Sándor Kányádi

Sándor Kányádi (1929 -)

Winner of Hungary's Kossuth Prize in 1993 as well as the Austrian Herder Prize in 1994, Kányádi is one of Hungary's living classics. Born in Nagygalambfalva, Transylvania (Porumbenii Mari in Romanian) into a family of Szekler peasants, he received his diploma at the Bólyai University of Kolozsvár in 1954. He worked subsequently as an editor of the Irodalmi Almanach [Literary Almanac], the weekly Utunk [Our Path], t Kányádi sees in poetry a vital link to his fellow sufferers, a fraternal bridge of words, that spans culture and time. His own work has been translated into many languages, including English, German, French, Romanian, Finnish and Estonian.

His is a socio-therapeutic poetry of immense importance, preserving national cultural identity in the face of non negligible odds. He alternates between the traditional rhymed couplet and stream-of-consciousness cast in free verse form, also experimenting with shamanistic rhythm, a recurrent element of folklore over the past millennium. His masterpiece All Souls Day in Vienna [Halottak napja Bécsben], in which he laments the fate of Hungarians scattered throughout the world, is a symphony in words, drawing together the past, the present and the future, as the poet listens to Mozart's Requiem Mass in a church in Vienna.



AFFAIR

if death of the beautiful feminine kind
came one day
deeply moved I would haltingly lay
a white lie at her feet a puffy phrase
I have been longing for you all these days
and I would bow to her with my head inclined

if death of the beautiful feminine kind
came one day
and took my arm like a shy fiancée
eyes cast modestly on the ground
and waltzed me - I would waltz her around
leaving million milling dancers behind

if death of the beautiful feminine kind -
before they
missed us we would be miles away
the friendly dew would throw a veil
over our footprints on the trail
if death of the beautiful feminine kind

people would gossip can it be true
the little teaser
and that funny old geezer
just imagine - eloped into the blue




ALL SOULS' DAY IN VIENNA

One of these days it will be you
braided into a splendid wreath
all strange and cold as these Vienna
pavements are strange and cold beneath
away you'll trundle like a tram
the tracks will curl up in your wake

a dandelion stares
between the flagstone squares

you walk this pavement but who cares

My back against a column
I stood listening in the whitewashed
augustinian abbey church
I listened to the requiem

Because he is the most forlorn
who hasn't anyone to mourn
his wine is foul his teardrops sting
his candle is just smouldering
alone abandoned he must stand
a single flower in his hand
because he is the most forlorn
who hasn't anyone to mourn

They say a tempest was blowing hard
the skies crashed down on the old graveyard
pit and paths were an open drain
the bearers were blinded by the rain
soaked to their waistcoats through and through
seen by none but they say it's true
pitching and rolling as anchored ships
the graves were a-dance with swaying hips
with every mouse-hole a gurgling spout

the coffin could well have floated out

from the danube seaward
out to the ocean
from the danube seaward
out to the ocean

the coffin sails on
the canvas is music
the coffin sails on
the canvas is music

Get out you little ginger fatso
the button-nosed chorus girl threatened to kick
and wolfgang amadeus mozart
even redder after this humiliation
slank away from the dressing room
madam could not wait here any longer
the carriage will soon return
bowed and scraped the czech doorkeeper
and wolfgang amadeus mozart
went outside into the street
and he gazed at the firmament
where the rising waves of the music
had just begun to lap around the stars
and wolfgang amadeus mozart
gave his brow a mop
and set out on foot

from the danube seaward
out to the ocean
the coffin sails on
the canvas is music

What thoughts must god have in his mind
when neutered singers sing his glory
nothing but neutral voices neutered
neutered neu-u-u-utered

They say and it says in the histoire de la musique
encyclopédie de la pléiade for those by the way
who may not understand it in french
my friend rudi schuller of number ten vasile alecsandri
in kolozsvár would gladly provide a hungarian
german or romanian version of the passage which
quotes great travellers les grands voyageurs who report
that the natives of the most godforsaken les plus lointaines
civilisations who take no interest whatsoever
in the tom-tom sounds of the neighbouring tribe
pricked up their ears to the music of mozart
and to nothing else

In pure white churches
a pure white prayer
read my riddle read it

in dark black churches
a dark black prayer
read my riddle read it

in pure white churches
a dark black prayer
read my riddle read it

in dark black churches
a pure white prayer
read my riddle read it
and god in his wisdom
may graciously heed it

Grubby little laddies
conceived in boozy vapours
gaze from a pocket-size yard
shared with gaggling geese
with clucking pullets
with lousy chickens
and scabby piglets
they gape in a group
as machines faster than sound
are sweeping across the horizon

alight oh world
hold tight oh world
we'll never catch up with you

My back against a column
I stood listening in the whitewashed
augustinian abbey church
I listened to the requiem

Dies irae dust and ashes
pitchforks clash and lightning flashes
pay good cash for false eyelashes

dig those ditches fire bury
dig those ditches fire bury
dig those ditches fire bury

when that day is drawing nigher
blazing clouds will light a dire
cataclysmic forest-fire

we saw fires grimly grazing
city-burning fire-raising
deep in hell the ovens blazing

dig those ditches fire bury
dig those ditches fire bury
dig those ditches fire bury

but the judge is hesitating
sin mates sin proliferating
how much longer are we waiting?

we are held without a trial
will our punishment be final
or bring us a new reprisal?

dig those ditches fire bury
dig those ditches fire bury
dig those ditches fire bury

we are riddled by confusion
shall we trust in absolution
or the final retribution

On the second of june nineteenhundred and forty-four
at the carpetbombing of nagyvárad a mother
lost four lovely children under the rubble
two four six and eight
years old when they were killed
recites my wife every year when she gets
this far with setting the calendar
this is her peace-poem
who bears the guilt for those who fell
the winners or losers? hard to tell

beginnings and ends all lead to hell

I realize that nowadays
the hands are slow to give a shake
the old-time friendly give and take
has dried into an empty gaze

the first few words cause little harm
but sentences turn fairly rough
with intimations of alarm
and aggravation - soon enough

shake hands with me once more good friend
and share a brotherly embrace
before I meet my stupid end
before you land flat on your face

Your majesty my gracious king
accept my candle-offering
son of kolozsvár's fair city
I bring this bloom and beg for pity

hell and heaven trust you heed you
plead on our behalf we need you

Our king your royal grace
stand up for us we pray
when on the milky way
you see him face to face

beg him to end that curse
that protocol of theirs
our problems our affairs
are getting worse and worse

if no one backs our case
then we must bite our tongue
man woman old and young
in fear and in disgrace

Küküllô-angara
maros mississippi
küküllô-angara
maros-mississippi

I will see my borough
he is not sure is he
will I see my borough
he is not sure is he

crumbling scattering forever
alive but scattering forever
chicago from csikszereda
chicago from csikszereda

Lord who art and who art not
feel for our unhappy lot
these prayers are nothing more

than childish tap-taps on thy door
cooing babbling overawed
hallowed by thy name oh lord

What are we what wretched race
why the blushing the disgrace
why are we so cruelly cursed
have we sinned worse than the worst

this would be the time to use
tough words like the ancient jews
to cross swords to plead with god
not just sulk and meekly nod

bartók bang your crashing scales,
flames are licking at your tails
ladybird fly away your house is on fire
the world is a furious funeral pyre

I was a man of thirty eight when lovely
and altogether rather nude christina
the styrian girl on the singerstrasse
invited me for just a drop of whisky
but look I'm poor my sweetest and a stranger
macht nichts she answered it's all souls' today
and so we had two doubles and two more
in the tiefengrab of old vienna
lives a lovely german girl susanna
was für ein gedicht
vier jahrhunderte alt
primrose cheeks adorn this young madonna
sweeter are her lips than holy manna
lancer sapper gunner
battle for her honour
but just tonight she turns down everyone
I would be your susanna free of charge
but it's all souls' and mourning must be done

no need to say much more about our business
she gave a kiss a dear one with a smack
and signalled that two schillings were plenty
for the cloakroom lady

And so with my back against a column
I stood listening in the whitewashed
augustinian abbey church
I listened to the requiem

We had a small yard and a field
to man or god we never kneeled
while eking out a modest crust
we never moaned and never fussed
just from habit we used to pray
to keep us out of the reaper's way

And do remember me as well
the shirt was dripping on my back
as lajos kossuth's when in exile
he pleaded with the ottoman turks
the shirt was dripping on my back
I too delivered quite a punchy speech
my dicky foot was wedged into the gate
I couldn't let him slam it in my face
and see my patient vigil come to nothing
the morning star
was still up in the sky
when I settled in front of his gate
for fear of missing him again
the shirt was dripping on my back
as poor lajos kossuth's must have done
I had one hand on the catch, my stick was clutched
by the other as my gullet by the words
I had to swallow
I must be delicate
or I don't achieve my purpose
and my thin little crop of hay rots away
just as last year's thin little crop of hay had done
that I had mowed along the field-path for a third share
along the field-path that used to be allotted
to the sexton in payment for tolling
as a protection against the storm this was
in addition to the bushel of wheat that was his due
from each and every house
the shirt was dripping on my back
as I begged his lordship the engineer
for a wagon
it's harvest time
every soul in the fields
the horses are idle
but still have to be fed
for the common good that thin little crop of hay
ought to be under cover
only the third is mine
one third of it

we shall see towards midday say
giddy-up you giddy-up
he swished the word at me
towards midday
my stick was itching to swish back in reply
but that would have put paid to my
thin little crop of giddy-up hay my shirt
you could wring it out on my back
as poor lajos kossuth's in exile

let it burn in the fire
or rot until doomsday

it's not his legs
his stick carries
my father
well in his seventies
humbled to the dust

Don't forget him I beseech you
you have died that he may reach you
do remember him oh jesu

when the day comes grant him comfort

but speak with him about your purpose
before you let your trumpets sound

Glaring brass petunias
with diamond dew-drops lined
the maestro slaps a floating cherub's
invitingly plump behind
the rippling mass tells misty tales
the soprano trills her piece
and graciously anoints me there
with otherworldly peace

misty halo aureole
giant pudding in the bowl

the milk flushes
the milk rushes
the milk gushes
what silky sweet
delight

that's all we need
we ask to eat
that's all we need
to sanctify the night

the rippling mass tells misty tales
you hear the distant talk
of claypot and kettle
the thought of kind buffaloes chewing the cud
reminds the milk
it's time to settle

Tu esti vapaie fara grai
de dincolo de matca mumii
you are a lonely flame beyond
the ever silent blessed womb i-
gnited by huge angels' wings
that touch the fringes of the uni-

verse oh bless me give me strength
to live here till my dying day
where murderous futilities
dissolve and die in dark decay

our times our eyes cannot perceive it
they'd have to seek it somewhere higher
the nest where I'll be saved from death
by a butterfly of fire

One of these days it will be you
braided into a splendid wreath
all strange and cold as these Vienna
pavements are strange and cold beneath
wie die glocken ihren schall verloren
the memories of joy soon fade away

Willy-nilly head or tail
we stop here as we are
they've cast a heavy veil
to hide our guiding star

though not a cloud is showing
we know that very soon
the stars will give up glowing
around the lonely moon

the cliffs and chimney-stacks
will fall like lumps of clay
the planet will relax
its wrinkles smoothed away

all we have set in motion
will mercifully cease
beneath our feet the ocean
will come to rest in peace

As church-bells lose their music to the winds so
my memories of joy soon fade away

little angels bring wine to my door
I want you to wean me from this world
I want to fly among the free

And then there will be nothing to follow
except floating as naked
as a hydrogen atom
but the ordeal of fear may still haunt
if by chance it may occur to them
to strip us of our last remaining
electron
this would at least
maintain some hope of a future ten or twenty
billion years away in expectation
of the resurrection
or of something similar




WOODCUT

there is a land with beauty graced
landscapes where the bitter taste
of burdock lingers places where
afflicted men gaze in the air
with sunken melancholy eyes
where hope glimmers and slowly dies
but in their dreams they still pretend
that all this will come to an end
with parchment faces staring back
from hats and headscarves all in black
and like the hands upon their knees
they too sit rather ill at ease
a generation worn and greyed
on benches equally decayed
it could well be a woodcut scene
in mexico I've often seen
such broken native patriarchs
or in vancouver's tidy parks
sitting motionless in a trance
mistrustful of another chance
their hands are resting on their knees
we share each other's destinies
I had to see this distant land
before my guts could understand
how indianized our eyes have grown
their gaze is like our very own
say on a sunday afternoon
after the funeral is done


 

  © All rights belong to the authors or their heirs. 2004.
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