I’d like to bring to your attention two short poems by Attila József.
But first; a bit about his short life. He was born in Budapest to a Greek Orthodox family. His father left József, his mother and two sisters for another woman when József was three years old. József was subsequently given up for adoption. His foster parents treated him like a dog - exactly so - he was made to heard swine. They refused to acknowledge his name, simply calling him, Pista - a common name at that time. József anguished early-on that his very existence was a matter of question.
His mother reclaimed him and his two sisters at age seven. Together they went to live, and starve, in a Budapest slum. József often had to stand in line at a food kitchen from 9PM until the following morning at 8:30AM, in hopes of bringing home to his family a pail of soup or a bit of bread. But as likely as not, when his turn came he’d learn there was no more food.
The outbreak of WW1 only compounded József’s misery. He sold drinking water and stole firewood. He made brighly colored pinwheels in hopes of selling them to other children. In 1918 his beloved, but long suffering mother was diagnosed with uterine cancer. She died by the following year.
But then József had a lucky break. He found a way to enroll in a school for prospective teachers. There, he hoped to improve his writing, especially the poetry that he so much loved to create. On seeing the quality of his poems, a teaching assistant urged him to submit one to a local newspaper. He did so excitedly. When word came that his poem had been accepted for publication József was exhuberent.
This exhuberence was not to last. Having read the poem, a professor at his school was outraged. József was called in and told, “A person who writes this kind of poetry is not to be trusted with the education of the new generation.” Here is the poem that got József expelled.
Innocent Song
I have no God, I have no king,
my mother never wore a ring,
I have no crib or funeral cover,
I give no kiss, I take no lover.
For three days I have chewed my thumb.
for want of either crust of crumb.
Though I am twenty, strong and hale -
my twenty years are up for sale.
Should there be none who wish to buy,
The devil’s free to have a try;
then shall I use my common sense
and rob and kill in innocence.
Till, on a rope, they hang me high,
and in the blessed earth I lie -
and lush and poisoned grasses start
rank from my pure and simple heart.
This poem has been since praised by critics both for its lyrical quality (in its Hungarian muttersprache), and as “documentation of the post-war generation.” But such praise and recognition came far too late for József. He worked as a waiter, a laborer, odd jobs, just about anything that would allow him to both eat and write poetry. When he was 32 years old, he went to visit his sisters. There, he went out for a walk and purposefully stepped in front of an oncoming train. József’s sisters heard of his death by a “giggling village idiot.”
Here is the poem that caught my eye and opened my heart to Attila József; a man who learned to swim by drowning.
The Seventh
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 a 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 the 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 his 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 on 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 to win,
one, who works till he goes to pieces,
one, who just stares at the moon.
The world will be your tombstone:
you yourself must be the seventh.
Michael