Attila József, by Dési Huber István
Today is Poetry Day in Hungary, which rightly falls on the birthday of the country's embittered bard, Attila József. The hardbitten realism of his free verse has a tragic beauty that few other poets of any nationality could hope to duplicate. The following is one of my favorite of his poems.
SPRING MUD
A cloud bursts on the street,
the square and the field
The canal roars, a ditch overflows
Plaster peels from old houses.
The rain is pure, holy liquid
trickling down the legs of horses.
Water and mud on the rooftops.
Holy water and mud.
The whole earth is soft, warm mud.
The heavens, the horses, the houses,
are all soft, warm mud.
Children stand in the windows
watching the rain, listening to it drop.
Their hearts, too, are soft, warm mud.
The peace of seeds has moved
into the hearts of houses, horses.
Into the hearts of men. To descend
where we are all lovers in the end.
We are all soft, warm mud
In this bond of dust and holy rain.
Let it rain forever like this.
Drop by drop. Kiss after kiss.
