Since 1964, we celebrate Hungarian Poetry Day in Hungary on April 11, which is the birthday of Attila József. To mark this occasion, we are treating our visitors to poems related to the exhibitions. Where an English translation is available, we publish it here; for the other poems, we only display the poets’ portraits and the titles of the poems.
János Arany (Nagyszalonta, March 2, 1817 – Budapest, October 22, 1882) was a Hungarian poet, teacher, newspaper editor, director of the Kisfaludy Society, and a member and secretary-general of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. He is one of the best-known and most significant figures in Hungarian literature. He was the greatest Hungarian ballad poet, which is why he was called the “Shakespeare of the ballad”; due to his official position, he was known as the “notary of Szalonta,” but in his hometown—presumably because of his nature—he was also given the title “the man of silence.” Among his translations, his translations of Shakespeare stand out.
Source: wikipedia
János Arany: The legend of the “Miraculous hind”
Verse 6 of the first part of the Csaba Trilogy
The lark’s aloft from bough to bough,
the song is passed from lip to lip.
Green grass grows o’er old heroes now
but song revives their fellowship…
Forth to the hunt they ride again
two brave sons that fair Enéh bore,
Hunor and Magyar, champions twain,
Ménrót’s twin sons in days of yore.
Each chooses fifty doughty knights
to go in escort at his side;
armed as for bloody war’s delights,
they seek out game in youthful pride.
Wild beasts in pools of blood they drag;
they slaughter all the elk they find;
they have already killed the stag,
and now they all pursue the hind.
They chase the hind continually
along the Salt Sea’s barren shore,
where neither wolf nor bear may be
lest it be lost forevermore.
But ‘cross those wastes of prairie earth
the panther and the lion yelp;
the tawny tiger there gives birth
and in her hunger eats her whelp.
On flies the bird, the song flies on
of Enéh’s sons’ fair fellowship:
the lark’s aloft from bough to bough,
the song is passed from lip to lip.
The sun is passing from their view,
piercing the clouds with fiery spears,
but still the hind they all pursue…
at sunset, lo, it disappears.
They find themselves as daylight sinks
where Kur’s broad waters sweep and swell.
on meadows by the river-brinks
their weary steeds may pasture well.
Says Hunor: “Let us bivouac,
water our steeds, and turn to rest.”
Says Magyar: “When the dawn comes back,
let us go homeward from our quest.”
But “ho, ho my heroes, knights of mine,
what mystifying land is this?
To eastward see the sunset shine.
it looks to human eyes amiss!”
“It seems to me,” a warrior claims
“the light from down south issues forth.”
Another vowes “No, it remains
and it is glowing in the north…”
Dismounting all, their steeds they tend
and slumber by the river’s foam,
and purposed, when the night should end,
to journey with their escort home.
The dawn is cool; a light wind blows;
the broad horizon brims with blue;
the hind across the river goes
and bravely leaps before their view.
On flies the bird, the song flies now
of Enéh’s sons’ fair fellowship:
the lark’s aloft from bough to bough,
the song is passed from lip to lip.
“Now, my quick lads! Speed on the chase,
let’s catch this apparition hind!”
Blithe or reluctant, forth they race
and press on, to their task resigned.
So then they ford the river Kur,
and find the waste-land still more wild;
no drop of water dews the moor
no blades of grass in verdure smile.
The crumbling surface of the land
sweats soda from its sterile brow,
springs ooze with poison from the sand
and sulphur stinks in many a slough.
With bubbling oils the springs are bright;
they burn untended here and there;
like watch-fires in a gloomy night
their fulgor flickers everywhere.
Each night they bitterly repent
their longing for this game they traced
with such unwearying intent
into the mazes of the waste.
But when the dust of morning thins,
to chase the hind their hearts are stirred
as thistledown obeys the winds
or shadow-wings pursue the bird.
On flies the bird, the song flies now
of Enéh’ sons’ fair fellowship:
the lark’s aloft from bough to bough,
the song is passed from lip to lip.
They search the waste: they track the Don
as far as Meót’s lesser sea;
through boggy marshes they press on
to isles of fenny greenery.
And there the hind, like fleeting mist
of fog about her in the skies,
-again? But how could they have missed?-
now disappears before their eyes.
“Halloo!” they cry, “where is the game?”
“Yonder she dashes!” one does call.
Another shouts: “this way she came!”
A third: “she is not here at all…”
Through every nook and copse they search;
through every bush they track the hind,
by lizard-lair and partridge-perch,
but what they seek they cannot find.
Then Magyar speaks with many a sigh:
“Who knows the way that leads us back?
on every side there’s boundless sky-
we’ll perish on this far-off track.”
Says Hunor: “Let us not retreat!
But build a camp and call it home-
the grass here’s soft, the water’s sweet-
and trees with sap are all afoam.
Bright fishes are the river’s gift,
and tawny game makes tasty food.
The bows are taut, the arrows swift,
and booty-our adventure’s gift…”
On flies the bird, the song flies now
of Enéh’s son’s fair fellowship:
the lark’s aloft from bough to bough
the song is passed from lip to lip.
But soon they wish to venture out,
they yearn for newer, different game-
as they get bored with fish and trout,
and so they enter on the plain.
And there across the level prairie
at dead of night, strange music streams,
out in the wasteland, wide and airy,
as if from heaven or in dreams.
There fairy maidens did subsist
and danced with joy in elfin measure;
housed in a tent of woven mist,
they passed their nights in tuneful pleasure.
No man may spy the elfin school;
for mortal maids surpassing fair-
daughters of Kings, Belár and Dúl,
are learning elfin magic there.
Fairest are Dúl’s two girls to view,
old Belár’s twelve are sweet and warm;
their company, five-score and two,
are poised to take on fairy form.
To win it, each must kill a man,
bewitch nine youths with magic lure,
tease them along to love’s hot plan
yet keep their own white bodies pure
Thus are they taught the fatal art
the fearful knowledge of the fairy;
each night their progress they impart,
each night in dancing they make merry.
On flies the bird, the song flies now
of Enéh’s sons’ fair fellowship-
the lark’s aloft from bough to bough,
the song is passed from lip to lip.
The men follow the fairy-sound
they stalk a-tiptoe on the sly;
the flickering lights they spy and hound,
as if chasing a butterfly.
Says Magyar: “Brother, that sweet fife
tickles my marrow through and through!”
Says Hunor: “Nothing in my life
has stirred me as those maidens do!”-
“Up, knights, and at them! Join the chase!
Let each one bear a woman back,
holding her tight in his embrace!
The wind will cover up our track!”
They spur their horses on and fling,
the reins aside that they may seize
the maidens dancing in a ring
all unprepared for deeds like these.
The girls run wild with piercing cries,
but fire and stream hem in their charms;
whichever way a virgin flies,
she falls into a rider’s arms.
Away their fairy teachers fly,
on frightened wings they flutter free…
But what can mortal maidens try
to save their sweet virginity?
Now, in that place, no maid remains;
the horsemen gallop with a will,
exultant; and upon those plains
the empty night is dark and still.
On flies the bird, the song flies now
of Enéh’s sons’ fair fellowship-
the lark’s aloft from bough to bough,
the song is passed from lip to lip.
King Dúl’s two daughters, the most fair,
to Hunor and to Magyar fall.
The hundred knights in rapture share
the hundred girls, and love them all.
Proud maids in time do reconcile,
though thwarted in their virgin plan.
They seek their homes no more, but smile
atonement, bearing sons to man.
Their isle becomes a country sweet;
their tents become a treasured home;
their beds become a blest retreat,
from which they do not wish to roam.
They bring forth boys, brave clans to please,
fair girls they bear for love’s warm hour-
the handsome slips of youthful trees
in place of their lost virgin flower.
Heroic children, two by two,
become the heads of every clan;
five-score and eight their branches grow,
and fertile marriage spreads their span.
Brave Hunor’s branch become the Huns,
and Magyar’s is the Magyar nation;
beyond all number are the sons
that overrun their island station.
On Scythia then they sweep in spate,
King Dúl’s rich empire in the south-
since when, O pair of heroes great,
your glory flies from mouth to mouth!
1863
Translated by Watson Kirkconnell, Anton N. Nyerges and Makkai, Adam
Image: Floor tile with a deer motif, Medieval Archaeological Collection;
Arany János: Családi kör (1851. ápr. 10.)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: Fleeing Soldier, artist unknown, Kiscelli Museum, Print Collection
Gyula Juhász (Szeged, April 4, 1883 – Szeged, April 6, 1937) was a Hungarian poet. One of Hungary’s most acclaimed poets of the first half of the 20th century, he was, before Attila József, one of the most significant Hungarian lyrical voices expressing the fate of the Hungarian people.
Source: wikipedia
Juhász Gyula: Mátyás király (1906)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: King Matthias’s funeral shield, Medieval Department Drawing Collection
Ágnes Nemes Nagy (Budapest, January 3, 1922 – Budapest, August 23, 1991) was a Hungarian poet, literary translator, essayist, and educator who received the Kossuth, József Attila, and Baumgarten Awards; she was posthumously inducted into the Digital Literary Academy.
Source: wikipedia
Nemes Nagy Ágnes: Amikor (The third verse of the Akhenaten section in the Solstice volume, 1957–1969)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: Drawing of an idol, Aquincum Prehistoric Department, Drawing Collection
Sándor Petőfi (born Sándor Petrovics, Kiskőrös, January 1, 1823 – near Fehéregyháza, July 31, 1849) was a Hungarian poet, revolutionary, and national hero, and one of the best-known and most outstanding figures in Hungarian poetry. During his short life, he wrote nearly a thousand poems, of which approximately eight hundred and fifty have survived; the better-known ones have been translated into numerous languages.
Source: wikipedia
Sándor Petőfi: National Song
Arise Magyar, your country calls!
Now or never, our time compels!
Shall we be slaves? Shall we be free?
These are the questions. Answer me!-
By God, our God, Hungarians,
We shall vow,
Shall vow that we must be enslaved
No more now!
Till now we have been abject slaves,
Shaming our forebears in their graves;
Those who so freely lived and died
Can find no rest in sullied ground.
By God, our God, Hungarians,
We shall vow,
Shall vow that we must be enslaved
No more now!
A man quite unprepared to die
Is merest riff-raff in my eye
Thinking ragged life is dearer
Even than this country ‘s honour.
By God, our God, Hungarians,
We shall vow,
Shall vow that we must be enslaved
No more now!
The sword is brighter than the chain,
And on the arm a nobler gain,
Yet you would think chains were preferred!
Come to our aid, ancestral sword!
By God, our God, Hungarians,
We shall vow,
Shall vow that we must be enslaved
No more now!
Hungarians-our nation’s name
Shall glorify its ancient fame;
Then we shall wash away all trace
Of centuries of our disgrace!
By God, our God, Hungarians,
We shall vow,
Shall vow that we must be enslaved
No more now!
Near where in graves we lie at ease
Our grandchildren will bend their knees,
Pronouncing our saintly names
They’ll pray and bless us countless times.
By God, our God, Hungarians,
We shall vow,
Shall vow that we must be enslaved
No more now!
1848
Translated by Dixon, Alan
Image: The 12-point type printed on Landerer’s printing press
Dezső Kosztolányi, born Dezső István Izabella Kosztolányi (Szabadka, March 29, 1885 – Budapest, Krisztinaváros, November 3, 1936), was a writer, poet, literary translator, critic, essayist, journalist, Esperantist, an outstanding master of form among the first generation of the Nyugat literary circle, and one of the greatest figures of 20th-century Hungarian prose and poetry.
Source: wikipedia
Kosztolányi Dezső: Ódon, ónémet, cifra óra (1908)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: Compass maker, Stadtbibliothek im Bildungscampus Nürnberg, Amb. 317b.2°, Folio 1 verso
Ferenc Faludi (Németújvár, March 25, 1704 – Rohonc, December 18, 1779) was a Jesuit priest, writer, poet, and literary translator.
Source: wikipedia
Faludi Ferenc: Mária Theresia királyné asszonyunkhoz (1771)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: Johann Esaias Nilson: Maria Theresa, copper engraving, Kiscelli Museum, Engraving Collection
Lőrinc Szabó, whose full name was Lőrinc József Szabó (Miskolc, March 31, 1900 – Budapest, District VIII, October 3, 1957), was a poet and literary translator who received the Kossuth Prize and the Attila József Prize, and was one of the leading figures of modern Hungarian poetry.
Source: wikipedia
Szabó Lőrinc: Az árny keze (Verse 329 of Section V of The Cricket Song, 1918–1947)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: Chapel, Medieval Department, Drawing Collection
László Dinyés (Székesfehérvár, April 29, 1948 – Budapest, September 8, 2015) was a Hungarian painter, graphic artist, sculptor, and writer.
Source: wikipedia
Dinyés László: Négy színű, Anjou címeres selyemlepel
Image: Drawing of the Hungarian-Anjou silk tapestry, by László Dinyés
Dinyés László: Harmadik kocsmadal
Image: Drawing of a jug, Medieval Department, Drawing Collection
Zoltán Jékely (Nagyenyed, April 24, 1913 – Budapest, March 20, 1982) was a Hungarian writer, poet, literary translator, and librarian, and the son of Lajos Áprily. In 2000, he was posthumously elected a member of the Digital Literary Academy.
Source: wikipedia
Jékely Zoltán: Archaeologia (1942)
Image: Drawing of an axe, Aquincum Prehistoric Department, Drawing Collection
Jékely Zoltán: Gül Baba fürdőjéhez (1948)
Image: Gül Baba’s tomb, Medieval Department, Drawing Collection
Jékely Zoltán: A budai Kapisztrán-toronyhoz (1964)
(A poem from the collection Ghost-Chasing, 1964)
Image: St. Mary Magdalene Church, Medieval Department, Drawing Collection
Jékely Zoltán: A budai szobrok köszöntése Zolnay Lászlónak (1974)
Image: Reconstruction of the figure of the Apostle, János Major, Medieval Department, Drawing Collection
Jékely Zoltán: A föld mélyében Sőtér Istvánnak (1937)
There is no official Hungarian translation available for this poem; however, several other works by the author can be accessed in English at the link below.
Image: Excavation drawing, Anikó Tóth, Medieval Department, Drawing Collection