With a pure heart

A Hungarian friend shared poetry from her homeland on Thursday, which she has translated and continues to engage with in her off hours when not studying and soaking in new brain-stretched ideas. One in particular struck me, a beautiful slash through reality written in 1925 by Attila József, a poet who died at the age of 32. This is the translation of With a pure heart.

With a pure heart.

Without father without mother
without God or homeland either
without crib or coffin-cover
without kisses or a lover

for the third day – without fussing
I have eaten next to nothing.
My store of power are my years
I sell all my twenty years.

Perhaps, if no else will
the buyer will be the devil.
With a pure heart – that’s a job:
I may kill and I shall rob.

They’ll catch me, hang me high
in blessed earth I shall lie,
and poisonous grass will start
to grow on my beautiful heart.

Translated by Thomas Kabdebo

I include this as the body of my post because I want to embrace the essence of being human-as-scholar and scholar-as-must-be-human, not thinker-in-spite-of-pumping-heart-and-pulsing-caprices. It speaks of poverty, of useless youth in a time when youth was wasted and given no place to spend its sharpness, of what becomes of the starvation of the human flicker on a landscape all dark with turned-away eyes.

This realizes in me the answer to my occasional question as a lonely student: what more? I think the answer is less a concrete or fixed prospect but rather a negation of the alternative, that is, more than less might be. The study might isolate, might unhook from more vibrant, frequented spaces, but it is nonetheless a purpose, a proposal of mind. And this is something between the seller and the devil, yet.

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This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before January 1, 1923.

 

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