Poem
Péter Závada
Oedipus
(1)You are the landscape
your fingers the bone-narrow twigs of the trees,
your barren hillshead peak
crowned a fortress
by the setting sun.
Mis-fortunate old man,
stumbling from wall to wall
of your hollowed eye-sockets,
trembling hand outstretched.
As if your eyes looked inward,
into your skull,
your gaze wandering down the aisles,
the parallel rows of seats
drawing you in
as somewhere on stage
the body’s vanishing point combusts.
And whichever way you turn, there
a potential life is made
of the mosaic pieces of your curiosity
as – gently cracking –
the layers of perception
separate out into planes
and slide, one over the other.
(2)
It was you, waiting
in the shadow of the rustling,
the forest’s lungs,
like a stuffy birdhouse,
filling up with noise.
The augur counting eagles
all day long,
forgetting again and again
where he’d got to.
The tempest fluting through
the hole drilled in your ankle,
teaching your limp to dance.
And the mountain kneeled,
begging you
to stay.
(3)
It was you I saw
in the desert of the eye,
where time, locked into the grains of sand,
had scratched the lens of the wind.
I saw the fingers
of the shrubs weep darkness.
The bark of the argan trees sweat night,
and a caravan cross
the knife-edge of the horizon.
The silhouettes of the backlit bodies
tautened, like paper figures
in a fire,
and the face of the Sphinx,
like a petrified scream, floating
silent above the dunes.
(4)
You wanted to see what was hidden,
what withdraws into its own shadow.
Your blindness now is the night of the cosmos.
The eye is lost
in the radiant magnitude.
© Translation: 2019, Mark Baczoni
Oidipous
(1)Je bent zelf het landschap.
Je vingers zijn graatmagere twijgen van bomen,
jouw kale heuvelkruin
wordt tot bastion gekroond
door de ondergaande zon.
Oude man, dupe van de historie,
je strompelt in je leeggekrabde oogkas
van wand tot wand, je bevende
handen voor je uit gestoken.
Alsof de ogen
naar binnen kijken, de schedel in,
volgt je blik de gangen,
evenwijdige rijen stoelen
leiden je steeds verder naar binnen,
ten slotte licht in de diepte van het toneel
het verdwijnpunt van het lichaam op.
In de richting waarin je je keert vormt zich
uit mozaïekstukjes van je nieuwsgierigheid
een mogelijk leven,
met zacht geknap
tot vlakken gespleten
verschuiven ondertussen
de lagen van de waarneming.
(2)
Jij was het, die wachtte
in de schaduw van het ruisen
en de longen van het bos
vulden zich met gekwetter
als een bedompt vogelhuisje.
De ziener stond de hele dag
de arenden te tellen
maar hij vergat almaarr
waar hij was gebleven.
Op je doorboorde enkelbeen
floot de storm
en wilde je gehink leren dansen.
De berg knielde neer op één knie
en smeekte je
om te blijven.
(3)
Jou zag ik in de woestijn
van de ogen, waar de tijd,
in zandkorrels opgesloten,
het netvlies van de wind bekraste.
Ik zag de takken van de struiken
duisternis huilen
de schors van de arganboom nacht uitzweten
en een karavaan over de sabelsnede
van de horizon trekken.
In het tegenlicht spanden de silhouetten
van de lichamen zich strak,
als papieren figuurtjes in het vuur,
en het gezicht van de Sfinx zweefde
als een versteende schreeuw
geluidloos boven de duinen.
(4)
Je wilde zien wat zich verborgen hield
in zijn eigen schaduw teruggetrokken.
Je blindheid is nu de nacht
van de kosmos. De ogen verliezen zich
in de schitterende weidsheid.
© Vertaling: 2019, Mari Alföldy
Oidipusz
(1)Magad vagy a táj.
Ujjaid a fák csontsovány gallyai,
kopár dombfejtetőd
bástyává koronázza
a lemenő nap.
Pórul járt öreg,
kikapart szemüregedben
botorkálsz faltól falig, remegő
kezed magad elé kinyújtod.
Mintha a koponyába
befelé látnának a szemek,
a járásokon végighalad pillantásod,
a széksorok párhuzamosai
egyre beljebb terelnek,
míg a színpad mélyén
kigyullad a test enyészpontja.
Amerre fordulsz, arra épül
kíváncsiságod mozaikjaiból
egy lehetséges élet,
közben halk roppanással
síkokra válnak szét,
és elcsúsznak egymáson
az észlelés rétegei.
(2)
Te voltál az, te vártál
a suhogás árnyékában,
és az erdő tüdeje,
mint egy fülledt madárház,
megtelt zsivajjal.
A jós álló nap
a sasokat számolta,
de mindig elfelejtette,
hol tart.
Átfúrt bokacsontodon
a vihar furulyázott,
hogy táncolni tanítsa bicegésed.
A hegy fél térdre ereszkedett,
könyörgött neked,
hogy maradj.
(3)
Téged láttalak a szem
sivatagában, ahol a homokszemcsékbe
zárt idő összekarcolta a szél retináját.
Láttam, ahogy sötétséget
könnyeznek a bokrok ágai,
éjszakát izzad az argánfák kérge,
és a láthatár szablyaélén
karaván vonul át.
Az ellenfényben a testek
sziluettjei megfeszültek,
mint a tűzbe dobott papírfigurák,
és a Szfinx arca, akár egy kővé
dermedt üvöltés, hangtalanul
lebegett a dűnék felett.
(4)
Azt akartad látni, ami elrejtőzik,
visszahúzódik önnön árnyékába.
Vakságod most már a kozmosz
éjszakája. A szem a ragyogó
tágasságba vész.
© 2017, Péter Závada
From: Roncs szélárnyékban
Publisher: Jelenkor, Budapest
From: Roncs szélárnyékban
Publisher: Jelenkor, Budapest
Poems
Poems of Péter Závada
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Oedipus
(1)You are the landscape
your fingers the bone-narrow twigs of the trees,
your barren hillshead peak
crowned a fortress
by the setting sun.
Mis-fortunate old man,
stumbling from wall to wall
of your hollowed eye-sockets,
trembling hand outstretched.
As if your eyes looked inward,
into your skull,
your gaze wandering down the aisles,
the parallel rows of seats
drawing you in
as somewhere on stage
the body’s vanishing point combusts.
And whichever way you turn, there
a potential life is made
of the mosaic pieces of your curiosity
as – gently cracking –
the layers of perception
separate out into planes
and slide, one over the other.
(2)
It was you, waiting
in the shadow of the rustling,
the forest’s lungs,
like a stuffy birdhouse,
filling up with noise.
The augur counting eagles
all day long,
forgetting again and again
where he’d got to.
The tempest fluting through
the hole drilled in your ankle,
teaching your limp to dance.
And the mountain kneeled,
begging you
to stay.
(3)
It was you I saw
in the desert of the eye,
where time, locked into the grains of sand,
had scratched the lens of the wind.
I saw the fingers
of the shrubs weep darkness.
The bark of the argan trees sweat night,
and a caravan cross
the knife-edge of the horizon.
The silhouettes of the backlit bodies
tautened, like paper figures
in a fire,
and the face of the Sphinx,
like a petrified scream, floating
silent above the dunes.
(4)
You wanted to see what was hidden,
what withdraws into its own shadow.
Your blindness now is the night of the cosmos.
The eye is lost
in the radiant magnitude.
© 2019, Mark Baczoni
From: Roncs szélárnyékban
From: Roncs szélárnyékban
Oedipus
(1)You are the landscape
your fingers the bone-narrow twigs of the trees,
your barren hillshead peak
crowned a fortress
by the setting sun.
Mis-fortunate old man,
stumbling from wall to wall
of your hollowed eye-sockets,
trembling hand outstretched.
As if your eyes looked inward,
into your skull,
your gaze wandering down the aisles,
the parallel rows of seats
drawing you in
as somewhere on stage
the body’s vanishing point combusts.
And whichever way you turn, there
a potential life is made
of the mosaic pieces of your curiosity
as – gently cracking –
the layers of perception
separate out into planes
and slide, one over the other.
(2)
It was you, waiting
in the shadow of the rustling,
the forest’s lungs,
like a stuffy birdhouse,
filling up with noise.
The augur counting eagles
all day long,
forgetting again and again
where he’d got to.
The tempest fluting through
the hole drilled in your ankle,
teaching your limp to dance.
And the mountain kneeled,
begging you
to stay.
(3)
It was you I saw
in the desert of the eye,
where time, locked into the grains of sand,
had scratched the lens of the wind.
I saw the fingers
of the shrubs weep darkness.
The bark of the argan trees sweat night,
and a caravan cross
the knife-edge of the horizon.
The silhouettes of the backlit bodies
tautened, like paper figures
in a fire,
and the face of the Sphinx,
like a petrified scream, floating
silent above the dunes.
(4)
You wanted to see what was hidden,
what withdraws into its own shadow.
Your blindness now is the night of the cosmos.
The eye is lost
in the radiant magnitude.
© 2019, Mark Baczoni
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