Új Magyar Út, 1953 (4. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

1953-01-01 / 1-2. szám

ÜZENET AMERIKAI VÉREIMHÖZ

Én véreim, akiket közös átkunk Vett el tőlünk s szakított messzemessze.

Tán túl-sokszor jutunk az eszetekbe.

Hajh, pedig a magyar élet rohan már S özönvizéből csak az, ki kilábol. Kit rút közeitől messze-csal a Távol.

Messzi-magyarok, jaj, be irigyellek; Itthon már minden elveszve előre S boldogok vagytok: messze vagytok tőle.

EGY VIDÁM TOR

Tor lesz, mint régen-régen vala. Falubeli bölcs vének jönnek S kioszlódik a bor és kalács E vígan gyászoló ember-özönnek.

Leülnek tisztesen, csöndesen. Siratnak, kik mernek siratni És egyre nő a vendég-csapat.

Jaj, mit fognak ennyi embernek adni?

Én nem voltam békés valaki.

Mint régi, sok falusi ősöm.

Ezek itt nem atyámfiai.

Nem lesz köztük baj társam, ismerősöm.

Ezek csöndben, de kíváncsian Seregeinek össze a torra S óvatos torkuk köszörülik Uhmgelésre, búra, kalácsra, borra.

Micsoda tor lesz: az idegenek Gyászházunkhoz köszönve jönnek. Leülnek. S a friss hantok alól Csontjaim tréfásan visszaköszönnek.

AZ ÚR ÉRKEZÉSE Mikor elhagytak.

Mikor a lelkem roskadozva vittem. Csöndesen és váratlanul Átölelt az Isten.

Nem harsonával.

Hanem jött néma, igaz öleléssel. Nem jött szép, tüzes nappalon.

De háborús éjjel.

És megvakultak

Hiú szemeim. Meghalt ifjúságom. De őt, a fényest, nagyszerűt. Mindörökre látom.

THE POET AND

THE TRANSLATOR By Elemer Bakó

The poetry of Endre Ady represents the most painful and the most wonderful experiences of Hungarian literature. The collapsing world of bygone eras and the outlines of the new Hungarian man's developing features are united in his work. Ady’s most personal and most individual trait is this collapsing world, and at the same time an ownership right reinforced by countless personal struggles, binds him to the world of the new Hungarian man.

When for the sake of the oppressive communistic regime in Hungary an attempt is made to counter feit a spiritual forerunner out of Ady, we must recall the Janus-faced nature of his poetre. We must also bear in mind that Ady was sent from the past, but the struggle of the inner man for a new future constantly took place in the presence of God who Ady always felt was personally present.

The English translations of the poems published here are those of Antal Nyerges, who published the first harvest of his work in 1946 under the title of “Three Score Poems of Ady”. Since then he has kept up the work, and it is his goal to publish a complete Ady in English. If the translator is able to complete the task, it will be the most significant foreign rendering of Hungarian culture. At the same time it will be a most noble gesture toward second and third generation American-Hungarians. The translator himself is a second generation American of Hungarian descent, Cat present an official in the Department of State), who by his translations has undertaken an important mission in the field of American and Hungarian cultural relations.

TO MY COUNTRYMEN IN AMERICA

My countrymen, you who our common curse

Has taken from us and has cast afar. Perhaps too often in your thoughts we are.

Ah, but Magyar life is overwhelmed. And from the deluge they alone emerge

Whom distant shores from the hateful present urge.

You far-off Magyars, how I envy you!

At home already all by us is lost; You, happy folk, are far from ruin tossed.

A MERRY FUNERAL FEAST

A funeral feast like long, long ago — The wise old village gossips come. And wine and cakes are quickly passed

Among the merrily mournful swarm.

Quitely proper they take their seats; They mourn, they who dare to mourn;

And still the company grows and grows.

Oh, what will they give so many men?

Never a peaceful someone was I As were my many rural forbears; Those who are here are not my kin Nor comrades nor familiars.

They gather for the funeral feast In silence but with peering look. And cautiously their throats they rasp

For phlegm and grief and wine and cake.

What manner of feast: the strangers come

And make their way into the house; And from below the fresh-thrown sod

My bones return a jestful bow.

THE LORD'S ARRIVAL

When they forsook me here And with my soul I stumbling trod. Unlooked for and unspeakingly I was embraced of God.

With mute embrace He came.

Not with a trumpet-call of fright;

He came not in the blaze of noon. But in tumultuous night.

Mine eyes that were so vain Are blind. My youth has ceased to be.

But Him, the radiant, I behold For all eternity.

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