warmae

Dijous, 11 de maig de 2006

Hungary is far away...

Hungary is far.Hungary is over the mountains.From there you would come with birds, singers in short skirts,it would be dawn,airy,light,nice, clean anvils would clink in the silence.
Sir, haven't you met Hungary?I know your tongue is heavy.I know my heart is heavy.Sir, haven't you met Hungary?
Girls, many of them, are running,as the morning wind,with hair streaming in the Eastern sky.And she's kneading a fat milk loaf, she's prettier than the evening shadow of a lily.
Sir, haven't you met Hungary?It's autumn there,in our tiny gardens
swishing dry flowers are planted by God.

Attila József 1905-1937***

Óda
[...]
VI
(Mellékdal)

(Visz a vonat, megyek utánad,
talán ma még meg is talállak,
talán kihül e lángoló arc,
talán csendesen meg is szólalsz:
Csobog a langyos víz, fürödj meg!
Ime a kendö, törülközz meg!
Sül a hús, enyhítse étvágyad!
Ahol én fekszem, az az ágyad.)

Attila Jozséf, 1933.


Ode
[...]
VI
(By-Song)

(The train is taking me, I am going
perhaps I may even find you today.
My burning face may then cool down,
and perhaps you will softly say:

The water is running, take a bath.
Here is a towel for you to dry.
The meat is cooking, appease your hunger,
this is your bed, where I lie.)

Transl. by Thomas Kabdebo


Ode
[...]
VI
(Nebenlied)

(Der Zug rollt an. Ich fahr dir nach.
Vielleicht find ich dich heute noch.
Vielleicht verlöscht mein Glutgesicht.
Vielleicht sprichst du dann leis zu mir:

Das Wasser plätschert. Wasche dich.
Hier hängt das Handtuch. Trockne dich.
Hier zischt am Herd das Fleisch im Fett.
Hier, wo ich liege, ist dein Bett.)

Übertr. v. Franz Fühmann


Ode
[...]
VI
Le train m’entraîne. Je viens te rejoindre.
Dès aujourd’hui, qui sait, je peux t’atteindre…
Alors, le feu de mon front s’éteindra.
Mais, tou bas, peut-être, tu me diras :

Va donc prendre un bain ; j’ai ouvert l’eau tiède,
Pour te sécher voilà une serviette.
Si tu as faim, la viande est à chauffer.
Ton lit est toujours où je suis couché.


Oda
[...]
6
(Cançó afegida)

(Se m’enduu el tren, i seguesc els teus passos,
potser avui mateix et trobaré,
potser el meu ardent rostre s’enfredarà,
potser em diràs suaument:

L’aigua està tèbia, ja pots prendre el bany!
Tin la tovalla, eixuga’t!
La carn s’està fregint, et calmarà la gana!
On jo m’estenc, allí tens el teu llit.)

Traducció d’Eduard J. Verger




***Attila József

(1905-37) Poeta húngaro, n. en Budapest y m. en Balatonszárszó. De familia humilde, consiguió una beca que le permitió estudiar filosofía y letras en Szeged, Viena y París. Al volver de esta ciudad se afilió en el ilegal Partido Comunista húngaro, de donde su marxismo crítico hizo que se le expulsara en 1932. En esa fecha editó una efímera revista literaria, Valósag, y en 1936 fue cofundador de otra revista, Szép Szó, donde publicaba sus versos. Cuando se suicidó, abatido por las privaciones, la fatiga y el desequilibrio nervioso, se recogieron todos sus poemas en una colección que lleva por título Összes versei és müforditásai (Todos los poemas y traducciones, 1939). Reconocido actualmente como el mayor poeta húngaro del s. xx, József recorre con sus versos un mundo de melancólico realismo donde da lúcida respuesta a la injusticia de cada día y se inclina con emocionada ternura hacia los que sufren, su madre por ejemplo, y en general el proletariado, del que es un cantor excelso.
____________________________________________________________

"In Hungary small children can recite, with charming expressiveness, great swathes of their nation’s verse. Poets are held in high regard—when this reviewer travels there, he is made to feel like a foreign prince, and the names of the poets he visits are well known to taxi-drivers. Only the Chinese and the Irish, in this poet’s experience, show such great respect for the poor rhymer.

Why is poetry so important in Hungary? Perhaps part of the answer is that the earliest Magyars were, like other central Asian tribes, a shamanistic people, led by poet-healers, ritual impresarios, who sang the world into being. Once settled in the Danube basin, the Hungarians lost their independence in the sixteenth century and seldom regained it until today; all their revolutions except for the last one—of 1989— failed, and their political leaders were usually murdered. Flooded again and again by waves of settlers, Hungary could not preserve any racial homogeneity even if it were in its cultural tradition to do so, which it is not. The only thing Hungarians had, then, to preserve their identity, was their language, which must survive amid, as they say, an ocean of Slavs and Germans. And it was the poets—the successors of the shamans—that kept the language alive."Frederick Turner

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