Well: this is Wish 2, (very!) less serious than the previous one. It’s only a play, a joke. Is it?. Please, refer to the pic to fully understand its title. LOL.
I wish to be wish as a witch you can catch in a wood, near that birch which loves a hard, tall beech while we can see a bitch going fast to a beach
I’m emotions and skin, I’m an itch and my body wants twitch among your hands: bewitch me.
My flesh is like a glitch as an old broken kitsch. Take me, fill my deep niche: I want feel that sweet stitch.
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!
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:
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.
As a window of spring, some Great tits came again near my home and now chirp whilst my time runs to solstice, when dark wins each day against light, more and more
As a window of spring your green eyes came again near my face and my lips met your mouth, in the dark, before that sleep won against my mind and my hands
We need windows of spring in the life where we run toward dark, pain and death. Green grass, trees, Tits and you are refrains in the song of my life made by God
(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
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
Now is summer again, it is back with its warmth and the wish to be close and lay down and so listen to our breaths and hearts running fast in the chest
Now it’s refreshing night; still a gentle breeze softly cradles us and near me the wisteria leaves so full of life are a complex green lace in the shade
A dark moth looks for me in the darkness she is following tastes while the pale light of a yellow lamp catches her vague roaming and traps her silent velvet
My mind sees you and your lovely thrill during love, in the white of the bed which holds us and hides us, where we are two together yet only one soul
Also that invisible disease now calms down due to warmth and frees us from our worry, a bit. See: so little can make us like dance
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
The skin of the angels 