Been reading a collection of Attila Jozsef's poetry in a translation done in the US by Peter Hargitai in the eighties called Perched on nothing's branch. Some interesting work, but impossible for me to know how well he has been served by his translator.
Making me think however of last year dodging the rain on St Margaret's island in Budapest with my mum. Took a photo of her beside one of several writers: the boy Attila himself. (picture below). I wrote a couple of lines about these melancholy dripping busts:
Postcard from St Margaret's Island, Budapest
Near the ruined abbey
The stone souls of Hungary.
Writers unknown to us
Faces runnelled with rain.
The truth is a day in the rain.
But infinitely more mysterious and interesting is this example from the Attila Jozsef himself...
Rain
it rains rains
dust curdles on bodies
thunder-ring
can you hear them pounding
on our hearts?
naked
to run to run
towards the forest with open arms
rain rain
you hold out your tiny finger
for the blasting ring
the wind had brought it
the wind
from laughing girls
who let their hair down long
over the dry leaves
heartlessly
through the spaces between the trees
Not sure what this is all about but the repetitionn seems to be doing the job of a heartbeat which the thunder and rain is threatening to disrupt. The last image of rain filling up all the space is an image of being overwhelmed. Poor sod killed himself after several breakdowns and a tormentingly failed love affair at the age of 32.
Back in the real world... Buffoonish hair this morning. However felt much better today and went back to work. Note from Kate requesting I send photo of comedy hair which I did. Talked to MJ at lunch which transported me away from the constant politics, and the writing about dogs and cats and computers.
Heatwave surrendered to thunder today. Various small deluges in England, much reported. Photos circulating of people swimming to retrieve their belongings from tents at the Glastonbury festival. Meanwhile the two million made homeless due to flooding in China largely unreported.
Home early and focused on talking to MJ and pottering about at home a bit.
Making me think however of last year dodging the rain on St Margaret's island in Budapest with my mum. Took a photo of her beside one of several writers: the boy Attila himself. (picture below). I wrote a couple of lines about these melancholy dripping busts:
Postcard from St Margaret's Island, Budapest
Near the ruined abbey
The stone souls of Hungary.
Writers unknown to us
Faces runnelled with rain.
The truth is a day in the rain.
But infinitely more mysterious and interesting is this example from the Attila Jozsef himself...
Rain
it rains rains
dust curdles on bodies
thunder-ring
can you hear them pounding
on our hearts?
naked
to run to run
towards the forest with open arms
rain rain
you hold out your tiny finger
for the blasting ring
the wind had brought it
the wind
from laughing girls
who let their hair down long
over the dry leaves
heartlessly
through the spaces between the trees
Not sure what this is all about but the repetitionn seems to be doing the job of a heartbeat which the thunder and rain is threatening to disrupt. The last image of rain filling up all the space is an image of being overwhelmed. Poor sod killed himself after several breakdowns and a tormentingly failed love affair at the age of 32.
Back in the real world... Buffoonish hair this morning. However felt much better today and went back to work. Note from Kate requesting I send photo of comedy hair which I did. Talked to MJ at lunch which transported me away from the constant politics, and the writing about dogs and cats and computers.
Heatwave surrendered to thunder today. Various small deluges in England, much reported. Photos circulating of people swimming to retrieve their belongings from tents at the Glastonbury festival. Meanwhile the two million made homeless due to flooding in China largely unreported.
Home early and focused on talking to MJ and pottering about at home a bit.
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