György Faludy (1910 -)
Born in Budapest, the ninety-three year old doyen of Hungarian poets was educated at the universities of Budapest, Vienna, Berlin and Graz. In the thirties Faludy became very popular for his pseudo Villon translations which seemed more original than tha faithful translations of Vas István.
In 1938 he left for Paris, but after the Nazi occupation of France he moved to Algeria and from there to the United States in 1941. There he joined the "Movement of Free Hungarians" as editor of their newspaper. Faludy holds the distinction of being the only Hungarian poet to have fought in the United States Army during WW II.
Returning to Hungary in 1946, he joined the editorial board of Népszava [Voice of the People], the daily of the Social Democrats. In 1950 he was arrested on trumped-up charges and sent to the forced labour camp at Recsk. Pardoned and set free shortly before the Hungarian Uprising of 1956, with the suppression of the Uprising, he escaped to Vienna and, after a brief sojourn in Paris, he settled in London and became a British subject. There he edited the Gazette Littéraire Hongroise [Irodalmi újság], which had played a major role in the Uprising. In 1967 he moved to Toronto, Canada, where he lived until his triumphant return to Hungary in 1989. Faludy's charisma has made him one of the most popular of Hungarian poets. Working in classical forms, he retains rhyme, rhythm and lucid syntax. His work could best be described as ex-romantic post-modernism. He is a spellbinding speaker: his poetry readings fill the Concert Hall of the Budapest Liszt Academy. A prolific writer in many genres, Faludy has been widely translated
Faludy was honoured with a Doctorate honoris causa by the University of Toronto. In Hungary he was awarded the Kossuth Prize for his life's work.
YOU LEFT ME THIRTY YEARS AGO.
You left me thirty years ago. I'm still in love with you.
Remember how I kissed your lifeless lips in vain?
We hoped to have eight children once, but only one came true.
In exile life is cursed with misery and pain.
Our love was like a rock, not like a wilting flowerbed.
For fifteen years it had been standing proud and tall,
though making love was laceration, cruelty, you said.
You loathed it, so I hardly troubled you at all.
But once, not long before you died, in the dark of night,
you held my body in your arms, embracing me so tight
that I did try. By now you sank fast, cancerous, diseased.
"It can't be true. It's ecstasy, it's paradise!", you wheezed
and fell asleep there. I was kneeling on the bed, aghast.
The first time in our life. I wept. The first time and the last.
DANSE MACABRE
After Francois Villon
The Emperor sat, proud and splendid,
with seven stars upon his brow.
Slave nations worshipped him on bended
knees, on his navel stood the Plough.
Above him gleamed, like alabaster,
the lighted lantern of the moon,
but, turning now towards his master,
the jester wept. "Don't cry, buffoon,
I've conquered every human being,
the world is mine." - But sure enough,
the Reaper whiffed him off, that evening,
as one removes a piece of fluff.
- We lived like despots, one and all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
A Gothic arch reveals the Doctor.
"Oh Lord, before I reach my term,
please, help me find the holy nectar
that heals the hopeless, the infirm."
A shape appears, a gaunt professor,
to hawk his magic anodyne,
and pours out of a pewter vessel
a cupful of some hueless wine.
"Drink up, you learned nectar-seeker,
a drop will cool the fever's heat,
heal every wound. Now take this beaker,
the first sip, mind you, won't be sweet."
- We were just charlatans, we all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
The Child stood by the well, in fraying
red sandals, staring in the deep.
Down there he saw his likeness, playing.
"Come, join the game, it's just a leap!
At nights the Moon Maids give us plenty
of gingerbread and fairy cakes,
and we can leapfrog five and twenty
young froglets when the morning breaks."
"I'm coming." - Soon a serpent wriggled
upon him in the slimy ooze.
The mother wept, but Death just giggled
and gave her two red sandal-shoes.
- We played like children, one and all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
Her looking glass was cracked and faded.
"My hair's still auburn" said the Whore,
"my famous charms are still un-jaded
but no one wants me any more.
My sex is still a red-hot fire,
my breasts are firm, as in the past..."
And then, guffawing, an admirer
knocked on the door, the very last.
"Come, dance again, be gay and ribald,
unleash once more your scarlet arts,
a ghost shall feast upon your shrivelled,
pallidly purple private parts."
- We raped and rutted, one and all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
As darkness shrouded roof and gable,
and waking owls began to hoot,
the Banker left his counting table
to bury his ill-gotten loot.
But at the cross-roads Death stood waiting,
with seven devils at the rear.
"Don't draw your sword, that useless plaything."
The skull was breathing in his ear:
"Your gold is mine, isn't it funny?
For you, my friend, will have to die,
yes, you'll be buried, not your money.
And who will bother, where you lie?"
- We were all usurers, we all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
"Not yet! Not yet!" the Lady pleaded
upon her couch of gold and lace,
but willy-nilly He succeeded
and held her in a tight embrace.
"Allow a few more languid kisses,
another pearl-embroidered dress,
a few more gallant artifices,
another night of lustfulness."
But He befouled her breasts, to smoulder,
to burn like cancer, deep inside,
then slung the white corpse on his shoulder
and took her to a ghostly ride.
- We lounged in luxury, we all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
The Alchimist stood by his fire,
his hour-glass was running low.
"Devil or God, grant my desire:
give one more day before I go.
I need one more conclusive trial
to save mankind from Adam's curse,
and solve, inside my crystal vial,
the secret of the universe."
"No more delay, and no more testing."
An icy voice came from the deep.
The vial blew up. "Time for resting.
Go, sleep where all the others sleep."
- We sought the secret, one and all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
In Rheims, before the Easter service
the plague arrived, bells and the rest.
The flabby Bishop in his surplice
was first to meet the deadly guest.
"I wrote this tune for you, my father,
let's dance to it, great Monsignor.
Be pope, or be a prophet rather,
wrapped in the mists of mystic lore,
be heretic or join the friars,
burn on the stake or go to mass:
from high above, from lofty spires,
I laugh at you, self-righteous ass."
- We were all hypocrites, we all,
and Time flew by, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
The Peasant was prepared and willing,
as dusk descended from the east.
"Our life is cheap, the work is killing,
we toil and end up like a beast.
But brother Reaper, grant a favour:
you know, our soil is very poor,
so, when you take my spent cadaver,
please spread it here, it's good manure."
Death nodded: "Yes." And walked much slower,
to scatter him with gentle care,
as seed is scattered by the sower,
or poppies by the autumn air.
- We all return to earth, we all,
and Time just flies, like April breezes.
Upon your precious blood we call:
Have mercy on our souls, Prince Jesus!
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