Géza Képes: Landscape with Spirit (Lelkes táj)

The idle clouds are deep asleep,
the meadow-scent is dizzying;
Christ-face is the sun with bloody
tears, sudarium is the lake.

Poplar is trembling on the shore,
looking at blood on its torso,
staring, whining with tangled look:
is it its killer, is it, great god?

But evening has fallen: peace-kiss,
the lake enveloped in cool robe.
The silent landscape is listening,
the poplar stopped trembling. Dozed off.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Ágnes Nemes Nagy: Spruce (Fenyő)

Big, yellow sky. A ridge is lying
heavily on the smooth meadow.
Dark iron filings of immobile
grass cover the magnetic ground.

There is a larch, it is at loss.
Something is buzzing. It is cold.
Something is buzzing: along the vast
trunk of the pine post with tattered bark,
with scaly roots it is moving up
a paleolithic telegram.

Higher up a bird, an unknown bird
above in the sky - the bird is
without a face, it frowns -,
the light behind it is now dimming,
blind windows, closing eyelids, -
just the buzz, buzzing is the night,
and the black heart of rays of light
crumpled to coal by invisible,
black foliage, as it purrs up.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Gyula Juhász: Trees (Fák)

Quiet are the trees in the garden
standing still in the autumnal light.
Daydreaming maybe about summer,
one or two leaves are falling at times.

Stillness of life is filling this peace,
the tranquility, this large breed,
sacred web of eternal forces,
I, the fallen leaf, will be vanished.

I will then be part of dry leaves,
while above me the young trees stretched high 
are going to show with victory
their crown up to the eternal sky.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Zoltán Nadányi: You are Nowhere Anymore (Te már sehol se vagy)

No more do you give me your hand,
you don’t give me your lips,
no more do you leave your sweet scent
nowhere on my clothing.

Even in dreams, you are cold,
always you are ice cold.
Already left me in my dream
you're nowhere anymore.

Not even a tomb-stone or an urn
has been left behind.
You are nowhere anymore,
not on earth or down below.

I am just looking and guessing
where my dearest has gone.
For her just looking and looking,
awaken or in dream.

Because she is around, I know,
just fell behind, where, how?
I’ll be looking for as long as
I'm nowhere anymore.

Walking somewhere together on
the winding, scenic roads,
perhaps of an old summer, we
the old, the old couple.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Ferenc Juhász : Silver Poplars Tremble (Reszket az ezüstnyárfasor)

The silver poplars are trembling,
they would like to fly, glide
with wild geese around the moon
their feathers flickering.

The poplars are weeping and weeping,
their weak shoulders are shaking.
Spinsters with hair of forged silver
grieve thus their fate for lacking marriage.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Miklós Radnóti: Changing Landscape (Változó táj)

In the puddle steps the wind
whistles and runs outside,

suddenly turns around
and slams the gate behind.

The puddle flatly winks
and then the lazy trees
open up suddenly

their bird like tiny lips.

All around muddled noise,
even the leaves mumble,
small towers of dust are
being built in dust bowls.

The squirrel-brown monk stops
his walking on the road,
above a brown squirrel
jumps the branches across.

Then with great watchfulness
what moved before: stiffens,
the landscape carrying
the sky as a big hat.

When it moves again,
almost all is quiet,
the wind hid in the shrub
getting ready for rest.

Smiling is the meadow,
round and ready to laugh,
softly swaying from where
my lady comes along.

Seeing me, starts to run
towards me in the grass
in her hair floating by
golden rays the sun bites.

Getting clearer around
and becoming tranquil
the chased off light returns
embracing everything

and what used to carry
the sky as a big hat:
waving with the clouds is
the landscape, the hatless.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Gábor Devecsery: Exchange of Roles (Szerepcsere)

Honey-scent of linden
pouring through the window;
idyllic memories of
past breakfasts riddle
the presence of summer.
Enough’s left for winter:
honey on the table,
turn around the picture:
above - happy phantom -
linden-scent of honey
scents the present summer.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Mihály Babits: Fugitive Love (A szökevény szerelem)

Many years, many years:
our love is still that burns?

I think, this is not love,
the love we had is long gone.
Love set me on fire,
on fire then retired,
left me here,
left me here.

Like two beautiful trees
burning on deserted fields
their burning flames collide,
the two become one:
they are red,
they are red.

Two oil wells, not two trees,
collide with their burning tongues -
they are deep, they don’t burn out.
Love already has gone far,
is laughing,
is laughing.

Who needs love here anymore
my dearest of all?
I can only love you the way
as I am loving myself,
blazing and scorching, cruelly

and the fugitive love behind,
as I feel it, is laughing.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Antal Hidas: Loving You - I Am Alive (Míg szeretlek - élek)

As long as you love me

I will live, I won't die.

Guide me as Polaris,

my fear is not to die.

No time, no distance

can break or destroy.

Your ever growing love

dissolves all this horror.

Storms can drag me around,

winds can whirl me about:

and wanting it boldly

this dread I do carry.

I do love you more than

I ever loved before.

Listen to the growing

grass singing a swishing song:

spring will come, spring is here . . .

Life is marching along,

it’s burning in the spring . . .

Loving you - I am alive!

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Gábor Garai: I Am With You (Veled vagyok)

Do you feel when you’re worried or sad, 

I am with you, I talk to you;

as I also hear your sad sigh waft 

to me when I have my trouble!

I cannot ever live without you;

you see, if you are far or near 

- although your sweet charm is all around - 

your bitter joy embraces me. 

We who became one in pain, in the

forbidden zone (and in sin - would

the saints say!), will we find one fine day

our word of mutual grace?

Will we find it? We would search for it,

hungrily until judgement day!

Till this unlikely light shines on us 

the diamond-moon of our faith.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Jenő Dsida: Every Day Ends in the Evening (Minden nap esttel végződik)

Every day ends in the evening.
All the noise, all ends in silence.
Everything ends with something that's nothing
and suffering becomes a dead letter.

They close the windows here, there, everywhere,
dark shutter-eyes without any reason
embrace my face, pull it to their own.
Every day ends in the evening.

I'm looking for a gate with no angel,
looking for those still open eyes
that tell me: I understand you.
Yet, all the noise, all ends in silence.

They also lock the churches at this time of night,
God wraps himself into his spiraled,
heavy and dense many-pleated coat -
everything ends with something that's nothing.

Nobody may talk as late as that time of night,
the beggars huddle together under caved bushes,
the crickets are chirping. It's evening.
And suffering becomes a wordless poem.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Mihály Váci: At the End (Végül)

Nothing matters at the end, nothing at all but

to be loved!

Ah! To want someone as much as to even endure 

not to be loved!

Oh, those escapes, then to hang on! The only desire       

is to be loved!

Afraid to be alone. An embrace! And you will endure

not to be loved.

Mellowed from loneliness, and the only wish at the end is 

not to be scorned.

To experience illness, disasters and silvery Christmas Eve

without anyone, alone?

To realize the passing time, what is now, what is 

still going to be, alone?!

Ah, no! Nothing matters at the end, nothing at all

- not even to be loved.

Oh, at the end, he only cries, wants to still love someone,

wants to still love someone.

To have someone who would let you: - think about you 

One or two nights. 

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Anna Follinus: Myself (Magam)

Someone else shares the bed.

This year it’s me: myself.

The faceless can undress

only to leave a mask.

Message from Á. at night.

A sharp and waking tone.

The rhythm of the heart-

bell had been broken off.

Usually talkative,

now behaves like a fish…

Waiting for some feelings

to reach you but then slips

away from you withdrawn

for cannot be united with

the one who had met and

took on eternity.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Anna Follinus: Between Two Silences (Két csend között)

You conceal a name only,

the other hides all that's behind it.

You question who it can be –

asks you back: who you want it to be.

Teach me to be yourself please –

you implore between two silences.

Only the grey eyelashes,

not what has been broken, are falling.

But at night when you’re asleep,

nestling against you, in your dream

makes birds fly and chases deer,

frightened of itself, into your sleep.

Getting up at dawn, in silence

sneaks out of your room leaving behind

just a blanket on your bed,

like frightened ants their crumbs behind.

Then, still snuggles up to you,

pokes around you looking for spring.

You will see – when touching you –

the fingers are swinging with the reed.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Anna Follinus: Between Transience and Eternity (Mulandóság és öröklét között)

In loneliness I am also alone.
I’m learning to talk without vocal cords.
There is no relief, no support at all.
After one word I stop, I do not talk.

It is cold, I wrap my coat around me.
I only listen to the sound of movements.
Without silence there is no destiny,
neither is there any peace left for me.

When I point at myself I look at you.
I search for the person I could be in you.
Every day I write a letter to you,
yet every evening slips by without you.

Then desires mount above me in bed,
and at times they also come and lift me.
However, now I am defenseless when
you embrace and yet do not embrace me.

That the kiss is: just a flower head hanging.
That your chest is: between earth and fruit tree.
I would tie your far away world to me –
tying transience to eternity.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Anna Follinus: From Word to Word (Szótól szóig)

To the 50th anniversary of Attila Gérecz’s death

To survive someone else’s death
is as impossible as to survive
your own. The one who hopes for more
is going then point behind himself.

Where did we leave those still alive? -
my mirror finds only unknown faces.
Would there be just one among them
offering himself to be touched by me?

Whom this fate invoked a poem,
would he discover where that sickle moon
had cut away from his own soul
what he did have way back in his childhood?

Klauzal Square is bare tonight.
From word to word the silence is spreading.
Don’t look here for the sot of glare,
bright light, behind the Sun you shall see it!

What, don’t you see it? … Featherless,
who’s going to redeem you but yourself?
How far do you – broken ridge-arched,
lonely hill range move from the poem?

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

István Vas: In Golden Net (Arany hálóban)

The pheasant is pacing in the golden net,

           his crest is blue and dark.

On heavy silver gown of golden embers:
          the twilight-sky.

The calyx of the purple peony-shrub
           pouring powerful scents,
with its golden foliage happily smiles
           the young elm branch.

How you belonged to be among these flowers,
           your flower-petal hair.
A dancing leaflet on the old twig, you are
           so far away!

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Lőrinc Szabó: What Can be Saved (Ami menthető)

I am tired of sadness, it has
tortured me long enough, and now,
I am looking at it with anger
as if it was some kind of grime,

I look at it like an enemy,
as I must, with hostility:
it is too easy to be sad and
I have no more time for it.

Indeed I don’t, since from morning till
night I’m working for my children,
I have less money than last year and
my heart has gotten even worse,

and this will continue through my life,
it can only become worse, thus
I do try to endure it all, and
if ruined, I don’t mind at all:

this is how I am trying to save
whatever I can from my life,
and once in a while I may perhaps
be even happy for a short time.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

György Somlyó: A Tale of the Hornbeam (Mese a gyertyánról)

Standing in entire yellow amongst winter-stripped trees alone

As if it was still bringing forth but yellow foliage
And why indeed must the foliage be green

Why does the sunshine not reveal yellow or purple from the lamina of chromatophores
Dresses up in the death of summer – that is also part of its life
Standing under it
With thousand candle lights around you
The silence is waving in yellow

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Rákos: Picture of a Tree in the Reflection of the Creek (Fa képe a patak tükrében)

I know, I discovered rather early,
that what I see is reflection only,
deceptive illusion, not a real tree,
although has a crown as well as big leaves,
yet no drunken bird wants to sing on it,
the bird only alights on the real tree -
alights on the real tree? But what looks real
is it not a reflection of something
even more genuine that stands somewhere -
and the most ancient bird sings on that tree?

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Margit Kaffka: I Have No Faith (Nem hiszek)

A tired butterfly had swung while dying
From ravaged twigs under a brownish leaf.
The subdued shadow of pallid foliage
Quaveringly chased the autumnal beams.

This life has been a very sad fairy tale.
Hundreds of birds were ready on the tree.
And they all chattered as a farewell to me
About my summer never to return.

The night has fallen after my bitter sigh,
And the sky became flooded with tearful stars.
Dreams came to pay me a visit on that night,
With as bright light as never seen in years.

My little room was very small and narrow,
Yet, able to hold a whole fairyland.
– And I dreamt about happiness, great and bold,
About great, happy fairy tale I dreamt.

I had often dreamt of heavenly beauty
And with aching heart I always awoke.
Enough! I do not want to dream anymore,
Or, to weep over perished hopes, no more.

I know: the sober, grey morning comes next day,
A blanket of fog and cold. It'll be sad.
Even if happiness came along today,
I still would not trust it. I have no faith.


1901

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Margit Kaffka: A Wanderer’s Song (Wherever I go fields of flowers show) (Vándor ének (Amerre járok, nő virág))

Wherever I go fields of flowers show: –
As I pluck at them – it's you I think of.
The prettiest rose I would send you now,
You are far away, there is no way how, -
It would fade away if arrived at all!

I have a pigeon, – with wings that are white, –
I would send it to you for a reply,
I know it is fast when it is in flight, – but -
It has a nest at the edge of the forest,
Never reaching you, – it would stay behind.

And deep inside my heart – my dearest man,
Even my melody becomes pointless.
Would the current of showers carry it, ---
See, will get lost in far away valleys,
I don't trust it with the song my heart has.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

György Petri: I Would Like to Know (Szeretném tudni)

I would like to know why I am still around,
when no one here has any use of me.
I am rolling about like a worm in dust
without any future, homeland or spring.
I miss intensely the universalism,
if existed, I could be back on my feet.
I am guilty, I have worked very hard
on completely ruining my own paradise,
for I was too conceited, being a fool,
anything, I thought, I'd be able to do.
(Or rather, I thought, would I explode like a bomb?)
I don't know, I don't know... Pure reason?
Eats away at reality just like mould:
this much has it amounted to - pure reason.
And disgusted, had enough of ourselves:
our body is finished, above it floats the spirit.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

György Petri: Pop-song (Sláger)

The great work, no doubt, is held off for good,
all the past years have taken their toll.
I've exploited myself with no mercy,
and I see now, the uselessness of it.

Futile is all that toilsome energy
with a machine of low efficiency.
And it is late: beyond fifty some years
you cannot make changes, you cannot change.

It is pointless to lament or be mad,
the desert of old age is now waiting,
the skin is wrinkling, the teeth are falling,
let's live a little bit before dying.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

György Petri: À propos Bach

“Komm süsser Tod!”
That is: dessert is next!
Having had stuffed ourselves
with lifelong sad feasts:
namely: marriages, divorces,
children, grand-children and “other supplements”.
Now on the Death-cake,
the one who blows the candles
all at once, will win his deserved
reward: a heart failure.
The grave, like motherly arms, has been waiting
for a long time to take him back.
(I know, this punch line sputters, like fat,
however, I am the crackling,
and death has come to get me now, death has cracked me down!)

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Self-portrait (Önarckép)

My friend, you want to tell me that you know me,
look at my room: you will not find ornaments
there that I had chosen myself; open my closet:
no characteristic items there.

My beloved and my dog, they both know my caresses
but don’t know me. My worthless musical instrument
is used to the hills and dales of my hand
but cannot tell about me either.

Yet, I am not hiding – I just don't really exist.
I act and suffer like everybody else,
but my deepest existence is nonexistence.

My friend, I do not have secrets.
I am transparent like glass – and for this reason
how can you imagine that you can see me?

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: The Lindens Are All in Bloom (A hársfa mind virágzik)

The lindens are all in bloom,
the siskins they all sing,
the leaves soak in the rays,
but your heart falls asleep.

The girls open up to you,
like jewelry boxes -
you don’t even turn to look,
spiders have webbed your mood.

Your only wish - to have faith,
serve the Lord in Heaven,
cast off all the vanities,
wear only a hair-shirt.

The lindens are all in bloom,
the siskins they all sing,
the leaves soak in the rays,
but your heart falls asleep.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Homecoming (Hazatérés)

Avid concern fills my mother’s eyes.
Deformed charges in my father's -
yet, for my homecoming, he brought up
his old vintage bottle of wine.

Old and sick is our trusted dog,
skin and bones . . . a pitiful sight.
He will be buried quite soon, I know,
right on the alfalfa hillside.

At dinner, a few words - then silence.
And that silence is yelling loud.
As if a platter heaping of food
was crying after tasty salt.

Mother looks at me, then my father:
is he the one who used to be?
And up in the sky, like in olden times,
the moustached moon is waiting.

We used to play much with our dog
a lot like some wild impostors!
Now, when I am caressing his head
he responds with wriggles and growls.

Why are we not able to enjoy
when food and wine are delicious?
Why are all of us here on this Earth
eternal strangers together?

Why can I not weep, why can’t I cry
seeing my parents as they age
without gently caressing their face
as used to do in bygone days?

The ivy-crypt is going to hide
then three deceased unknown bodies.
And up in the sky, like in olden times,
the moustached moon is waiting.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Eternal Moment (Örök pillanat)

What you don't trust to crumbling stone:
design in the atmosphere.
There are sometimes moments in life
that become distant from time,

what the stone does not want to guard,
protects it in treasured fists,
does not have a future or past,
itself is eternity.

Like some fish after it had brushed
the bather's thigh then slipped by -
so you may feel the presence of 
God within you at times:

half memory in the present,
later it is like a dream.
And already before your death
you taste the eternity.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: At An Early Age 1936 (Az élet elején 1936)

The bluish fog of my dawn is fraying.
Precocious loneliness of childhood,
sepulchral aimlessness in the void yawning,

          oh, where are you?

The path had lead through bushy thickets.
Now I see fresh regions when turning:
you, blooming crops in fertile valley,
          far away summits!

My knees carry my travel fever.
And I take the ancient child I was,
with me in a tiny coffin,
          like an amulet.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Canzone

To My Wife

I don't know yet what you mean to me,
my heart about you keeps me muted,
covered in veil you are my dear,
and to you, I don't know what I mean,
bringing you good fortune, I still don't know,
or my mortal ornament in gold and diamond:
new and sweet infliction,
through its trails it is hard to find the right course.

I only know my heart expected nobody,
and suddenly you became his company,
taking away life and death,
returning it to new magnificence;
within me a forest: homeless beast of prey,
flocks of birds from lightning hurried away;
my shelter will fall apart,
in case you failed to find your home inside.

I only know that with your pliant curves
mine is familiar almost forever,
with my head nesting on your breast,
in front of you, no shame, I often wept,
I hide nothing from you and you proceed
intimately on my wild Tibetan field,
wavering compassion,
or star-seeking eyes hanging on the night-sky.

Shattered nerve, this bad owl finds the calm,
blue taper of your eyes; little lady,
cuddling against your knees the dog
of sensuality is falling asleep;
and the King of Light, the eternal soul is
still silent inside, may not know your lovely
name and is not judging,
thus, in red mantle, in love, he is waiting.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Sándor Weöres: Toccata

To my Friend Imre Bata

As I get older
I do find:
my life is clinging
to the past,

my roots are deep down
pulling me
while putting up with
history.

My childhood was:
imps and fairies;
not radio
or a TV,

horses and donkeys
had trotted,
automobiles were
rarity,

followed by fast
groups of children
in awe they chased,
and ran after.

The sky was empty,
a blue field,
no airplanes had put
streaks on it.

Railway cars or light:
the gleams of
far away little
train stations.

My fifty years
had plunged deeper:
from tales and fares,
I uncover,

from memories
I assemble
my grandfather,
great-grandfather,

I had long known
Klapka, Perczel,
my old brothers:
as I called them

because Rákóczi
or Drugeth
thought that I was an
old beggar.

How terribly old
I am! Then
Platon may have known
me even,

but I was an odd
character,
and he saw a boy
prettier.

When there was not
even a man,
fern shrub bending
over my head,

the shrub had called me
an old man.
When was I born then?
Not ever.

I carried two good
fistful of
dust easily from
creation,

roving nobody
is my name,
Maitreya, Amor,
also Love,

I have been here since
ancient times,
but will die with a
butterfly.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Attila József: With All My Heart (Tiszta szívvel)

Without father or mother,
without god or any state,
I have no cradle or cover,
I have no kiss or lover.

Haven't eaten for three days,
neither much nor smaller shares.
Twenty years are my power,
I can sell my twenty years.

If nobody wants to buy them,
then the devil will take them.
I will steal with all my heart,
I will kill too if I must.

Will be caught and then be hanged,
be buried in blessed land
and death-bearing grass will grow
from my heart the glorious.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Attila József: You Know There Is No Pardon (Tudod, hogy nincs bocsánat)

You know there is no pardon,
useless is then your sorrow.
Be what you would be: a man.
Behind you, grass will still grow.

The crime will not be lighter,
no use shedding tears after.
That you are the truth for this,
be grateful for that at least.

Don't accuse and don't promise,
to yourself, should not be mean,
don't triumph and don't flatter,
don't follow that other crowd.

Remain to be redundant,
secrets should never be found.
Don’t despise this humanity,
after all, you are part of it.

Remember how you’ve raved
and have begged to no avail.
You became a false witness
at your very own inquest.

In ruin you called for Lord,
for man if there wasn't god.
And found instead wretched kids
in psychoanalysis.

You believed in carefree words,
believed paid supporters,
and look, never were you told
that you were good and not wronged.

Were loved by being cheated,
you can't love since you cheated.
You should squeeze the loaded gun
to your idle empty heart.

Or throw away your principles
and look forward to true love,
for you would trust only those
who trusted you like a dog.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Endre Ady: The Fate of Hungarian Trees (Magyar fa sorsa)

Leaves of Hungarian trees
drop and fall off in my heart:
in leaf and in full bloom, this
is the way I have to die.

I came from Sylvania,
from the home of the forests:
didn’t pray but foliated,
and entreated god rarely.

I poured flowers all over,
bloomed for worse and for better:
others were bearing their fruit,
I have blossomed forever.

I am old and a pagan
and still don’t say a prayer:
do keep falling to your death
Hungarian leaves and flowers.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

Endre Ady : The Best Person (A legjobb ember)

I am entirely full of
Fear, full of weakness, full of love.
I’m a coward:
I am the best living person.

If I plan, time reveals my plan,
If I hate, my hate fades away,
If I get mad,
I will be mad until my death.

In cowardice and in madness,
Nobody glowed any better,
And when I love,
I am the greatest one in love.

If I have doubts, they will be gone,
Silence, if comes, is my cradle,
When I must go,
If asked to go, then I will go.

I can believe, await and cheat,
What I lack is to want something,
And without doubt,
I will die magnificently.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: Midnight Bath (Éjféli fürdés)

The lake is clear today, alive,
glaring like the light of a knife
breathing by waves, like a mirror
being broken by my arm strokes
in a slow fight. The profoundly
disturbed element is biting
back with anxious, savage teeth.
Defeated, lying idly
and eavesdropping. Only the stars
twinkle like fish in the water
of abandoned skies, locked in,
like swimming birds, meditating.

I am looking at them, their flight
in the merciless and deaf sky,
I, the orphaned monster, being
crushed by armor, by scarred apathy,
who asks for or expects nothing,
just stares endlessly and softly;
slippery, thick scales cover all
my heart, where deep inside nestle
good-sweet revulsion, resistant,
treacherous spears that the water,
the water and the slow deepness
have hammered in me unnoticed.

For the reedy meadow is waiving
down below, the clams are happy
underneath, thick, light-ripened
silence fills their heart with quiver.
And as if it heard a calling,
the night has begun falling,
seaweed carries me or the stars,
I don’t even know, where am I?
At an ancient celebration
where sky, water, and I are the
same and some timeless weeping is
being heard flooding everything!
Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: How Ambiguous (Milyen felemás)

How ambiguous emotions, what
diverse attractions we are living amidst,
yet, we are falling like stones do,
straight and without ambiguity.

In the net of how many forms of shame
and imaginary honour we flounder about,
yet, we are supposed to bring everything
that is meant to be concealed, in the open.

How
late we understand that the
obscurity of eyes may be brighter
than a lamplight, and how late
we notice the world eternally
falling on her knees.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: From Here to Eternity (Örökkön-örökké)

I wait if I have to, go when driven off,
my remaining modesty silenced me though,
the sound of my voice would not reach you anyway,
better to keep quiet about my complaints.

I suffer, tire out with obedience:
Isaac didn't ask his father, I don’t ask you either
why you keep tormenting me, while I silently do
what’s left for me, the obedient servant, to do.

By no means is there response to my resentment:
why did you feed me, not enough, nevertheless?
Why did you bedazzle me for many a daylight
if your radiance was not to become my sunshine?

After my death, while resting on your heart,
everything you've done to me, I will complain about,
I will have, at long last, a good cry in your arms,
aloud, with no consolation, I will only cry!

You have never loved me, not for one moment,
you may have given me food but never yourself,
I will cry forever for all the anxiety
I’ve had for you, myself, from here to eternity!

I am crying with you forever and ever,
as your hold is becoming more and more violent,
as my embrace is becoming tighter and tighter,
becoming happier as well as unhappier.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: When You Arrive (Mire megjössz)

I will be alone when you arrive,
the only one who’s left alive,
only down feathers fill the empty pen,
only stars are left instead of the sky.

Being in unburied orphanage,
like in a wintry garbage dump,
plucking amongst the heap of rubbish,
I am rummaging through my life.

That will be our absolute peace.
Even my heartbeat is silent,
ecstatic barricades of silence
surround us from everywhere.

The timeless and mere eternity.
It is yours, and no one’s but yours,
and it has been meant for you only
this marvelous simplicity.

Like a basket man without his limbs,
time has been resting wordlessly,
desire has lost its arms and legs,
a gasping trunk is all that's left.

When you arrive, all will be lost,
my house, soft bed both will be gone,
then we’re going to be able to
lounge around freely in complete joy.

Just don't steal from me! Don't desert me!
If you are weak, I will be finished.
Waking up in bed among pillows
to street-noise would be despicable.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: To Myself (Magamhoz)

Endure bravely your solitude,
I’m keeping records of you,
don’t let the stars direct your fate,
destiny shall grow within you.

When it strikes between corners of
wakeful shoulders with a hiss,
you are better than us, I know,
within you grief is blazing.

Be then like animals, crudely
beautiful and guiltless,
listen courageously, as they
do to their brutal secrets.

And one night, you won’t even know,
just like celestial strains,
bygone days will return to you,
the always immortal years:

nobody will find you at night,
belatedly and crying,
in vain they cross your yard at night:
only I see you. Or not even I.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: On a Forbidden Star (Tilos csillagon)

I was born on a forbidden star,
now jogging along on the shore,
the surf of heavenly void picks me up,
plays with me then throws me off.

Why doing penance, don’t even know.
Everything’s a hissing riddle,
don’t run away finding me on shore,
on this sunken muddy shore.

Don’t be afraid either, or run from
me, instead of calming my suffering,
hold me tight with closed eyes, hold me as
bravely as you would hold a knife.

Dare to claim me to be yours, as below
the dead have the night as their own,
your shoulder to hold my weak shoulder,
I can’t carry on any longer!

I didn’t wish to come to this world,
the void had me and was my nurse,
love me darkly and brutally, as
one left behind loves his departed.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: Fall Sketch (Őszi vázlat)

From the eavesdropping garden
trees are whiffing into space,
fragile and vast is the silence,
the meadow is looking for space.

Your heart is sinking with alarm,
the road furtively hurries by,
the rose bush is snooping likewise
at itself with a nervous smile:

far away in doubtful regions
grief is setting out to be born.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: Epilogue (Utószó)

For Pierre Emmanuel

Do you remember? On the cheeks.
Do you remember? The empty ditch.
Do you remember? Flowing below.
Do you remember? In the sun standing.

You are reading the Paris Journal.
Since then it’s winter, winter night.
You are setting the table nearby,
making the bed by the moonlight.

In the night of the bare house
you are undressing without a breath.
You drop your shirt, you drop your clothes.
Naked tombstone is your bare back.

It is an unhappy picture.
Is anyone here?
A wakeful dream:
without an answer I cross rooms
in the depth of mirrors as they’re lying.

Is this then my face, this face here?
The light, the silence, the judgment is rattling,
as my face, this stone is flying
from the snow-white mirror at me!

And the horsemen! And the horsemen!
Bothering darkness and hurting light.
Thin spray of water trickles down
on to the motionless porcelain.

I am knocking on closed off doors.
Your room is as dark as a deep shaft.
Coldness is blazing on the walls.
I’m smearing my weeping on the wall.

You snow-covered house roofs, help me please!
It is night now. Let all that is orphan gleam
before the day of nothingness
arrives. Let all of you gleam for nothing!

I put my head against the wall.
A dead city is offering me,
to the dead a handful of snow,
the snow of mercy from everywhere.

I loved you! An outcry, a sigh,
a fugitive cloud on the run.
And the horsemen at stormy, dense
trot arrive at the time of muddy dawn.

Translated by: Maria Bencsath

János Pilinszky: Celebration of Nadir (A mélypont ünnepélye)

Who dares to read
in the blood heated sties?
And who dares
on the rough-hewn field
at the time of tidal sky,
and of the earth ebbing away
to wander anywhere?

Who dares
to stop, eyes closed
on the nadir,
there, where
you always find one last waving,
a roof,
a beautiful face, or even
a single hand, a nod, a gesture?

Who can
calmly snuggle up to dreams
overcoming childhood grief,
lifting the sea like a handful
of water to his cheeks?

Translated by: Maria Bencsath