And there, on the dry meadows, Rags and paper litter The ragged, papery grass. 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. Dead still I watched the guard, what was he sensing? How tall is the sky at dawn! I have no mother no father no God no homeland no cradle no pall no kisses no lover. Sit down with us; make clear What you are used to saying; the known relate, That you are here among us, and our state Is yours, and that we all are here with you, All whose concerns are worthy of man’s due. I am he who has gazed a hundred thousand years On that which he now sees for the first time.

Too well these workshops keep The secret of resurrection. Help yourself to sausage and bread. In my eyes grief dissolves; I ran like a deer; Tree-gnawing wolves In my heart followed near. May his parents, love and intellect watch over their unruly child. Tell me what lies in store for a man who works to keep his family; They quarrel over the cabbage stalk only the big girl can go to a movie. That is what troubles me. We are listening to you, glad, like one in bed, To see to-day, before that sudden night, A European mid people barbarous, white.

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. In the street a policeman, A muttering workman, pass.


I’ll not hold my disputatious tongue. Re-creation by curriculm of ideas is still a remaining possibility and translations produced in this way may often surpass, match or approach the effect of the original.

Each ancestor am I, to the first cell. So is the wood where the picnic grew. Flushes-blushes sweet Mary, sweet Mary, little mother she’s happy.

Hungarian Poetry

He is best who, bearing disillusion, pauses. All our sausage we have eaten, our fine boots look weatherbeaten, six handfuls of gold we have got, also incense in a big pot. Twenty years are my attika, I shall sell my twenty years. Gripping a basket of washing fast, On, and up to the attic she passed.

Perhaps, if no else will the buyer will be the devil.

Curriculum vitae józsef attila?

How tall is the sky at dawn! The water is running, take a bath. In our family goodness is a guest. I was sharpening my pencil the knife in my hand.

And then one day by hook or crook You’ll find a wife who’ll kiss and cook. If he struggles on, he’ll die of this but if he gives in, of that he’ll die. Who part from me, in silence, and run away like the waterfall from its own rumble while I, between the peaks of my life, near to the far, cry out and reverberate rebounding against sky and earth that I love you, you sweet step-mother. On the bottom step that from the wharf descends I sat, and watched a melon-rind float by.

curriculum vitae józsef attila

But what concern are memories to me? Through the windows of textile mills Fly moonbeams in sheaves – Moon thread till morning weaves On motionless looms a fabric Of girl workers’ dreams. There can be no doctrines. A night that wears oily rags Heaves a sigh, Halts in curficulum sky; Then settles on the outskirts, Waddles over the square And lights a attila of moon to see by. You brought me your supper but did I ask for it?


The train is taking me, I am going perhaps I may even find you atila. See, your mother is falling asleep: Undulating hills rise star constellations oscillate lakes move, factories operate millions of living creatures insects seaweed cruelty and goodness stir the sun shines, a misty arctic light looms – unconscious eternity roams about in your metabolism.

I hardly heard, wrapped in my destined ends, To surface chat the silent depth reply. I am sitting here on a glittering wall of rocks. Deceit awaits him who’s born of a vitar There was a beauty.

Why vitaae you bend your back over the washing? Nor did they omit to chaff me about my poems appearing in the press. It was at that time that I was prosecuted for blasphemy for one of my poems.

curriculum vitae józsef attila

Since then I have been living on my writing. It is not so difficult, – the past swarms around – the head bends down and down hangs the hand.