The moon bileful aghast

Lunar corona. Source: Wikimedia

For reasons completely unelated, I found myself having to translate a poem by an Estonian author, Gustav Suits, a prominent modernist from the first half of the 20th century. The original text is somewhat flexible with language, and thus the translation is also … somewhat.

Chestnuts. P.S.

A little while ago
I wrote a poem about chestnuts(*)

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* horse-chestnuts — a fact I was reminded of again,
as rain carried away the last petals.
And that moment where the poem was born,
where there were real chestnuts,
was carried away the same.
But strangely enough this ceased to worry me,
as my gaze was drawn to a no-name hedge,
a generic shrub, third-party bush lining the courtyard,
covered in tiny blonde blossoms overnight.

Spring

I cannot believe
In apple blossoms
I think they are born of the imagination
Of people with too much time

Not to mention the cherries
Just like the haiku
Nothing but a crazy dream
A non sequitur

Now chestnuts(*) I believe
They light up their candles
Right on my street

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* Horse-chestnuts in fact

Pálinkát mérnek-e már

The measure of man's suffering
Is the man
And I make you suffer

By breathing silence
Down your neck
You shiver in my absence
As I trace my fingers
Between your shoulderblades
Making you sigh and strech
Brushing my palm against your belly
Spreading my fingers
I feel the beat of our children
Unborn, unconcieved
My touch becomes firm as I
Grasp your thighs
There is a sharpness, a sweet pain
Under your breath
I slide down your slender legs
Down to the last toenail
Painted crimson red

The measure of man's suffering
Is the man
And I am yours

Late Nights at the Factory Bar

This one is from way-way back, but it has come round in a very wide gyre. I guess proletarian love never gets old.

I'd much rather talk about the Second Coming by W. B. Yeats, but I still lack the words to connect the dots. There definitely are points in time and thresholds in life, when the falcon and the falconer loose their shared language and no meta-narrative, no frame, no proverb holds true any more. Where do you turn then, is my question.

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You worked late nights at the factory bar
You had a girlfriend named Margareth and a devilish laugh

When the lights went out, you led me upstairs
I took your clothes off in a company chair

The love we made was fervently rough
Your hands were coarse but your body was soft

    And now that I know I am dreaming
    I will ask you to dance anyhow
    It is not about staying or leaving
    Just this song and the things that are now

You got in your jeans, I wanted to know
If you had a choice, where would you go

There was dust in the air of the foreman's room
You want to be someone and want to be cool

Go to a college and hear the boys brag
Of the late nights out and the girls that they've had

     This is all but the words have a meaning
     And I know you will read very wrong
     It is not about staying or leaving
     It has been about us all along

From the hills of Buda

Budapest has a strange way of getting under your skin. The very first time I visited the city, it was hot, humid and the air was thick with exhaust. The streets were full of litter and there was no room for plants or trees. I cannot say I did not like it, but the impression was not overwhelming.

Then I became to know her better, her shady groves, underpasses, the quiet of Buda, the rustle of Pest, the little shops where a girl wearing way too much makeup will cook you a lángos you would be wiser not to eat. Yet you are tipsy enough to brave it.

And I cannot remember exactly when I fell in love, just that one day I was missing her velvety nights, be they pierced by shouts on the street and the constant smell of urine. Nobody is perfect.

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From the hills of Buda
To the sewers of Pest
    When one day you see me again
    Will I walk as I did then
Your streets my Budapest

Trams dash on the Körút(1)
I trace the footsteps of men
    the Duna(2) has torn into you
    the flow that has broken us two
I will follow her every bend

Will I float back to your island
Margit(3) - your breathing heart
    Where once I bided my time
    Will ever again I arrive
At Keleti pályaudvar(4)

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1. Körút [IPA: køruːt] literally round street. Here referring to a main street circling from the Buda side to the Pest side.
2. Hungarian name for Danube
3. Refers to the Margaret island, a large park in the middle of Danube. The Hungarian name is Margit-sziget.
4. [keleti paːjaudvar] Eastern train station. One of the main stations in Budapest.

Heartbreak Nation

Take any of the great American minstrels like Simon and Garfunkel

Or Johnny Cash (lyrics by Rod McKuen)

Both these and other songs carry an immense sense of space, longing and belonging. They have always captivated me with the ease that they defy distances to find a human touch, a moment, an emotion. Thus far I was not sure what so moved me, but I think I have come to a better understanding.

One of the core pillars of American culture is tracing your roots, but not being bound by them. An enormous amount of people move because of their work, their family or other reasons. The small-talk society is partly a result of the constant need to create bonds quickly, settle in and assimilate to a certain extent.

A society where it is relatively easy to make connections is also a society where connections will be lost more often. At the heart of these songs is simply the matter of understanding - every arrival is a departure elsewhere. 

In Europe, this dimension has not been visible to such an extent. But within the EU, supported by various academic, cultural and youth programmes, I believe that the Old World too is becoming a nation of heartbreak. As is fitting for a continent named after passion, love and abduction.

Here is one such story that happened to my closest friend. The text is dedicated to every Boeing, Airbus and ATR out there, departing from somewhere, arriving somewhere else.

Your bones
Are made of composite alloy
Light and strong
My heavy, her fragile heart
Cannot match the thrust
Of your turbofans


How many times
Have you brought us together
How many times
Have you torn us apart


Now bear me once more
bear me home on your wings
This once and no more