Radnoti I regard as a great minor poet whom circumstances thrust upon, in a
way, rather comparable to John Clare (I don't mean stylistically, of
course). Celan was, at times, a great poet, obviously in the Todesfugue, but
also Matiere de Bretagne, Psalm and others, like the 'Straightening'. He
could also write rubbish.
That he ended up in the river, after, apparently, attending a Literary
Conference, says all too much.
Best
Dave
----- Original Message -----
From: "Ken Wolman" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, January 02, 2006 3:13 PM
Subject: Radnoti (was Re: Celan)
David Bircumshaw wrote:
>Inner-restin'. For me, the key to Celan is that poem 'Psalm'. That is to
say
>I read Celan as, rather than a holocaust poet, as a religious poet who has
>been stripped of his would-be faith, so I see his work as devotions to a
>deity who is not there.
>
>Best
>
>Dave
>
>
Equal time please for Mikos Radnoti, a poet from the other end of Europe
who could not give in to the lure of the Seine because a bullet found
him first.
Forced March
He's foolish who, once down, resumes his weary beat,
A moving mass of cramps on restless human feet,
Who rises from the ground as if on borrowed wings,
Untempted by the mire to which he dare not cling,
Who, when you ask him why, flings back at you a word
Of how the thought of love makes dying less absurd.
Poor deluded fool, the man's a simpleton,
About his home by now only the scorched winds run,
His broken walls lie flat, his orchard yields no fruit,
His familiar nights go clad in terror's rumpled suit.
Oh could I but believe that such dreams had a base
Other than in my heart, some native resting place;
If only once again I heard the quiet hum
Of bees on the verandah, the jar of orchard plums
Cooling with late summer, the gardens half asleep,
Voluptuous fruit lolling on branches dipping deep,
And she before the hedgerow stood with sunbleached hair,
The lazy morning scrawling vague shadows on the air...
Why not? The moon is full, her circle is complete.
Don't leave me, friend, shout out, and see! I'm on my feet!
(translated by George Szirtes)
from "Razglednicas"
III.
The oxen drool saliva mixed with blood.
Each one of us is urinating blood.
The squad stands about in knots, stinking, mad.
Death, hideous, is blowing overhead.
IV.
I fell beside him and his corpse turned over,
tight already as a snapping string.
Shot in the neck. "And that's how you'll end too,"
I whisper to myself; "lie still; no moving.
Now patience flowers in death." Then I could hear
"Der springt noch auf," above, and very near.
Blood mixed with mud was drying on my ear.
(translated by Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner)
A cursory examination suggests Radnoti is well-remembered in Hungary.
But despite C. K. Williams' essay about him in an issue of APR from
about 10 years ago, he's never seemed especially "hot" outside it.
K.
--
Kenneth Wolman
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