#hungarian poems | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunny-honeytears · 2 months ago

Text

So I've been working on a longer post again but tbh even as someone in elective literature course and just in general as someone who is crazy about hungarian literature, it's really hard to make progress with this so I'll just post what I already have

TANZ DER VAMPIRE CHARACTERS AS HUNGARIAN POEMS (and the poems itselfs)

Krolock:

Kölcsey Ferenc- Vanitatum Vanitas

To be completely transparent, I used an ai translator for this, for the simple reason of there not being any translations avaible online. BUT BARE WITH ME, ITS FOR THIS POST AND THE AI DID A GOOD JOB

If you look at the og, it's pretty dang similar so for the reason of sharing the poem I used ai, but if there *is* a translation online, I'll be using that don't worry.

Now heres the poem!

VANITATUM VANITAS

"Here’s the writing, contemplate it

With a mind serene and clear,

In its lines you’ll find the merit

Of what wise King Solomon here

Teaches us: this world we stand on

Builds itself on weak foundations,

Summer dew, the winter’s snow,

All is vanity below!

Our Earth is but an ant-hill’s nest,

Born from a fleeting spark of flame;

Thunder’s roar and lightning’s jest,

Like a bee’s buzz, without aim;

History’s swift flight of fable,

Like a sigh, is just as stable;

All pomp and grandeur we adore:

A thousand years, a bubble more.

Alexander’s glittering chase

Is like hunting deer or hare;

Attila’s hordes, a rodent race,

Waspish swarms brought to despair;

Great King Matthias’ battle honor,

Napoleon’s feats of conquer,

And the Waterloo renown:

Only cockerel duels found.

Virtue’s grand illusions beam,

But mere steam, fever’s snare;

In the breast, love’s glowing dream

Blood surging in its lair.

Socrates met his end’s doorway,

Cato’s blood dripped in his foray,

Zrinyi Miklós’ sacred dust,

Just a chain of folly’s trust.

And you wise men, what have you brought

That could earn esteem and grace?

Drunken madness filled your thoughts—

Plato, Aristotle’s face.

Reason’s folly intertwined,

Knowledge nothing but combined

Deck of cards and airy breeze—

All the sciences but tease.

Demosthenes with thundered cries,

But a hawker’s wrangling blare;

Xenophon with honeyed lies

At the wheel awaits his share;

Pindar’s heavenly flights elating,

Cold and hot stuttering, abating;

Phidias’ statues, all we laud,

Just chiseled lines upon a rock.

What is life’s fiery flow?

Just the warmth of falling sparks.

The passions’ roaring blow?

Like butterflies in swirling arcs.

Beginning and the end embrace,

And life’s true leaders in the race

Are faith and hope along the span,

Fleeting mist and rainbow’s fan.

Moonlight is our happiness,

Smoke the ill-luck that will fade;

Candlelight our universe,

Death a breeze’s fleeting shade.

Are you waiting for renown

Or immortality’s bright crown?

Like a scent, the bloom shall leave,

Though a moment shall it grieve.

So care not for this fleeting world,

Wise is he who scoffs at all—

Fate and virtue, greatness furled,

Science, fame, and life’s enthrall.

Be like a rock that never sways,

Still, unmoved in all its ways.

Let joy raise or sorrow weigh,

Blind to beauty and decay.

For whether the earth will move or stay,

This tiny world with you in play,

Whether moon and sun shall gleam

O’er your head or dull their beam,

Whatever color fortune brings,

Neither bad nor good it sings,

For in the end it’s just the same:

All of it is but a game."

Professor Abronsius: Vörösmarty Mihály- Gondolatok a könyvtárban (Thoughts in the library)

now buckle up, this is a LONG one

Thoughts in the library

"Consider, scholar, when you enter here,

on cast-off rags, man's stigma freshly marked,

with words as stark as the dark winter night,

there looms, written blood-black, the awesome lesson:

"while into misery millions are born

a few thousand might find in life salvation

could they but make use of the days of their lives,

had they the mind divine, the Seraph's temper."

Why all this rubbish? So, like sheep on grass

we may graze on it? Sated with fodder

and idle hours synthesized by science amoral

to waste God's day, a nation's energy?

Why this rubbish? From its stench I recall

all the sins of the animal man - they reek!

Virtue is written on this page, which once

as rag has garbed an outlaw. This other page?

perhaps - oh happy days of innocence -

the frail dress ripped from a ravished virgin,

perhaps a lust-enraged whore's negligee.

And here on these leaves, the law whitewashed from

remnants of bloody rebels and false judges,

from masks of sanguine tyrants washed white;

the secrets of machines and of numbers laid bare,

but those who tore garments, stripped man naked,

flayed dignity that bindings might be vellum,

these, unaccounted for, must render account -

they spin on Ixion's tempest-driven wheel

within the vortex, misery without end

and, gnashing their teeth, wail in the dark outside.

On the madman's sheets ponders a sage's head;

the astronomer, on eyeless beggar's rags

measures bursting universes piled on end -

light and blindness, all on a flimsy page!

The coward and the captive, both hapless roles

are bound forever in one book that sings

of freedom and heroes hewing history...

Stainless sheets, pulped from traitor's rags, now

reward the friend and thus honor the faithful;

yet over all, all-polluting, the Big Lie!

The Word, cursed by the pallid winding sheet

its black image adorns, suffers damnation,

rag-lure of countries, your name is library!

Where, then, is the volume that answers all?

The greater part of Man - where is his joy?

Is the world no better for any book?

Yes! The more gloriously man's societies arise

the greater the human refuse at the bottom.

The bursting breast of rags stuffed with man

must breathe contagion into the empire's heart.

Should we, after all, topple what countless brains

have wrought in the linked sunbursts of their minds?

Void the golden knowledge rare brains have

chopped and torn away from the mines of time?

How many bright souls immolated themselves

in vigil at the burning ruins of the heart

to give purpose, strength and comfort

to erring humans humbled by destiny?

Those heroes of unrecognized merit

whom the contemptible public mocked

were praised after death, when praise cost but words:

their thoughts beatified by the martyring mob!

Should the great burn to ashes at the same stake

with rag peddlers, numbskulls, and mildewed hearts?

Glow in embers with dark passion-panders

indiscriminate? Good on account of bad, with them?

Never! That which I said was pain.

The travail of many a bold spirit,

even those luminous minds could not save

the sons of dust from sinking in the mud.

There is barely a corner of the world,

one little oasis on the barren sand

where the most sought-after name is not that of Man,

where the ancient rites of generation

yield as heritage the name of Man!

Except for those who have been born to blackness,

labelled cattle by the glorious elite

who caress the dark image of God with whips.

Despite all, despite all, one must travail -

a new spirit is fighting its way up,

through the soul of man bursts a new approach -

to nurture fruitful ideals in races

primitive, to culture finer sentiments

that they may embrace, at last, each other,

and within their hearts reign love and justice.

So the lowest peasant may, in his hut,

say with assurance "I am not alone,

my brothers and sisters number millions,

I protect them, and me they defend;

fate, I fear thee not, despite thy dread will!"

That is why one must not succumb to despair.

Let us, steadfast as ants, set down that which

our brains, in the rare inspired hours, create,

and when we have assembled every stone,

we'll erect the Babel of a newer age,

build it until it towers among the stars,

and when we have looked through the gates of Heaven,

having heard from without the Angels' song,

with every drop of our earthly blood

aglow from elevated flames of delights,

let us then scatter like the ancient peoples

and begin anew, to endure and to learn.

Is this then our fate, and nothing our goal?

It is not - nor will be while the earth yields life,

and its mortal sons are not turned to stone;

what, in this world, is our task? To struggle,

and to nourish the needs of the spirit;

we are Man, son to both the earth and sky,

our soul is the wing beating toward heaven,

but we, instead of striving up to soar,

would rather, dully, like some bird beneath contempt,

eke out existence sucking mud from swamps.

What, in this world, is our task? To struggle,

according to our strength, for noble goals.

Before us stands the fate of a nation -

when we, from the irrevocable fall

have preserved it and restored it to its heights,

fighting under the clear beam of the spirit,

we can say, returning to our ancestors

in the dust: "Thank you, life, for thy blessings -

this has been great joy, yea, the Work of Men!"

Hart, H.H."

I told you its long, its called "The biggest hungarian philosophical poem" and personally one of my favourite poems ever, I have a quote of it on a shirt lol.

Alfred: Csokonai Vitéz Mihály - A Reményhez

To Hope

To mortal eyes, you, Hope, do seem

a form divinely sweet;

but eyes of gods can pierce the dream

and see your blind deceit.

Unhappy men in times of ill

create you for their easing;

and as their Guardian Angel still

they worship without ceasing.

Why do you flatter me with praise?

Why do you then deride me?

Why in my bosom do you raise

a dubious heart to chide me?

Stay far and fair beyond my reach,

as first my soul you greeted!

I had depended on your speech,

but you have ever cheated.

With jonquil and with daffodil

you planted all my garden,

and introduced a chattering rill

to be my orchard's warden;

you did bestrew my laughing spring

with many a thousand flowers,

the scents of Heaven did you fling

to perfume all its hours;

my thoughts, like bees, found morning sweet

'mid garden plots and closes,

and hovered 'round in fragrant heat

above my heavy roses.

One hope possessed my soul apart,

one radiant prospect joyed me,

my garden lay in Lilla's heart

its wonders never cloyed me.

But, ah, the roses of my ease

Have withered quite away;

my sparkling brook and shady trees

are dead and dry today.

The springtime of my happiness

is winter now instead;

my dreams are gone beyond redress,

my fairy world has fled.

Ah, would you leave me but my lass,

the Lilla of my passion,

I'd let all sad complaining pass

nor mourn in any fashion.

Within her arms I could forget

misfortune, grief, and pain;

no wreath of pearl could match my girl

were she with me again!

Depart from me, O cruel Hope!

Depart and come no more;

for blinded by your power I grope

along a bitter shore.

My strength has failed, for I am riven

by all my doubt and dearth;

my tired spirit longs for Heaven

my body yearns for earth.

I see the meadows overcome

with dark consuming blight;

the vocal grove today is dumb;

the sun gives place to night.

I cannot tune this trill of mine!

My thoughts are all askew!

Ah, heart! Ah, hope! Ah, Lilla mine!

May God remember you!

Kirkconnell, Watson

To be honest this doesn't give back the feeling of the hungarian one so I'll link in an audio recording, do go and listen to it it's amazing, especially if you know the backstory of the poem