Itt-Ott, 1994 (27. évfolyam, 1. (123.) szám)

1994 / 1. (123.) szám

Hungarians who had left Hungary in the 20th century.

Poets such as György Faludy, Elemér Horváth, György Gömöri, Miklós Kolumbán, Irén Négyesy, Vince Sulyok and Géza Thinsz reflected in their works with clarity and intuition the lives and grave concerns of the roughly three million co-patriots who found a new home or at least a new abode in the West. It has never been more true that literature mirrors existence. It is reasonable to assume that we are going to be able to recognize ourselves: our emigrant life and our peculiar condition as exiles in the verse of these seven poets.

Although most of these poets are well known, I will provide brief biographical data on each. Mr. Faludy has led the most adventurous life of the seven. He survived a communist death camp, spent some time in Africa, Western Europe and North America. Presently, as the senior member of the group, he again lives in Budapest. Elemér Horváth makes his living as an expert on laser printing; he resides near West Point. Vince Sulyok received a Ph.D. in Norway; he is the curator of the Central European book section at the main library of the University of Oslo. After a brief sojourn as a college professor, Miklós Kolumbán now teaches English in public school to Hispanic immigrants. Dr. Gömöri teaches Polish literature at Cambridge University in England. Irén Négyesy has a pastry shop in Ohio and is a member of the International P.E.N. Club. Géza Thinsz died recently; he had lived in Stockholm, Sweden, and had been the editor of a publishing firm.

Now I will present a few of their poems that are representative: they contain certain revelations about the immigrant experience in general and about the Hungarian immigrant experience in particular. They all appear in my translation.

1. György Faludy

Instead

[Haza helyett]

Instead of a country, you have your friend’s house, his backyard, his fine wine.

All these have worth: they gleam of restraint.

The glowing embers of classicism, not the fever of the new.

We sit in a car. We speak of the absolute: your only love. It can’t be attained.

Noble music instead of noise...

In place of fashion, the true Socratic question.

We sway on stilts above wicked cities.

There’s no reality. No dreams.

The storm is coming but your fervor will not diminish. Behind you organ pipes,

erect pines. Like the others, you’ll survive the hardships. You, who were bom on top of a heap of skulls.

2. Elemér Horváth

For My Wife

[Feleségemnek]

What else can I heap on your shoulders, American woman?

My youth has burdened you The core of my manhood is ruptured, estranged from everything My words are alien

My poems that hold the clue to my life are but hieroglyphics to you Still, your eyes laugh when I don’t look sad or when I whistle with a hoe, with an ax

I don’t blame myself

I’m only ashamed that I nurse a desert

although birches bloom in my yard

Letters to Nowhere (VT.)

[Levelek sehová]

Your should know that I didn’t veer off the right path in the new country, though my native land intended me to stray. Actually, I’m not as much without roots as I’m in the habit of reporting.

This is probably an ideological statement, but it’s not the savage kind. It recognizes facts.

Here I call two luxury cars my own, three bathrooms and a parchment that says: “You’re a citizen.” It follows that I have power.

But what do I do with it?

If things don’t go my way, I rattle my chains to stress how free I am. Nobody cares because they’re also free to behave as they please.

Yet you I miss excessively and this is exile for anyone with a clear head. If you were here, we would be burning throughout the night.

I have much leisure at night. I dream without interruption. Afternoons, I earn my living.

Mornings I write.

40 ITT-OTT 27. évf. (1994), 1.(123.) szám