Lullaby for sailors and horsemen

Your bed is a rocking ship,

Your dreams but undulating foam…

 

Sea sick, you wake up,

Shake off the salt and look around:

 

Your bed is a reeking stable;

Ride the morning with a yawn!

 

The Lost Rider

By Endre Ady

 

Lost and ancient, the horseman rides,

Blind the trot of the horse’s feet,

Of the forest that was, of the reeds that waved

The fettered spirits start at their beat.

 

Where the trees of the silent past

Brooded still in the chequered shade,

On a sudden the shapes of a winter’s tale

Leap to life in the listening glade.

 

Here dense and solemn the forest stands,

Here the song of the years of old,

Since the days of our forefathers, fighters sad,

Lives in the deaf mist’s silent hold.

 

Spectral autumn is with us now,

Men are few, and their numbers wane,

In his cloak of eddying mist-wrack treads

Grey November the hill-girt plain.

 

Suddenly, strangely the plain anew

Clothes with rushes and woodlands green

Its limbs of November, its limbs of fog

And hides in the mist of the years that have been.

 

Only bloodshed and mystery,

Footprints ancestral in ancient ways,

Only the forest, only the reeds,

Only the madmen of vanished days.

 

Lost and ancient the traveller rides,

Through new grown brushwood upon his way,

No light shines forth, and no lamp burns,

Unseen the villages of today.

 

Villages unseen, shuddering,

Dream of the past and dumbly sleep.

From the mist and the forest, the ancient, the dark,

The wolf, the bear and the great elk leap.

 

Lost and ancient, the horseman rides,

Blind the trot of the horse’s feet,

Of the forest that was, of the reeds that waved

The fettered spirits start at their beat.

 

 

(Translated from the Hungarian language by J.C.W.Horne)

 

 

*   *   *

 

Indeed, this epic that borrows the title to the bilingual anthology I mentioned before (thank you again, my dear Gergő) seems to capture the essence or soul of the Hungarians. Gergely and Balasz might want to express their opinion here. And here I have to thank Gergely again for he presented me the work of Endre Ady before.

 

The reason of my post is related mostly to the imagery of Ady’s poem. Besides the historical background of it, it seems that geography plays a major role in the choice of that same imagery. I remind you that Hungary has no border with the sea. A Portuguese poet would most likely substitute the horse for a ship and the horseman for a sailor. There would be no forests and plains, but there would be beaches and waves. And there would be definitely mist and fog. I’m still looking out for a good example to match with my (is it?) idea, linking this imagery to our countries geography, which is part of our souls. If not for other reasons, because our soul -- and those who lived abroad will subscribe my words for sure -- will long to feel back the land that gave us birth.

 

Poems and haikus by Ákos Fodor

Metaoptic
Keep a careful watch on the world,
Because you make it as you have seen it.


Little Renaissance
Because of love, I tossed and turned in bed without sleeping
Until dawn -- then
I counted, there were two holes in her nose.
I smiled and fell asleep.


Invocation
The fifth string that is tighten onto my violin;
I pluck the Invisible before starting to play
I tune myself to the absolute silence, because
Without the (normal) A sound of death, every
music is false, every word is
meaningless, my Euridicée
Euridicée


Notability
He never did anything for a while that is worth mentioning. And neither later.
But at the end in his last will, cut into stone,
He left the stone and chisel for us.


Be solved
Incurable mortality is my problem
And the remedy for it


Sleeping-pill
Every loss is relief wrapped in pain  


Haiku
A bird was standing on my legs, then it flew away -
I became more heavy


Romance
See, this kind woman grew older near me in the subway;
She changed her advantageous profile-position, and faced me.


Canticum Canticorum
I miss you as much as if you weren't here


Freedom
Before leaving, you find in the basket of your balloon
the dearest, the kindest which is really the only One.
And always, this is the very exact weight, even more:
this is the excess weight.
                           You can choose:


Judgement 
You will never
Forgive me
That you didn't love me. 


Status
To this wooden-world,
Nailed through the five bleeding wounds of the senses


X-ray image of an "HOMAGE"
I AM a GREAT admirer of you


Adolescent
Poor squanderer


Devotion and horror - song about time
              The    candle of    our
                   being together
                      is burning

The law that ignores itself

On the notice it is written in Portuguese of probably the 1930's:

It is forbidden to post announcements on this property of the State

"... Except this very same one," so I add.

 

Please do not wake up the silent child

A silent child

And its surrounding sphere

That engulfs all that is fairly near

A child's reality

 

A silence mild

All that is far now a dream

A way to collect every petite thing

A mild activity

 

An eye bright

Set on more than one past

The other fast asleep sleeping fast

Cast on eternity

 

Wording

My favourite word is word.

 

It has no meaning by itself, yet it means so much.

 

If I were to write the most beautiful of poems, I would write it like this:

 

          Word,–.’[?]’:”(;)”!…

 

But, unfortunately for me, and for you, if you try to write the most beautiful of poems – even more beautiful than my own, for you are envious and jealous, and you would want nothing but to write the most beautiful of poems, not caring even for a bit that that would make my most beautiful of poems not so stunning – this poem was already written. All we have left to do, if we don’t change our intent, is to plagiarize or pervert it.

 

I had to decide.

(And I don’t know about you.)

So I chose to write other words.

 

My favourite words were already written.

So I had to plagiarize or pervert them.

What is your excuse?

 

Fernando was a good Person

(Pessoa = person, in Portuguese)

 

“To give someone good advice is to show a complete lack of respect for that person’s God-given ability to make mistakes. Furthermore, other people’s actions should retain the advantage of not being ours. The only possible reason for asking other people’s advice is to know, when we subsequently do exactly the contrary of what they told us to do, that we really are ourselves, acting in complete disaccord with all that is other.”

 

in Bernardo Soares’s (i.e. Fernando Pessoa) The Book of Disquiet, 1912-35

 

*      *      * 

 

There are some days when I would like to be simultaneous entities:

One to do what I need to do;

One to do what I feel like doing;

One to do what I will never do;

One to do the opposite of those two.

(For the third is non-existent – some call it the holy ghost, which always reminds me of all that is lost in a hole.)

 

They are warrior factions who eliminate one another on a daily basis.

 

There are allies to any of their parties.

 

And traitors.

These strongly support the cause of One to do what I need you to do.

 

The other days, not a single one of them is true.

 

One day I was given an advice; I was told, ‘There is time for everything.’

......................................

......................................

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! That's an advice.

 

The young drawing the old

These roots that grab my arm, your plant;

this plan devised in form of a vase by that mind behind your eye!…

 

This early sunrise, the sunny window to your soul, clearing the overcast eyebrow;

this naked bronze of mine!…

 

These cold waters unabridged, that my feet will not touch;

this continent where I sit, my shadow of your light!…

 

This spinal curve sustaining my thoughts, my inclination;

this weak wind, your breath, that keeps my hair alive!…

 

It must be a history of old I see over the horizon; on the horizon line.

 

 

 

 

Image by Natalia Molina

 

Letters not supposed to be written, let alone to be read

“It is in us that all is!…”

Fernando Pessoa

 

Spirits, spirits of flight took me back into the reversed dream which is summoning memories instead of memories summoning us. And there I was. Sent inside myself to my own imprinted past. My book where registered is all the life I created for myself, and that life that others found a way to tell me to recreate.

 

November is one of those months that are more of a song. November, nove, ember, re, member, dis, member, no, no, ember, dear ove. And there I was. Escorted by spirits, spirits of wandering on two legs. There was a smile nearby. A busy smile of a working heart – art at work inside our biological machine of so imperfect aptness to create everything we so much think we are.

 

And there I was. Repeating life, as I repeated that phrase. The snow melting in my memory as this tear manly evaporates inside my flesh, a proof of my insane temperature. Touched by myself. Flashes of light blinding my mind. Cold shrinking myself so that my self could enter a past of taverns, cellars and merchants. Surrounded by languages that express differently different views of the same thing, but forming a new reality out of sheer ancestry. Vague, so that its meaning can be filled in by anyone.

 

My feet led me east and west. And I let my feet think they led me. I even let my eyes think they never looked upon a widely searched for pond to the south. And one night my mind even let the body think it was responsible for beastly behaviour. The mind was wild that night, smelling like instinct. And the unpleasant consequence turned into the most vivid memory. That was in room number five. Vague, but not to everyone.

 

Let us jump to July. July is one of those months that are more of a song. July, ly, uly, you. The skin toasted outside and the soul was warm inside the outer side of where the soul lives. Sometimes it even lives in me. Ly, uly, lullaby. I could sleep while you could not. Do you remember that sentiment which we could resume as “nice”? For how do you put such sentiment outside without betraying it, showing but a part of it and yet being that part no part of it at all? A fine time for one of those loud silences of yours. Your greys would describe it better. My green-browns would imagine it. And there we would be, nicely

Finally, I found a reason good enough to think it is reasonable for having reversed this dream. It was a problem with the broken principles. It seems that, when broken, the principles will get back to beat you like two sticks, if you broke them once, and multipliable sticks by two, for every time they were broken by you. But it was me who broke them then. Only once. These two sticks are hard, just like the broken branch of that tree which they came out of. The tree-me. Beaten, my memory was ordered not to break anymore those principles of the interval between relationships. The leaves of emotions must be allowed to fall in their natural autumn first, before letting more leaves grow in the following spring. Before all leaves leave us, finally.

 

Besides a good memory, Gergely’s kindness also left me the anthology which cover I here add. I was thinking of posting this poem before (many others are awaiting in good order), but Epp’s post Shouting  and some other recent readings and correspondence made me finally spend some time typing it out. Unfortunately my googling the web returned no more insight into the author and his age, but I only searched for information in English so far ;-)

 

 

 

On Mankind

 

By Mihály Vörösmarty

 

 

Fall silent! Cease to sing your tale:

The world reveals its past –

Of frozen winds and scalding flail

That humans’ hearts have cast –

Showers of tears men’s sorrows cause to fly,

Winds from the hearts of those who sigh.

Worthless are all things: virtue, sin, and brain:

All hope is vain!

 

You’ve often heard the tale: “The nation

Had Founding Fathers brave,

But as they sinned, their own creation

Went sinning to the grave…”

Those left alive with fear were filled:

“Give us the Law” – But the Law had killed…

The virtuous fell, murder ruled again:

All hope is vain!

 

And then the powerful heroes placed

The Law beneath their feet.

Man bent the iron, toiled and faced

It all – there’s no defeat.

The mighty soon to die began;

Man, in frustration, turned on man…

And fame? A lightning flash in want’s dark reign:

All hope is vain!

 

Then a long age of peace arose,

Men mightily increased;

Perhaps for a plague the number grows

To make a larger feast:

Man looks to Heaven with longing eyes;

But Earth his ownership denies…

Even for graves too hard is its domain:

All hope is vain!

 

How plentifully lush the Earth!

Made even richer by Man’s stroke;

Yet everywhere there is still dearth

Slaves groan beneath the yoke.

Must it be always thus? If no,

Why, for so long, has it been so?

Is it virtue or strength, we can’t obtain?

All hope is vain!

 

An ungodly contract there’s aglow

‘Twixt reason and Evil will

Therefore your raging follies grow

In feverish wars to kill.

Satan and Reason the strife began:

Whichever wins, the loser’s Man,

This God-faced beast, this lump of mud insane:

All hope is vain!

 

Man pains the Earth. Beyond the spate

Of years if war and peace

The curses of fraternal hate

Upon her brow increase.

And should we think he’ll learn in time,

He plots an even viler crime:

From dragon’s teeth will spring his budding grain:

All hope is vain! All hope is vain!

 

 

(Translated from the Hungarian by Valerie Becker Makkai, Neville Masterman & Adam Makkai)

Wishing in circles

 

Oh, how I wish I could be always wrong, so to think I was always right!...

 

 

Wishing in circles

 

Oh, how I wish I could be right everytime so to know when I was wrong!...

 

 

Expedição ao Sol

Era uma vez, numa cálida noite de Verão com ão maiúsculo, uma menina vazia, sozinha dentro de si, o que não era novidade para ninguém. Mas naquela noite estava sentada na varanda do seu vigésimo-sexto andar. E o sono não vinha.

A menina não sabia preparar um copo de leite morno, nem sequer podia banhar-se sem vigilância. E, mesmo que o soubesse ou pudesse, alguém se havia esquecido de explicar-lhe que ambas as coisas que ela não sabia ou não podia fazer lhe poderiam trazer o sono de volta. Apesar disso, era uma noite de Verão com ão maiúsculo, logo nÃO havia escola e uma insónia nunca fez mal a ninguém, nem sequer à vazia menina sozinha dentro de si, o que não era novidade para ninguém.

O que não foi dito ainda era o que fazia uma menina assim vazia na varanda. Enchia-se de emoções; não de palavras, que destas pouco sabia. Para um observador displicente, a menina poderia mesmo raiar a estupidez. Bom, com o calor estúpido daquela cálida noite...

A menina tinha um nome que poucos o sabiam. Euana. Claro que, com um nome destes, a menina tornou-se bastante conhecida. Mas, nesta noite, poucos o sabiam.

E plena, finalmente, de emoções, sem esquecer o calor, o devido suor e, então, uma vontade tolhedora de águas, Euana ergueu o olhar para as estrelas ocultas pela poluição típica de uma cidade prolífera em edifícios de vinte e sete ou mais andares. Pediu neve, muita neve, que congelasse os raios nocivos para os amantes de um bronze pós-aristotélico.

No Inverno seguinte, Euana raramente foi à escola, tal era a neve que se acumulava nas ruas. Na sua caixa de correio, lia-se agora que a menina, ligeiramente mais crescida, vivia no vigésimo-quinto andar. Na noite de Natal, sentada no trenó eléctrico depositado na sua varanda, inútil porque impotente para cruzar tanta neve, Euana ergueu o olhar para as estrelas vísiveis por falta de poluição, já que nenhum combustor funcionava nas ruas. E mesmo a central eléctrica tinha encerrado por falta de manutenção. Uma consequência desagradável da falta de mineiros diplomados em electrotecnia. Que quereria agora Euana? Sol! Sol que derretesse aquela neve inusitada.

E foi no Verão seguinte que uns lentamente grelhantes cinquenta e dois graus Celsius se fizeram sentir.

Euana ergueu o olhar e reformulou o seu pedido original.

E foi no Inverno seguinte que Euana perdeu vários dedos por amputação, nessa nova Era Glaciar. O seu país foi renomeado burocraticamente para Polo Central.

E Euana ergueu de novo o olhar e teria reformulado um pedido que anulasse o anterior se vários habitantes de prédios vizinhos, todos do rés-do-chão direito, não estivessem a observar Euana nos olhos quando esta deixou de os encarar.

E foi no Verão que se seguiu, debaixo de um calor normal, que Euana foi nomeada única astronauta da primeira e última expedição solar.

Moral da história: Nunca cedas à tentação de adquirir bilhetes promocionais para expedições solares, mesmo na época baixa da Primavera ou Outono. Ou, se essa moral não for satisfatória, deixa de desejar o que não tens, porque se se tornasse realidade apenas desejarias o que não tinhas.

Engraving circles in the sand of time

Some people are more of matter,

While some people matter the most;

With such a global affection,

Our feelings for the global are lost.

 

So which is the way to escape

Our own tribal code,

The one where it is openly said,

‘Take care of your own wounded’?

 

Could it be by a swift cut

Of that same natural code,

And loving all tribesmen, of all tribes, with overwhelming, oh overpowering love?

But

 

How do you mend the wounds,

Which trickling blood blinds the wounded,

Thus rejecting the patch

Or the path you present

As a replacement for they wrath?

 

How do you love hatred itself

Without being in return deeply wounded,

And your own wound’s trickling blood

Blinding you,

Binding you

To a blind path

Forged out of the others’ wrath?

 

A poisoned gift,

Globular,

This present.

 

Breathing laziness away

 

Ah... this consuming yearning for doing everything that is not what should be done!

 

 

Reflexo de um Café Atlântico – Parte II

E sua ciência foi descortinar o belo

Debaixo de tanto sujo

Onde a vida lava a roupa

 

E sua sapiência foi enternecer-se

Com isso tudo

E não apenas com o que

 

É sua aparência

Pois não se chama tesouro nem tesoiro

Ao que jaz na superfície da lama

 

 

Earthly lullabied

Good night, round earth, as your round face

Revolves around the sun, your mother,

Half lit, half spent, and

Rotates in so much empty space!

 

Good night, amazing earth

Of crowded flesh, flowering smiles,

Silenced cries, and

Of so much myth and so less mirth!

 

Good night, your bluish earthness!

Take your sunlit laughter

To where it is missed, as

I welcome your good darkness…

 

 

 

 Written in Times New Roman, written in Times New Roman...

 

Mental (and not so mental) note

The Australian threads that I've been following here on Multiply have a peculiar sense of humour that is luminous. Once I met one here in Portugal too who was just writing in an internet café to his friends. He immediately engaged me with his fine humour and jokes. I wonder if all that heat some of them are complaining about is not actually what shapes their moods also, and so their laughing spirits, even if they don't laugh but internally (Victorian traumas, most likely hahahaha!)

Quoting notes

In Aranda Traditions Strehlow contrasts two Central Australian peoples: one sedentary, one mobile.

The Aranda, living in a country of safe waterholes and plentiful game, were arch-conservatives whose ceremonies were unchangeable, initiations brutal, and whose penalty for sacrilege was death. They looked on themselves as a 'pure' race, and rarely thought of leaving their land.

The Western Desert People, on the other hand, were as open-minded as the Aranda were closed. They borrowed songs and dances freely, loving their land no less and yet forever on the move. 'The most striking thing about these people', Strehlow writes, 'was their ready laughter. They were a cheerful laughing people, who bore themselves as though they had never known a care in the world. Aranda men, civilised on sheep stations, used to say, "They are always laughing. They can't help it."'

 

in Bruce Chatwin's The Songlines