Mihály Babits (Photo: Aladár Székely, 1870-1940)
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A LIRIKUS EPILÓGJA
Csak én birok versemnek hőse lenni,
első s utolsó mindenik dalomban:
a mindenséget vágyom versbe venni,
de még tovább magamnál nem jutottam.
S már azt hiszem: nincs rajtam kívül semmi,
de hogyha van is, Isten tudja hogy van?
Van dióként dióban zárva lenni
s törésre várni beh megundorodtam.
Bűvös körömből nincsen mód kitörnöm,
csak nyílam szökhet rajta át: a vágy -
de jól tudom, vágyam sejtése csalfa.
Én maradok: magam számára börtön,
mert én vagyok az alany és a tárgy,
jaj én vagyok az ómega s az alfa.
(1903)
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JÓNÁS IMÁJA
Hozzám már hűtlen lettek a szavak,
vagy én lettem mint túláradt patak
oly tétova céltalan parttalan
s ugy hordom régi sok hiú szavam
mint a tévelygő ár az elszakadt
sövényt jelző karókat gátakat.
Óh bár adna a Gazda patakom
sodrának medret, biztos útakon
vinni tenger felé, bár verseim
csücskére Tőle volna szabva rim
előre kész, s mely itt áll polcomon,
szent Bibliája lenne verstanom,
hogy ki mint Jónás, rest szolgája, hajdan
bujkálva, később mint Jónás a Halban
leszálltam a kinoknak eleven
süket és forró sötétjébe, nem
három napra, de három hóra, három
évre vagy évszázadra, megtaláljam,
mielőtt egy mégvakabb és örök
Cethal szájában végkép eltünök,
a régi hangot s, szavaim hibátlan
hadsorba állván, mint Ő sugja, bátran
szólhassak s mint rossz gégémből telik
és ne fáradjak bele estelig
vagy mig az égi és ninivei hatalmak
engedik hogy beszéljek s meg ne haljak.
vagy én lettem mint túláradt patak
oly tétova céltalan parttalan
s ugy hordom régi sok hiú szavam
mint a tévelygő ár az elszakadt
sövényt jelző karókat gátakat.
Óh bár adna a Gazda patakom
sodrának medret, biztos útakon
vinni tenger felé, bár verseim
csücskére Tőle volna szabva rim
előre kész, s mely itt áll polcomon,
szent Bibliája lenne verstanom,
hogy ki mint Jónás, rest szolgája, hajdan
bujkálva, később mint Jónás a Halban
leszálltam a kinoknak eleven
süket és forró sötétjébe, nem
három napra, de három hóra, három
évre vagy évszázadra, megtaláljam,
mielőtt egy mégvakabb és örök
Cethal szájában végkép eltünök,
a régi hangot s, szavaim hibátlan
hadsorba állván, mint Ő sugja, bátran
szólhassak s mint rossz gégémből telik
és ne fáradjak bele estelig
vagy mig az égi és ninivei hatalmak
engedik hogy beszéljek s meg ne haljak.
(1939)
Babits Mihály összegyűjtött versei
Babits Mihály (1941)
THE LYRIC POET'S EPILOGUE
I am the only hero of my verses,
the first and last in every line to dwell:
my poems hope to sing of Universes,
but never reach beyond my lonely cell.
Are others there outside, to bear the curses
of being born? If God would only tell.
A blind nut in the nutshell's dark traverses,
I loathe to wait for Him to break the spell.
A magic circle binds me like a chain,
and yet, my soaring dreams defy the weight--
but wishful dreams, I know, may tell a lie.
A prison for myself I must remain,
the subject and the object. Heavy fate:
the alpha and the omega am I.
Translated by Peter Zollman
the subject and the object. Heavy fate:
the alpha and the omega am I.
Translated by Peter Zollman
(1903)
Babits Mihály (1941)
Martsa Alajos fotója / Photo by Alajos Martsa (1910-1979)
Jonah's Prayer
Abandoned by my words I'm left alone
or I've become an aimless overflown
drifting river and in my murky mud I
drag the flotsam washed up in the flood:
old idioms exhausted vain pretences
like broken hedgerows signpost maybe fences.
Oh would the Master wisely grant the force
that channels deep, to lead a steady course
toward the sea, and would He fit the rhyme
to fringe my verse perfectly every time
ready for use by me the good disciple,
(for prosody I'd read His Holy Bible),
as lazy Jonah shirked to no avail,
and then for three days rotted in the Whale,
I, too, went down and shared those deadly bays
of hot throbbing pain, but for thirty days,
for thirty years or three hundred, who knows,
to find, before my book will firmly close
and an even blinder and eternal
Whale shall swallow my last departing journal,
my real voice, to marshal every true
word into action, as He gives me cue,
to speak up loud as it is right and fitting
for all to hear (my sickly throat permitting)
until the powers, cosmic and Ninevean
will silence me and send me to oblivion.
or I've become an aimless overflown
drifting river and in my murky mud I
drag the flotsam washed up in the flood:
old idioms exhausted vain pretences
like broken hedgerows signpost maybe fences.
Oh would the Master wisely grant the force
that channels deep, to lead a steady course
toward the sea, and would He fit the rhyme
to fringe my verse perfectly every time
ready for use by me the good disciple,
(for prosody I'd read His Holy Bible),
as lazy Jonah shirked to no avail,
and then for three days rotted in the Whale,
I, too, went down and shared those deadly bays
of hot throbbing pain, but for thirty days,
for thirty years or three hundred, who knows,
to find, before my book will firmly close
and an even blinder and eternal
Whale shall swallow my last departing journal,
my real voice, to marshal every true
word into action, as He gives me cue,
to speak up loud as it is right and fitting
for all to hear (my sickly throat permitting)
until the powers, cosmic and Ninevean
will silence me and send me to oblivion.
Translated by Peter Zollman
(1939)
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Jonah's Prayer
Words have become unfaithful things to me,
or else am I an overflowing sea,
goalless and hesitant, without a shore.
Vain words, articulated once before,
I carry like dikes, or signposts made of wood,
torn hedges carried by a straying flood.
Oh if the Master only would provide
a bed for my brook’s current and thus guide
my steps on sheltered pathways toward the sea;
if only He would carve a rhyme for me,
a ready-made rhyme, I would avail myself,
for prosody, of the Bible on my shelf,
so that like Jonah, lazy servitor
of God, we hid from Him and later bore
not three brief days or months of agonies,
but three long years of even centuries,
when he went down into the living Fish,
in dark hot torments more than he would wish,
I too, before I disappear, might find
in an eternal Whale whose eyes are blind
my old accustomed voice, my words arrayed
in faultless battle order; as He made
His whispers clear, with all my poor throat’s might
I could speak out, unwearied till the night,
so long as Heaven and Nineveh comply
with my desire to speak and not to die.
or else am I an overflowing sea,
goalless and hesitant, without a shore.
Vain words, articulated once before,
I carry like dikes, or signposts made of wood,
torn hedges carried by a straying flood.
Oh if the Master only would provide
a bed for my brook’s current and thus guide
my steps on sheltered pathways toward the sea;
if only He would carve a rhyme for me,
a ready-made rhyme, I would avail myself,
for prosody, of the Bible on my shelf,
so that like Jonah, lazy servitor
of God, we hid from Him and later bore
not three brief days or months of agonies,
but three long years of even centuries,
when he went down into the living Fish,
in dark hot torments more than he would wish,
I too, before I disappear, might find
in an eternal Whale whose eyes are blind
my old accustomed voice, my words arrayed
in faultless battle order; as He made
His whispers clear, with all my poor throat’s might
I could speak out, unwearied till the night,
so long as Heaven and Nineveh comply
with my desire to speak and not to die.
Translated by Jess Perlman
Rippl-Rónai József: Babits Mihály. 1923
Magyar Nemzeti Galéria
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