ODE FOR MIKLÓS RADNÓTI
The sun was never an oppressive guest
and he could forgive the sky
anything. By far the worst
weather was history
itself. It granted him an epitaph
of buried words, a freezing squall. Iced rain
hunting for rivers to be lost in, the wind
putting a slant on the deluge. Enough
suffering, or more than. Grain
lay in the fields. Its last stand
lasted an instant. Invasion
goes both ways, it scours
whole countries. Faces learn dissolution
in a day if the powers
that be are. The ditch gives
its gifts a lukewarm
reception, and the dead inhabit
their earth in a withering stillness. Sheaves
of cloud lean over them. A storm
disintegrates but the sky thrives: Exhibit
One. Miklós R, your own best bit of universe
cared less. Things still trend west
night after night. The oblivious
stars, those brightest and smallest
stitches, pin the darkness to the unknown
darkness behind it. Everything hangs
together as it flies apart.
If atoms grieve for torn
lives, they grieve at the speed of light. The swings
and roundabouts of death. The superseded heart.
Note: A year after the end of WW2, the last poems of Miklós Radnóti, a Hungarian Jewish poet, were found in his greatcoat pocket when he was exhumed from the mass grave where he’d been thrown (along with other prisoners) after being murdered by Hungarian fascist soldiers during a forced march in November 1944.
HOMAGE TO HOLUB
after “The best room, or interpretation of a poem”, by Miroslav Holub
Miroslav,
like all of us
you knew
that dull thud
as you beat your head against the brick wall
of language.
Another brick wall,
another poem
- that’s how a life goes.
We close our eyes,
we imagine a few bricks loosening
and suddenly we see a world
on the other side of the wall,
a bit of lawn,
a clothesline
hung with someone else’s washing,
the banners of another life.
A poem!
A dream
really,
the wall is intact,
the brow bruised.
Miroslav,
I was beating my head against a brick wall
trying to find the right image for all this,
I was sick of the wall,
when I found your poem
about a room
presided over by a stuffed owl.
The only sound
in that room
was the sound of a poem,
the uninterpretable
buzz
of a fly
trying to break through a windowpane
with its head.
I know this poem of mine
doesn’t get us any further than yours,
in fact as it catches up to your poem
it’s gasping,
limping a little.
It thinks it can be healed
by your poem,
it wants to touch
the hem of its garment,
it wants to walk away whole.
May your poem
have mercy on mine.
Miroslav,
hear my buzz.
“The Best Room, or Interpretation of a Poem” by Miroslav Holub
And now tell it to me
in other words,
says the stuffed owl
to the fly
which, with a buzz,
is trying with its head
to break through the window-pane.
(trans. Ewald Osers)
LOVE SONG
after Miroslav Holub’s “Fairy Tale”
I think the unending rain
is with us tonight
there’s a slant roar
on the roof
it’s time to rise
and take our closeness with us
we’ll need its warmth
for the journey
we’ll be walking through walls
of rain
and if you ask me
where is the world
I’ll say this
is the world
this fallen
shimmer
this rain
that goes on for ever
the rain
that has woken us at last
FAIRY TALE
He built himself a house,
his foundations,
his stones,
his walls,
his roof overhead,
his chimney and smoke,
his view from the window.
He made himself a garden,
his fence,
his thyme,
his earthworm,
his evening dew.
He cut out his bit of sky above.
And he wrapped the garden in the sky,
and the house in the garden
and packed the lot in a handkerchief
and went off
lone as an arctic fox
through the cold
unending
rain
into the world.
Miroslav Holub
(trans. Ian Milner and George Theiner)
MONOLOGUE FROM A DIALOGUE
you say you’re over-worded what about me I’m the garrulous rambler
I have words coming out of my ears colliding with yours coming in
word dust accumulates on my conversationally worn ear lobes words
wear at the edges through excessive use or running head-on into endless
sentences from elsewhere I mean yours of course but I need your barrage
of hints assertions queries doubts all the forms of verbal reality you throw
at me I’m expecting the written equivalent of an apocalyptic kitchen sink
any day now an asteroidal mass of meaning ready to wipe me off the face
of the correspondence planet I’m on the lookout for your Buggenhoutish
syllable cluster whistling through the thin atmosphere of my mind bent
on obliterating my old life maybe yours which is where I’m headed sorry
you gave me no reason to dream up a me-directed planetoidal attack
no cause no cause forgive me but isn’t the imagination the safest way
to scare the life out of our safe selves and plant in its place the dangerous
unlived wanted life which I’ve always imagined your words doing for me
I need to hear your paralysis narrative your stasis in the seized-up days
the frozen keyboard your blizzard-swept mind the terrifying whiteness
of the page writer’s block you’ve never admitted it to our narrative realm
you’re a dark horse despite your Lone Ranger heroics way out there
in the world a dark horse saddling up a white horse the awkwardness
of your globe-galloping life tell me the story of the stalling of your mind
your mind gone nowhere your future of unstoppable everywhereness
reversed I have never suffered from blah block rather dreamer’s drift
was my affliction I journeyed to distant non-existent places curled up
in bed proving by a retrospective twist that distances are non-existent
hence my addiction to distancelessness our lives look like our youthful
psychic predicaments turned inside out and made cartographical fact
talking of which today a cold front thundered in layers of dark cloud
low in the sky unfurling across the world looking as if they could fold
the surface of the earth into themselves all the distances the named
places rolled up as if the map of everything had served its purpose
and could be put away for good sorry one more apocalypse for the road
BÁLINT BALASSI: THE TWELFTH OF ITS KIND (TRANSLATION)
1
Can’t you see the earth’s exquisite flowers
glittering in the wind?
Roses and violets spend their fragrant hours
shining like jewels pinned
to meadows. A bright rain of birdsong showers
down on heath and woodland.
2
Wreathed in fresh roses, devout virgins dance
with young men, and the small
Children chant their songs. Life is a trance
of happiness, and all
Earth, sky, streams and lakes in their abundance
display a vast renewal.
3
Even Cupid swept back his blonde hair
from his forehead, and on wings
Delicate as an angel’s took to the air,
his merry wanderings
Prompting the lovers’ dance, while everywhere
the bell of betrothal rings.
4
So no regrets, my kind warrior friend,
let your troubles fade.
We’ve borne our sorrows long enough, we’ll send
them packing. We are made
For dancing, drinking, joy and mirth. Let’s end
grief’s ruinous crusade.
5
With no one else in our thoughts, our destiny
as youthful knights was all
That worried us - just when and where would we
be woken by the call
to arms? Though who could trouble us, if He
is with us when we fall?
6
Love’s anxieties, distressing sorrows,
keep your distance! Good wine
In golden goblets will remove the furrows
from our brows. God’s divine
Joy is in this day. All our tomorrows
will be His sunlit shrine.
7
A poet named Marullus wrote this piece
in Latin. I have penned
It in Hungarian, sitting at ease
in a meadow, with my gallant
Horse beside me. It’s time to rise,
all grief abandoned.
(version in English by Ross Gillett after the translation from the Hungarian by Arthur Kapantzian – see below).
ORIGINAL POEM
[TIZENKETTŐDIK]
DECIMA SECUNDA - EJUSDEM GENERIS
az nótája Lucretia énekének
1
Széllyel tündökleni nem látd-é ez földet
gyönyörű virágokkal?
Mezők illatoznak jó szagú rózsákkal,
sokszínű violákkal,
Berkek, hegyek, völgyek mindenütt zöngenek
sokféle madárszókkal.
2
Új rózsakoszorós kegyesek és szüzek
ifiakkal táncolnak,
Jószavú gyermekek vígan énekelnek,
mindenek vígan laknak,
Mind menny, föld és vizek, látd-é, úgy tetszenek,
mintha megújulnának.
3
Sőt még Cupido is mostan feltörlötte
homlokán szőke haját,
Gyönge szárnyacskáján té-tova, mint angyal
röpül, víg kedvet mutat,
Szerelmes táncokban kinek-kinek adván
kezére szép mátkáját.
4
Azért ne bánkódjál, én jó vitéz társom,
ürülj minden gondoktól,
Eléggé hordoztuk héában az sok bút,
légyen már tőlünk távol,
Mostan igyunk, lakjunk, vigadjunk, táncoljunk,
távozzunk bánatunktól!
5
Nemde valakiért aggasztaljuk volt mi
inkább ifjú éltünket,
Kiből, azt sem tudjuk, hol és mely órában
kiszólítnak bennünket?
Kivel mit gondoljunk? Ha Isten jó urunk,
ő mindennel jól tehet.
6
Aggasztaló bánat, búszerző szerelem
távol légyen mitőlünk,
Jó borokkal töltött aranyas pohárok
járjanak miközöttünk,
Mert ez napot Isten örvendetességre
serkengeti fel nékünk!
7
Marullus poéta azt deákul írta,
ím, én penig magyarul,
Jó lovam mellett való füven létemben
fordítám meg deákbúl,
Mikor vígan laknám vitéz szolgáimmal,
távozván bánatimtúl.
DRAFT TRANSLATION by ARTHUR KAPANTZIAN
[TIZENKETTŐDIK]
DECIMA SECUNDA -EJUSDEM GENERIS
his song is the song of Lucretia
1
Can't you see this World’s brilliant
beautiful flowers?
Can’t you smell the fragrance of roses
and colourful violets
Songs of birds permeate in the meadow echoing everywhere
in the valleys of the mountains,
2
New wedded virgins dancing with
their young spouse
Innocent merry children sing
they happy songs
They are in heaven, earth, and waters,
you see, they are appear revitalized.
3
Even, Cupido has wiped his forehead
Under his blonde hair
Fleeing with his delicate wings, like an angel
Jubilantly encourage all
Holding hands everyone, leading each other
into dance with joy and love for ever
4
But you don't be worry, my good cavalier companion,
Be free from trouble and stay happy.
We carried long enough our sadly past,
Let it go away from us forever
Let us be happy, enjoy a good drink, laugh and dance, now
let's leave behind our grief!
5
We were worried about our youthful life
Rather than anything else,
We didn't know where and when the time is up
picking us and we must leave?
Whom shall we think about? If our Lord is good to us,
he will take care of everything.
6
Let leave us all the sorrow, anxious love
do not allow them close to us
But filled up our glasses with good wines
That is what we deserve,
Because this is the day to please our God
urging him to consecrate us!
7
Marullus's poet wrote this in Latin,
behold, I pencilled same in Hungarian,
Sitting next to my good horse in the meadow
I translate this poem from Latin
When my valiant servant and I satisfied with meal and
leave all our grief behind
The Bálint Balassi Memorial Sword Award is a European award for literature presented in Budapest since 1997. It commemorates the major 16th Century Hungarian poet Bálint Balassi, a contemporary of Cervantes and Shakespeare. In 2021 Ross Gillett was given the award for translating poems by Balassi. Ross was invited to participate in the award on a collaborative basis by Hungarian-born poet and solicitor Arthur Kapantzian in 2019. Arthur lived in Melbourne, and was very active in the promotion of Hungarian literature in Australia. Sadly, he died after a short illness soon after presenting Ross with the last of the literal translations of the four Balassi poems required by the project. The process required the turning of Arthur’s work into English versions with the aid of Arthur’s translations and a very big Hungarian-English dictionary. These English versions (of which one is presented here) employ rhythms and rhymes as similar as possible to those in the original poems, as they are major aspects of the innovative and highly skilled technique for which Balassi is renowned. This approach can be risky for a translator, but Ross Gillett’s English versions have been well received by Balassi Award officials and other Balassi translators.
Statement of poetics
For me the writing of a poem is very much about (no surprises here) the line break and the image. The breaking of a line, even if enjambment is in full swing, creates that pause, that slight twist in the text, resulting in the characteristic movement of poetry. Line breaks can also separate parts of a sentence from the rest, so that sitting at the end or start of a line they are briefly perceived in isolation and can take on strange meaning. I always read my poems so that the line break can be felt. It matters a lot, therefore, just where the lines are broken. In this context I should add that I am haunted by the pentameter line. I write quite a lot of blank verse and rhymed pentameter, but even my short-lined free verse can display underlying pentameteristic tendencies across the lines.
The search for the original image is at the heart of it all. When successful it means that not only are things, experiences, seen and felt intensely, but that new things and experiences are revealed in all their complexity and intensity (it is the amazing originality of her imagery that, I think, makes Emily Dickinson the first great modern poet). This belief in the revelatory power of the image attaches to a more general belief in the primacy of the fictionalising imagination. If I have a credo, it may be that imaginative truth can be truer than historical or biographical truth, and that a poem which has its origins in autobiography, in memory, will often be at its most revelatory, its truest, when it has begun to throw up deeply imagined fictional material.
Given the Unborder project, I should add that a major influence on my poems is the great paperback series from the 1960s and 70s, Penguin Modern European Poets. It features high quality translations (or high quality versions, at least) of the work of around forty poets from Europe and South America, and introduced them (for the first time in many or most cases – certainly in my case) to poets writing in English. So many styles and voices, very different from anything I knew being produced in England, America or Australia, opened up new pathways. I was stunned by poets such as Holub and Ungaretti, Tranströmer and Haaviko, and poems of theirs and many of the other poets in the series remain favourites of mine.
