Dear Attila,
first of all, happy birthday to you! Maybe you know it already, but people all around the country recite your poems today, celebrating not just your birthday but the power of poetry. Although one has to wonder - does anyone even read poetry today? Seems like. Did you know that you are on Facebook (alongside with Radnóti, Petőfi, Arany...) and you have a solid fan-base? Doesn't that strike you as funny?
When I was a small child, I used to fall asleep listening to the words of your Lullaby, feeling vaguely special, since it was addressed to "little Balázs". ("The sky closes its blue eyes, the house closes its many eyes, the meadow sleeps under an edierdown - go to sleep now, little Balázs"). As a teenager I got goosebumps just reading the line "and I shiver realizing that I have lived without you" ("és beleborzongok, látván, hogy nélküled éltem"). When struggling with melancholy (a.k.a depression) your poem, Hopelessly (Reménytelenül) was speaking from my own heart ("My heart sits on the branch a nothingness, its small body shivers soundlessly, stars gather around it, and watching it gently. Time falls inside me like a stone, through space, silently, The mute, blue time floats by, sword-edge glints - my hair"). And You Know There is No Mercy: "They loved you by cheating you, you cheated so cannot love, so press the loaded gun, against your empty heart. Or throw away all principles, hoping true love will find you, since you, like a dog, would believe in whoever trusted you".
I never liked having poetry read to me. We used to have actors reciting poems on TV - they always did it with lots of emotion and sometimes exaggerated facial expressions. I feel that reading poetry is a private matter. The exercises that we had to do in school, the analysis - "What did the poet want to express with this? What did the poet think when he wrote this?" never made any sense to me. I have the feeling that the poets did not have any conscious intention with their poems ( I mean the really good poets, not those hired for political propaganda, or whatever). Poems are fragments of the truth, bubbling up from the unconsciossness, revealing some insight that conscious effort would never be able to express. The unexpected pairings of words or thoughts cannot be willed - they can flow through you and you might catch them, but never intentionally. At least, this is how I see it.
And I don't even dare to try to translate this right now - feels too perfect for that.
Óh szív! Nyugodj!
Fegyverben réved fönn a téli ég,
kemény a menny és vándor a vidék,
halkul a hó, megáll az elmenő,
lehelete a lobbant keszkenő.
Hol is vagyok? Egy szalmaszál nagyon
helyezkedik a csontozott úton;
kis, száraz nemzet; izgágán szuszog,
zúzódik, zizzen, izzad és buzog.
De fönn a hegyen ágyat bont a köd,
mint egykor melléd: mellé leülök.
Bajos szél jaját csendben hallgatom,
csak hulló hajam repes vállamon.
Óh szív! nyugodj! Vad boróka hegyén
szerelem szólal, incseleg felém,
pirkadó madár, karcsú, koronás,
de áttetsző, mint minden látomás.
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