An Anthology of Miklós Radnóti Poems by Miklós Nádasdi
Listed below are 10 poems written by Miklós Radnóti and translated by Miklós Nádasdi from the original Hungarian into English.
Between Your Two Arms
Letter to Spouse
Razglednica (Postcard) 1
Razglednica (Postcard) 2
Razglednica (Postcard) 3
Razglednica (Postcard) 4
Miklós Radnóti (May 1909-November 1944) was one of the greatest poets of Hungary in the 20th century. Born Miklós Glatter, he changed his name to Radnóti in 1934 after his graduation from University with a dissertation on “The artistic development of Margit Kaffka.” In 1935, Radnóti married Fanny Gyarmati, daughter of the owner of the respected Gyarmati printing company house; in 1943 the couple converted from Judaism to the Roman Catholic faith. In May 1944 Radnóti was called for his military service in the forced labor army for those of Jewish origin; the battalion in which he served was deported to the copper mines of Bor, Serbia, which by then provided a high proportion of the copper requirement of the German war-industry. On September 17, 1944 Radnóti was forced to leave the camp in a column of about 3,600 fellow servicemen of the forced labor army because of the military-offensive by Allied armies towards the end of World War II. He sustained the inhuman forced march from Bor to Szentkirályszabadja, where he wrote his last poem on October 31. In November 1944 he and 20 other fellow servicemen were shot and killed by members of the Hungarian Guards. His last poems (Razglednicas – kepeslapok) were found in the pocket of his coat in the mass grave.
Miklós Nádasdi was born on January 29, 1932 in Budapest. He received an M.D. degree at the Semmelweis University of Budapest in 1956, the same year when, during a revolution against the Soviet regime, he escaped from Hungary to Vienna. The following year he immigrated to Canada with the sponsorship of Hans Selye, the scientist who developed the stress theory. He worked as his postgraduate student at the University of Montreal where he obtained a Ph.D. degree in experimental medicine, following 34 scientific publications. In 1964 he moved to Toronto and became the vice president of medical affairs of Glaxo, a large international pharmaceutical company (now GSK). He also established a medical practice as a staff member of the North York General Hospital in Toronto. He is married, has two children, four grandchildren and a great-grandchild. Presently he is retired and lives with his wife in Toronto.
The moon sways on a frothy sky,
being alive, I'm surprised.
Death is busily searching our time
and those he finds are all so white.
The year looks around and cries out,
it looks around and it feels faint.
What kind of autumn lurks behind me
and how numb the winter is from pain!
The forest bled and in the spinning time
every hour was bleeding also.
The wind was scribbling big
dark numbers in the snow.
I understand this and that one too,
the air is heavy around me,
lukewarm silence filled with noises,
as in the womb, surrounds me.
I stop here under the tree
while its crown rumbles in anger,
a branch reaches down. It grabs my neck?
I am not coward, nor am I slender,
just tired. I am quiet. So is the branch
as it tousles my hair, full of dread.
It would be time to forget but
I was never able to forget.
Froth gushes on the moon in the sky
a streak of green poison takes a dive.
I roll a cigarette for myself,
slowly, carefully. I am alive.
Above you an apple tree's twig
falls down upon your lip,
more falls in a little while
on your hair and on your eye.
I can watch your lips all day
the twigs on your eye gently sway,
its light chases its own light,
kissing it would be sheer delight.
It seems that your eyes are closed,
above your eye-lids playful shadows,
they play with the petal, so tender
and falls into the dark somewhere.
Don't be scared, darkness is falling,
the mute, silvery night is calling,
the celestial branches bloom,
the lame world is lit by the moon
At the corner of Boulevard St Michel and Rue
Cujas the sidewalk is slightly off-straight.
My gorgeous wild youth, I didn't desert you,
like an echo in a shaft you reverberate
in my heart and your voice doesn't stop.
At the corner of Rue Monsieur le Prince was the baker's shop.
And on the left a big tree in the park
turned already yellow, for it tries
to predict that Autumn is ready to start.
Freedom, you dear nymph with long thighs
dressed in glowing golden evening
are you still among the veiled trees fleeting?
Like an army, Summer marched with zest
dusting up the road and perspiring wild,
beating the drum followed by cool mist
and the scent floating on each side.
At noon it was Summer but not far ahead
sweet Fall came by evening with a wet forehead.
I lived like a child for my whim and found
all the pleasure I wanted and also,
like a learned elder who knew the world was round.
I was green and my beard as the snow.
I took walks, nobody gave it a thought
and then I sank underground where it was hot.
Where are you, oh, every well-known station:
Denfert-Rochereau, - sounds like condemnation.
A map blooms on the mottled wall further on.
Where are you, oh! - I shout. I listen.
And body odour starts to boom and glisten.
And the nights! The nightly pilgrimage
from the outskirts to the Quartier.
Above Paris the strange, gloomy image
will the darkness ever go away?
When drunk from poem writing and half dead
and half undressed I fell into bed.
Oh, will I have strength to withdraw
from the heavy current of my life?
Below on the roof of the stinking, cheap bistro
the cat was mating. Shall I once more hear his miaows?
That gave me a pretty good idea
of the kind of shindy that in the arc,
sailing under the Moon, surrounded Noah.
BETWEEN YOUR TWO ARMS
Between your two arms I am swinging
Between my two arms you are swinging
Between your two arms I am a child
Between my two arms you are a child
With your two arms you embrace me
when I'm scared.
With my two arms I embrace you
I'm not scared.
Between your two arms I am not scared
of the silent
Between your two arms
I can die quietly
like a dreamer.
LETTER TO SPOUSE
Silent, mute worlds deep down in hell
their silence roars in my ears and I yell
but no one can speak and nobody answers
from the war-torn country of those darned Serbs
and your voice touches my dream from far away
I find it again in my heart the following day
so I am quiet while my heart yearns
surrounded by humming, cool, proud ferns.
I don't know when can I hold you in my arm
you who were steadfast and grave as a psalm
and beautiful like the shadow as cast by the light
and whom I could find in the darkest night
now you are far away and somewhere you hide
as you flutter before my eyes from inside;
you were real and now just a dream, so restless
falling in the fountain of my adolescence
I badger you non-stop with my jealous doubt
to know if you still have me in your heart?
and if once at the top of my young life
hopefully you will again be my wife --
yet awake I know my wife, my friend you are
only unreachable, three countries apart.
Autumn arrived. Will it abandon me here?
The memory of our kisses has become so clear,
miracles I believed in have gone by,
bombers are now swarming up in the sky
which, just like your eyes, is bright blue
but it darkens as the planes fly through
and the bombs get restless, ready to fall.
How I would like to wipe out them all
but I am a captive, I am tied in ropes
while I am pondering over all my hopes
to find the way to you, that is my goal
even if that road leads only through the soul. --
and through many countries and through scarlet ember
if needed, with magic, I shall still get there
through raging flames I shall remain stark
tenacious like a tree holds to its bark
and find peace from men who, when in peril, harness
weapons and power from their serene calmness
thus I become calm when as a slow, cool wave
the sound rule of 2 X 2 is taking shape.
Only the crazy gets up after falling to the ground
and moves his aching knees and feet without a sound
and marches on as if wings would take him away,
when the ditch tempts him, he doesn't dare to stay,
when you ask him why not? maybe he says in one breath,
his wife might be waiting and a more decent death.
Still, he is crazy because back at home
only the scorched wind twirls around all alone,
the plumtree is broken, the wall lies on its back,
the night is frightened, overcome with fret.
Oh, if I could believe it, not just hope in vain,
and return to an inviting home again
if I could sit, like once, on the cool veranda,
peaceful bees would hum, jam cooling in the plum jar,
the late summer would sunbathe in the garden at ease,
the fruits would swing naked up on the trees,
at the hedge I would see Fanni with her blond hair,
the forenoon would cast long shadows all over, --
it is all possible! the moon shines, it can be done!
Stop, my friend, yell at me, I'll get up and move on!
RAZGLEDNICA (Postcard) 1
From Bulgaria thick, wild cannon sound
rolls over the mountain ridge and thumps on the ground;
people, animal, carts and thoughts surge,
the road neighs, recoils, the clouds run with urge.
In this chaotic turmoil you're the one I find
the only bright, unmoving constant in my mind
and silently, as if the angel stared at the debris
or an insect making its grave in the hollow of a tree.
RAZGLEDNICA (Postcard) 2
Nine kilometres from here
haystacks and houses are up in smoke
while on the edge of the fields
mute and frightened peasants smoke.
Over here the lake is curly
from a shepherd girl's feet
and the curly flock bends over the water
slurping clouds in the heat.
RAZGLEDNICA (Postcard) 3
Bloody saliva drivels from the oxen's mouth,
people are voiding bloody urine,
the company stands in savage, fetid bunches
and the hideous death above shakes the branches.
RAZGLEDNICA (Postcard) 4
I fell next to him, his body turned over,
it was tight as a string when it is stretched.
Shot in the head, -- That's how you'll end up too,
I whispered to myself, -- just lay there in the trench.
Patience blooms into death here, --
Der springt noch auf, -- I heard near
Mud and blood dried on my ear
April 22, 2021