The Seventh, by József Attila

The Seventh
J. Attila

Pic from here

If you set out in this world,
better be born seven times.
Once, in a house on fire,
once, in a freezing flood,
once, in a wild madhouse,
once, in a field of ripe wheat,
once, in an empty cloister,
and once among pigs in sty.
Six babes crying, not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.

When you must fight to survive,
let your enemy see seven.
One, away from work on Sunday,
one, starting his work on Monday,
one, who teaches without payment,
one, who learned to swim by drowning,
one, who is the seed of a forest,
and one, whom wild forefathers protect,
but all their tricks are not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.

If you want to find a woman,
let seven men go for her.
One, who gives heart for words,
one, who takes care of himself,
one, who claims to be a dreamer,
one, who through her skirt can feel her,
one, who knows the hooks and snaps,
one, who steps upon her scarf:
let them buzz like flies around her.
You yourself must be the seventh.

If you write and can afford it,
let seven men write your poem.
One, who builds a marble village,
one, who was born in his sleep,
one, who charts the sky and knows it,
one, whom words call by his name,
one, who perfected his soul,
one, who dissects living rats.
Two are brave and four are wise;
You yourself must be the seventh.

And if all went as was written,
you will die for seven men.
One, who is rocked and suckled,
one, who grabs a hard young breast,
one, who throws down empty dishes,
one, who helps the poor win;
one, who worked till he goes to pieces,
one, who just stares at the moon.
The world will be your tombstone:
you yourself must be the seventh.

József Attila

Original version (Hungarian)

A hetedik

E világon ha ütsz tanyát,
hétszer szűljön meg az anyád!
Egyszer szűljön égő házban,
egyszer jeges áradásban,
egyszer bolondok házában,
egyszer hajló, szép búzában,
egyszer kongó kolostorban,
egyszer disznók közt az ólban.
Fölsír a hat, de mire mégy?
A hetedik te magad légy!

Ellenség ha elődbe áll,
hét legyen, kit előtalál.
Egy, ki kezdi szabad napját,
egy, ki végzi szolgálatját,
egy, ki népet ingyen oktat,
egy, kit úszni vízbe dobtak,
egy, ki magva erdőségnek,
egy, kit őse bőgve védett,
csellel, gánccsal mind nem elég, –
a hetedik te magad légy!

Szerető után ha járnál,
hét legyen, ki lány után jár.
Egy, ki szivet ad szaváért,
egy, ki megfizet magáért,
egy, ki a merengőt adja,
egy, ki a szoknyát kutatja,
egy, ki tudja, hol a kapocs,
egy, ki kendőcskére tapos, –
dongják körül, mint húst a légy!
A hetedik te magad légy.

Ha költenél s van rá költség,
azt a verset heten költsék.
Egy, ki márványból rak falut,
egy, ki mikor szűlték, aludt,
egy, ki eget mér és bólint,
egy, kit a szó nevén szólít,
egy, ki lelkét üti nyélbe,
egy, ki patkányt boncol élve.
Kettő vitéz és tudós négy, –
a hetedik te magad légy.

S ha mindez volt, ahogy írva,
hét emberként szállj a sírba.
Egy, kit tejes kebel ringat,
egy, ki kemény mell után kap,
egy, ki elvet üres edényt,
egy, ki győzni segít szegényt,
egy, ki dolgozik bomolva,
egy, aki csak néz a Holdra:
Világ sírköve alatt mégy!
A hetedik te magad légy.

My friend Sharrow told me that she sees relationships between my stuff “Wish” and this poem by J.Attila; she also proposed me a different translation of the last verse of each stanza: “You to be the seventh, yourself!”; really I like more her versione.

She also shared me a song using Attila’s poem as lyric, this one.

I think this interesting Hungarian poet should be better known!

Thank you Sharrow.

Wish

wish

JB, Elven Forest, today

When the night quickly comes like a ghost,
a dark velvet or silence, old veil
often bringing us pain memories …
I wish to be your wish and desire

When the moon rises so large and white
like a girl in love yet pure and chaste
and we feel to be such a poor thing …
I too wish to be wish and desire

When my purple spreads through all my neck
and my cheeks and elsewhere too
there where you want to touch my shy skin …
I must be your wish and your desire

When the fog deletes trees and each thing
in this world and we are like blind cats
without home, with no sense and no hope …
I want to be your wish and desire

When the death strikes so hard just near us
stealing from us what we need so much
and I shiver with fear and with cold …
I need to be your wish and desire

January, 1st 2022

My dear friend Terry made this beautiful photo after she read my words:

wish_terry

Give me

DSCN1876-min

JB our nativity scene

Give me reward again in the night
when it’s dark and I hug you and my skin
waits for you like a poor parched pool
to find peace at least for only an instant

Making love, tremors fill all my flesh
shaking it in my chest, belly and
everywhere. So, I burn, sacrifice
to that life really mattering, true

Give me you, all you and not just some:
give me your hands and mouth. Your mind
be with me only one, only substance
to show that I can truly exist

Take me quite as I am, take my evil
and the good which I can: it’s so little.
I am as a well, hole, a basin, pool
restless and edgy shorn of its fullness

Give me your eyes and thus let me see
where you look at the end of each thing,
there where all starts and all can begin,
there where lives God who made us alive

Let I can grow again and hold up
this my body and my spirit, tired
after years of great sloth and great pride.

On my knees, near the crib, each thing is

December, 13th 2021

Black Lake

Terry's winter land 2021

A pic I took in the last Terry’s work

(Thank you to my friend Terrygold for the last beautiful landscape she built in Second Life. This winter land remembers me a trip I did many years ago to a place in my Alps, Lago Nero – Black Lake. Soon I’ll post the sources of these words on my Italian Blog; they are very symple words that you can easily understand simply using the Google translator)

 

Frozen landscape tells me ice and snow,
speaks to me of past times and old stories
about young girls and boys just grown up
where all my time was hereafter and further

White nice splendour of silence and peace
it remembers me that day, now far,
when I went to the black lake and its
ice surface began to break in spring

Like the blood of red poppies among
fields of wheat my days bloomed and brief
is their time. Cover, snow, my old stuff!
Because life is a so little thing

White cold peace in the countryside, here,
when time stood still as did in that day.
My mind is young again, even now
my skin withers yet expects still love

 

SL, Mystic Bay, November, 6th 2021

 

Nervous

Quel_pioppo

JB, many years ago, before I met my Love

(Thank you to Lizzie Gudkov who helped me with the English grammar)

 

This my body is getting so nervous
It wants you … yet you are away, busy

My skin now rises anxious and yearning
for your touches and cuddles… you’re far

My eyes look for your sweet green grey gaze
here’s a need for your face, lips and kisses

My mind is really upset and empty
I miss your closeness, your gentle love

My soul upsets itself if you’re far
I require you: please come, please come now

Your absence fills my days and my nights
it reminds me of my need for God

I can not get along without you
as I can’t get along without God
my hands grab only fog, smoke or mist
when I not lean myself against you

 

October, 30th 2021

 

Serious pink

serious pink (3)-min

JB, 2021

When I saw those flowers I had to think to my usual wishes, yet there is a new fact to consider: a very close person is risking to lose an eye …

Serious pink as live flesh on dark bark
maybe last flowers before that gold:
wintersweet will give us winter’s joy
yet it will be into another year

Crimson pink, bloody flesh on dark bark
Juda tree that’ gets wrong so thinks bad
and October is seen like new spring:
this late autumn becomes as were March

Crimson serious pink, flesh as desire,
it’s skin wishing your skin, it’s my need,
it’s my wait and my hope.
It’s my reality and my dream too

Now a pink flower springs up and comes
as unhoped-for life, as a gift
whilst new winter draws near these weird days
silent days when light loses its way

October, 23rd 2021

Terry’s Empty chairs

Terry empty chairs Cover

My friend Terry made into Second Life this art installation, where as usual she is her model. It moved me, especially for the sweet sadness and the melancholy of all the installation, that looks at something no more (or not yet?) there.

After I wrote my text, I knew that Terry dedicated her installation to her dad.

(to Terry with affection)

White smooth skin, baked clay,                    1 Terry empty chairs Terry
modest and statuesque, you wear
only crimson nail polish.
A mask always occludes your mouth

No words and no caresses,
no kiss can warm your lips
sealed in stunned stasis.
Each thing is only silence of absence

You’re alone, wandering empty rooms,
with no friends, mates, companions around.
Antique pink on the walls contrasts with
your so pale, delicate, marble flower

2 Terry empty chairs Frames

Black frames say deep dark space:
they tell it as thick, worrying
empty sockets that lost any memories
about who lived there, into their picture

3 Terry empty chairs Garden

You do live a green dream, colours and
gentle birds hovering in the air
like a breeze thickening nice presences,
chirps that are given to joyful love

4 Terry empty chairs prospects 3

Then a spectrum of empty prospects,
lifeless too, follows the garden where
there are colours and light and birds, joy:
follows it, closes it with stress, anguish

Benches sit down inside a dark park
and so many chairs stacked or spread
through the empty night streets, waiting for,
without one who enjoys or lives them

5 Terry empty chairs Vespa

Like those chairs, an alone empty Vespa.
You watch it, maybe thinking of someone
dead, not here, maybe a friend that taught you
to fish,
when you were only a child

A strange feeling makes turgid my breasts
as I look at your so gorgeous body
I’m lame and very small and I feel
your skin close to me and it’s ice cold

SL, Osta Nimosa, August, 24th 2021

Italian version

So short skirts

 

Of course, no pic here!

 

 

Girls walk across my street, they display
so short skirts and suntanned skin, legs
slender, beautiful, young and quite firm.
Their hair is fresh as smiles in the wind

Others go with light top, short pants and
sneakers. They move light and steadfast: they
go to run along canal towpaths
alone with their thoughts, hopes and their faiths

Each leap is a soft dance of their chests,
guiltless bounce, free and cute as birds jumps.
Their race moves also me, in my deep
and I feel languor and a strange sweetness

Then a desire for love takes me strongly
as a mind trap and I dream caresses
on my thickening and hungry skin
and it thrills and vibrates like a shiver

I will look for your warmth tonight, please:
do not withdraw from me, give me peace,
don’t leave me in my naughty bad dreams
give me peace and comfort my wild flesh

 

August, 23rd 2021

 

Italian version

A naughty dream

b0e7a8ef328c4621b764271ad6ff5e06

Pic from the web … sorry I lost its link!

 

 

Show me now your pink crimson, your beauty
without silks or skin veils, without frills.
Your mouth know every inch of my body
firing up each thrill, shiver and spasm

Our chests grow as wishes, together
like wild needly young flesh waiting for
sister’s breath to confuse with, to mesh,
to mix close to be one and same feeling

Is this crazy dream evil, is sin?
When I’m sleeping I cannot control
my emotions and sweet senses that
upset a poor mind sometimes so empty

Our need is a violent passion
I’m a basin that asks to be filled,
that is seeking for a sister basin
where love could enter to solve desires

Is this just a bad dream? Is it worse?
Am I wearing wrong mind mask or else?
Maybe years ago was a mistaken
identity to cage me so I’m

So I play, heroin into novels,
and I think myself wrong and each night
I’m stuck into my novel I write:
that’s a new trap, a cage, that’s a lie

Is this weird and perverted world to
puzzle me like each people here, now.
It’s the realm of The Prince of the world
it’s a lie, it’s a dream, it’s a fake.

 

July, 11th 2021

Italian version

Homeless wave 2

homeless wave

Homeless wave, by AtélieKemi

 

 

I dream of a wild, a giant wave
white foam shaking the deep blue immobility:
stagnancy
widespread on ocean bottoms

I am the wave and I wander restlessly
with no place to sleep quiet,
without peace in the senses; my body
grows old and yet it craves caresses

Each of us is the wave, and we’re restless
if love doesn’t touch us, if anyone
never looks at us with sharp desire
to be one with us in sweet embrace

There’s no peace for the wave in the world
of concrete yet distracted earth things.
The Reality is larger than what
forces us and cages us: it’s the death

 

 

May, 1st 2021

 

(English version translated from the original Italian one)