one who stands there, stares at him, browsing, then (5) withdraws uphill on the shore, up to the pavement (6) turns back all of a sudden, slips, tumbles down and (7) palms the cobblestone, he'd rather run away, slips again he stops, hardly, at home, his bed, sitting on his bed (1) pulls his legs up, huddles, puts his chin on his (2) knees, it can't be otherwise, nothing will change differently (3) from anything, sitting like this, sleeping, he's already totally someone else (4) when the gray sky is pouring down, that's how (5) everything shakes itself apart, the shore is shining and (6) he sees wide open eyes, many killings, many, no killings, (7) a few killings good, good, a few, no killings, no. Which Cloud Can it Stretch up to... 1. Neither that barely ascending shiny-bright-black path in the woods, nor those holes pressing down to hell, deep bronze, red flames, or those suddenly grown tall, young trees and among them that old giant the way it stands there, forgotten and stretches up to the clouds 2. The smoke isn't rocking. Fading silver. Everyone is all alone. Like a tree. A soul. Like a tired out member to be. That's what I imagine. I imagine it to myself, and now, still oh, it's only imagination. In a little while I begin to cough anyway. I imagine things like this and cough badly in the meantime. I only imagine it is still happening and, consequently, endlessly cough. 3. There are visible from here in the distance (he was reading a book then) (he was reciting something then, as they floated him away) they are visible from here in the distance (he was sitting at the table glancing up from a book) (he was leafing through a book, while the flocking) (the flocking armies crushed him down) noticing the way the flocking mob trampled him down 4. Man, inside from inside, wild glowing branches naive, full hearted, beauty and power. High resonant vision. Who could resist? And behind beauty and power, death peeks out. 5. Some narrow small, rather shabby stretch of a road where men get wedged against the wall, pressed to the flagstone God presses down those whom he defends, and smears them on. . . 6. They tried to confuse him at this place. But he didn't make a mistake, he didn't mix them up with more pale things. He didn't even feel the more sensitive places. There is only talking to people. In that place he received such blows that now they protect him like cold armor. 7. Something has ended, a single something has one ending and that swirls and makes loud noises. He thinks, only he had to answer those questions. They asked him if he understood but he shook his head from side to side. 8. When he stares at them, he listens head pitched upward in silence. The lamp that was placed behind his back x-rays him--bone, calcium, soot and fluids-- coloring the soul green-blue. It shines in all directions. A lamp and everything. Many icy glances. The sparkle of icy eyes. 9. It's not a cold iron statue that stands before him. He can't feel its weight, only its taste. Because of something it gives off; the crowd breathing ironblock, merged with the air, floating away and bouncing back hard. But he doesn't look anywhere, or after anything, no, because He is in front of him. Because he has his private iron universal Father, and He has His enormous ears, sharp shaped, and since cold exists as well as it's been ordered, he's rubbing them-- they crack like ice, the ears. And there is another, at least one spot of snow, a private snowflake in the snowing. 10. He has a weakening army and nine twenty year old untouched machine-gun bullets with their own patriotism, an eminently fireable, eminently typical load. It happens, that great sound mix and always around feelings. The best thing to do is to cover my ears and fire. Bbb bbbbb You Have to Give it up Soon you have to give it up. The body and the heart and things, and the soul, too. The soul flies up. Up, where. Soon you have to give it up. The body leaves you. Aches, falls, loosens. Aches, burns, burns comes to an end, bone, the body flows away. How easy it is. It leaves you. You leave it, easier than you leave the street, a bench, a glove, the sight of pouring rain, the sobbing of it. The flowing rain. Finally the pain leaves, steps away. It won't be worse. It's not worse, that's it. Or it's not cruel. It rather might be sad--what isn't? The fallen fruit. Fragment. For example, the sound doesn't emerge. It sits far in the back. Sat in the back. It sat in the back of a bus. Sat back. To grieve. Or to run down. Thinking it will run you down easier. Or why. Why. Soon you have to give that up too. They Walk, Sit in the Park They walk, sit in the park, an outing, the sun, turn their faces to the sun, sit down lie on the grass, walk among the bushes, talk softly, slowly, right beside each other, laugh sometimes, somebody laughs sharply, or sit on a bench, watch the water as it ripples in a breeze, stand under trees, some bird song,strong fragrances, is there a There, and how should it be, it's stinky, dirty and rotten but it's okay anyway, what is it you play with, investigating the buds, touching the tree trunks, they talk about them, or they are silent about trees, bushes, what kind of weed that is, and about the water, the sun and the wind, about these Gyorgy Petri Hanging Question Here I'm sitting on the bed, I can see all the way out to the doorway, I can see my wintercoat, my hat, my scarf on the hanger. Why not my wintercoat, my hat my scarf sitting here on the bed, and me hanging on the hanger? Would they watch me? Credit Card We shouldn't rush things: not even annihilation No good ever came of haste. Thus, we stay alive. In other words, keep all options open; exchange the one million pound bill of death for the small change of life. Or else, we don't make change beyond our constant presence. No one can break a nice crispy death bill like this with all its impressiveness. We can live on credit. The General Bank of Death will cover all our expenses. This way our balance is always a moral zero. Marriage Therapy I'm trying to withdraw myself from your life: becoming soundlessly soft, living on toetips, shoeless, turning the key silently in the door like a burglar. I'm trying--at the same time-- to stick to you like a toadstool to a tree, sponge off you like mistletoe (also known as "the sucker"). It's about time for me to grow up, better late than never. On second thought, maybe it's better never than ever. Rain has been falling. By morning the sidewalk is slick: it's either slushy-ice or mirror-ice. Either way we can or we can't see ourselves. The Coming Winter Late flowers are fumbling in the cold fall-- Do they hope for fruit? The most stubborn wasps have withdrawn into the winter cracks. They don't want anything, those flowers with their drooping, dropping petals. Only the playfully blowing wind urged their heads together. Elegy and Dissertation I'd like to shrink nowadays. It's better if one is proactive with events that happen to him. The desire for death is a synonym for a willing compromise. Reducing size is not that bad at all; one can fit in a baby kangaroo pouch, in a sportbag, in an urn. Shrinking creates less difficulties for a person. Though he must gravitate. But chalk that up to Mr. Newton's account. Above all and after all I would rather shrink into myself. (I throng inside me. I contract.) No community, no party, no corporation, no caste. Just to present myself: what I am, that. Moreover: becoming. Be any side of the dice. Not a turn, but a twirl. Be it! Whatever will be, will be. Prevailing Gerade-so-Seinemet I comprehend it as my own subevent. I'd like to walk on the "all bodies street" (Gyorgy Petri Boulevard), beforehand I'd make a good juicy beefstew, just to eat a few more gristles and cartilages, but first buy the ingredients for it (calf, and maybe heart root, oxtail) and then take a walk in this (perhaps the last) spring with you, with you, with you. (Da capo el fine) Dezso Tandori N.A. We stepped in--the apartment didn't even tick-tock.* *(or any other simile with similar meaning. The auth.) Its broken axis--you, lay there covered by a single sheet. Your Noxyron pills, your tranquilizers rolled all over the wreckage. The Sadness of the Mere Verb "To Be" I would have liked it if it was that way. It wasn't that way. I asked: be that way. So it became that way. Stairs Neither Up, Nor Down I do not wish for anything unattainable: I do not wish anything attainable. I wish th*t. ----------- * We always have to *ight for something, so we wouldn't be *dent for something. The same thing reveals and covers What would start without it, from somewhere! Or is there room for the missing and the available? Is it necessary at all to make this distinction? "She only stared at my shadow, she didn't see me smiling: she stared only at me, she didn't see" Reel "No, I wouldn't want them back" - Samuel Beckett, Krapp's Last Tape Someday, I want to remember this. That, somehow, continuous (what's continuous?) continuous, if it happens. Up to the knees (continuous: up to the knees.) I waded, after that only the next thing could happen nevertheless I turned away, I walked parallel to the shore (that's the point!), I was careful: it saved me --goes to show, anything could happen. Summer came again, that was the last (the last) cloudy day, summer, with watershed sky and its opposing shore They were visible from there (grapes) hills, the grapes were visible (hills), a couple of (wine-presses) houses, opposite a couple of wine-presses (houses) All these sharp V's quench everything. By night (it grew dark?) it grew dark, only the roads didn't stress the importance (what? what didn't stress the importance?) the molded concrete sidewalk. Here, during the day one could hardly walk, we peeked through the sunbathers, but they disappeared by night. Outside wind was blowing: grass and sand, the canvas was clapping (I don't even remember this:) our canvas pants. (The body sucks in the daily heat, releases it in the night that's why it's a double joy.); that's why it's a double joy to shiver in a turtleneck. (I had a blue turtleneck; we put a patch on its collar, and one on its sleeve, I still have it), I've already talked about this: we walked, among the fences and round sculpted acacias on the sidewalk (what that was: everything) it was like this: one could take approx., a half step on a piece of it in one direction We walked, I walked. The sun blared down from behind the clouds, now the wind blew throughout the day, sweeping through the russet-brown stone edge of the bastion-like bay, the whole shore was swimming. Of course it happened on another day. She purchased (verb suffix) a peach in the neighboring village, she waited (verb suffix) in the short (is it important?) in the short line; the water sprayed almost up to the bench, (where) she peeled (verb suffix) the fruit, tossed (etc.) its skin away, but before that she wiped (etc.) the knife with the paperbag. A high fence surrounded the tennis court, its ground was wet; on the park's road a little boy turned around the corner, with a bicycle. The kiosks of the icecream man and the fried-bread seller were closed; I left; no one wandered along the beach with saltshaker, with corn; but by the afternoon I remember: it cleared up. Summer's watershed arrived; (the last one, and--) I asked for a lift from a carriage, it didn't take me far enough, I, on the other hand (understandable), understandable, wanted to stay nearby, really wanted to stay nearby; grease dirtied up my legs getting off. In the evening the cool air was pleasant, the body swallows and releases it, the clacking of the glass, the reeds felt good. The reeds and glass clacking. A--(types of drinks) I want to remember this. (--not even here--) Yes. I want to remember this. Lajos Parti Nagy Becomes a Small Machine I drank a lot my guilty conscience was more than the next day could handle I grasped this thanks to the explanation of my white fingers fisting tightly into my palm, how wildromantic you are and whatever it is you exquisitely build into love, has no name, this way it doesn't mean I at the end-- I was ignorant, blind-dubious and I reacted as I learned about it without finding myself, in my steady hands I oozed away into poems if I ever existed into lyrics I admired through the poems scribble scrawled & ruffle knotted together and the intellect, if there is any . . . that it happened inside her with me is because a poem is not an intellectual clumsiness the poem belongs to something that leaves during operation becomes a small machine buzzing and flitting stargrinder figcram Two Mouths Two Pair of Lungs Breathe for Them untie the over here and the over there without stamping like the evening's knee does when it opens by closing into itself till dawn and no one can ever realize its existence as if a picture is not even a picture or the moon if it moves can't be stable in the east how blue the unending trembling of the blue-- noble paranoia far beyond its bloody footprints two mouths, two pair of lungs, breath for them has no scale, its steps soft as a lap they merge into each other from where to where and behind the time he understands why and where he should have become detached As the Clam Becomes Saltwind Again The caffeine, the alcohol, the nicotine, the poem, the inhibited love of the throat without your voice the ringing telephone my shining freedom upon you your eyes your mouths my eyes your freedom me getting lost as I now still roar the ocean as the clam becomes saltwind again Fox-Item at Dusk "The fox is a fox, is a fox, is a fox" The fox-item as you flee is your air and all you emit. You sit in a bog or on a horse the fox-item is that it. "the fox-item is full of blood, I'll die in a fox-item. what's a lanky, light fur worth, or a drinking poem?" The fox-item is a tail-coat, heavy menu on its chest, the fox-item is tallowy, faded clouds on an autumn crest. The fox-item is cigar-ash, ornate with negligent holes, in its fairly torn condition` to parties it hardly goes. The fox-item, what does it show-- its vest-pocket hides a watch, measuring the slopes of grapes where blood pours down way too much. The fox-item is an autumn day, a scholar of time and space, the clock-maker and the tailor of the torpid dusk, precise. The fox-item is nothing else but the autumn sky's slovenly fire, a shabby lapel burns with lard while the grapes' flames burst ever higher. The fox-item is a pair of wind-polished wind-swept breeches, and like alloy silver, its hip-high buttucks crumble you to pieces. The fox-item flies below to the sock down to the bootleg, and if down where the night beasts gather, its wings hang inside the blood-lake. The fox-item coughs and sobs, a tender trumpet drooling on both sides of a kissed mouth, a brass razor dribbling. The fox-item wears a tail-coat but rarely puts a tongue on and, afraid whenever it reloads, it repeatedly asks permission. The fox-item is all nails and claws scorchingly single-breasted, under the tail-coat a liver grows wanted or not wanted. The fox-item is full of wine and many a red hangover, the fox-item is all manhood, but at night I shatter all over. The fox-item, when it should be light is when it will get heavy, and it's sluggish, sluggish, sluggish dulling the minute mind-honey. The fox-item is tiny hands crackling bones in furry muffs, away from the lazy, silent tube it falls to the ground in a huff. The fox-item is fox-kisses on the warm world's belly, the fox-item is the grapevine's eyelash yelping. The fox-item, when it goes blind never becomes cheese through a sickle flinger, its pupil is the cunningly trained cool of the new moon's finger. The fox-item is lightning in a barrel written mirror, the view'd be gathered by someone else, the wind would be its sweeper. The fox-item is silent mulled wine, the landscape full of clover, wine and ashes, fruitfly smoke, the peacelight of gunpowder. The fox-item, when all is said and done, jumps a horse, it is the dusk-- blood-stripe and fox-mouth, pearl and red teeth in the dust. Krisztina Toth About the Inconceivable It isn't what I want to say! as soon as I begin to write, I realize-- and the truth surrounding all the lies will be lost--remember how you turned away with a grimace on the mountain way because you didn't want your picture shot? Those who always turn away, not letting their images be caught, are never really present. That photograph you evade startles, eating its way into my mind. It catches fire at the edges and continues burning into a crafty, smiling, plasticky curling: And I say, fine, you are destroyed. Yet the rhythm of yearning demands crying out your name for one last time-- you who look away, forever turning The Nature of Love Be suspicious of closed eyes! Dreams demand movie extras--through the mouth airy March blows in and out, as water gurgles locked beneath ice words, that return from time to time street names recalling years and sights busses zigzagging through lonely nights reflectors on unmade beds shine, and blind you weren't here then, that you're lying with me now will soon be memory so interrogate the hand, with your cruel, curious sighing a hand that moved like it, touching, binding once belonged to you, you can tell the story of the curtain-shadowed, bare-bodied stranger, dying The Nature of Pain Essentially, it's undiscovered. The afflicted don't say a word. Their eyes stare emptily: they rock with silent sighs an interior rhythm that can't be uttered or, more expressively, standing, they knock over the chair, leave with a clumsy walk, lost in suppressed thought, their backs still vibrating in the frame's picture. They don't set them selves ablaze, don't even ask for a match, they don't get any bright ideas walking by the railroad tracks, they cross over the bridge, and look down, but only for a flash-- So what should I have done? Without expression, rummage through my stash and, like in some movie, coldly aim at him, and squeeze the trigger of my gun? Cameraframe humming, in slow motion reeling through the rug's squares, the narrow room has a mattress, a backpack kneeling by a stone fireplace whose fire is out of flame scattered papers, shoes, fake flowers in a vase as he comes stealing in, ignores me, looks back out from where he came moves away, forgets his weight- less hand across my shoulder frame he counts the faded figures on the brick wall you lost weight, he says, I don't argue, but play the game Silent, Silent, Silent Silent motion, a well lit nook in your dream, his face has no face, still you want him: a road runs under the snow, a ditch lies between your thighs, who you love is inside you without you, sleeps somewhere and disturbs your dream, his hand is the hand between your thighs you find it there, slowly circling, opening your liquid thighs, now you can reach the needle-point of his absence, his name is his name, his throbbing is memory, who you want you feel slipping inside you, the way it was,your knees are up-- there you are, you give him your dream, your wakefulness, a silent beat, the light rotates with emptiness Silent the captain and the city beneath the sea, staring at you an evening long, the angel flies between you both only you walk around what was the table, swim to the kitchen to get some tea, you can hear him coming, double hesitation, a hand plays with your hair, his left strokes your breast, you turn, deadly bottomless silence, midnight in the hot tea, moon-drum rolls in your ears, be careful, he whispers, you whisper: why is he scared, he draws you inside him, rocks your forehead, honey, honey, be careful, midnight in the rotating teacup, water purls in your throat, a broken heart beats, his, yours, drowning man, you have reached the shore. Silent man, you are also, though for days you've been waiting for nothing else but to hold his prick: you imagined it on the train under his pants, when he placed his bag overhead: --well good, then let's make it three. let him step in at three taking his hat, scarf and coat off, you walk across the room, wait for him by the window, he stands behind you covering your eyes, on his wrist, you measure how your blood rumbles, this now is the now, his unbuttoned shirt and his buttock, his thighs, you lean over, feel it at last-- how is the now: a long stroll on your clitoris slides inside you, a running film, a promise, yes, but silent, silent, silent The poets in this selection will be included in Swimming in the Ground: Contemporary Hungarian Poetry, translated by Michael Castro and Gabor G. Gyukics, due out in 2001 from Neshui Press. Bios of Hungarian Poets Dezso Tandori (b. 1938) - author of fifteen volumes of poetry, twenty novels, essays, plays, and children's books, Tandori received the Sonos Lifetime Achievement Award in 1993, and served as Poet Laureate of Hungary in 1996. Gyorgy Petri (b. 1943) - a poet, journalist, and political activist, Petri won the Attila Jozsef Award, Hungary's most prestigious literary prize, in 1994. Krisztina Toth (b. 1967) - one of Hungary's leading young women poets, Toth has won several literary prizes, and published four books of poetry. She also translates French poetry. Endre Kukorelly (b. 1951) - former editor of the magazine Lettre Internationale, Kukorelly won the Attila Jozsef Award, Hungary's most prestigious literary prize, in 1993. Lajos Parti Nagy (b. 1953) - a poet and playwright, Parti Nagy won the Dery Prize in 1990, the Graves Prize in 1991, and the coveted Attila Jozsef Award in 1992. |
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