Just A Bit Of Lord-Poetry ;)



Beautiful City by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Beautiful city, the center of European confusion,

O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal humanity,

How often your Re-volution has proven but E-volution

Roll’d again back on itself in the tides of civic insanity!

Gratitude Journal – 3rd Week

Johanna - osszes mobiltelefonkep 457

I am thankful today for the gloomy or sunny, peaceful or loud, obscure or pretty, but always blessed Sunday mornings,

  • because I can drink my coffee and eat my bread ‘n butter in quiet and in the warm safety of my house — noone is threatening my life or my family’s safety, and no war is casting it’s shadow on my community;
  • because I can dress up in my favorite stuff, take my baggy bag and weird hymnbook and go to the church I like, sing the songs I know and worship the God I believe in — there’s noone to persecute me for my beliefs and noone to deny me the freedom to openly practice my religion;
  • because I can always have a little chat with my mother over a toast before getting ready — both of my parents are still alive and thriving in a healthy marriage that gives me such a wonderful feeling like nothing else;
  • because I can stay in bed a little longer than usually on the mornings of the rest of the week — I truly enjoy the free time Sundays offer;
  • because I like mornings in general and Sunday is always special in a way — it is the last day before the next Monday! 😀

Freedom Or Safety? – A Fable

Someone not long ago (I guess it was in response to the Edward Snowden scandal) asked me what do I honor more – my freedom or my safety?

I had to think about it for a second – safety is my weekness, but then I smiled and said with an unshakable certainty: freedom.

This dilemma is perfectly depicted in Aesop’s fable, that was re-written by La Fontaine in poetry. I know La Fontaine’s version better, and I thought I’ll try to do a rough translation, – not because there aren’t enough already, but because I can, so why not? It couldn’t hurt. Here it is:

Jean de la Fontaine: Le Loup et le Chien – The Wolf and the Dog

The Wolf was nothing but skin and bones,

(the dogs were so diligently warding the sheep),

when he met a fatty Dog with sad groans.

It was big with a shiny fur.

“Could I tear him apart?” the Wolf demurred.

“The strength is too much that he owns.”

So he took to coaxing,

he complimented on his top-notch tummy.

“My friend,” replied the Dog,

“You could be a fatty hog as well,

if you join me!

Your kind in the forest is all nuts,

searching for food night and day,

their scruffy skin hanging on their bones like drags.

No safety, no peace…

But who comes with me will have a splendid fate!”

“What would my job be?” asked the Wolf.

“Nothing too heavy, just a bark here and there,

chasing beggars and travellers,

to fawn upon the master of the house,

your payment will come accordingly:

all the feeding, chicken bones and dove wings,

caressing and fondling.”

The Wolf is almost crying with the

prospect of such a future.

But than he observes the solid

worn-out stripe on the neck of the Dog.

“What’s that?” “That? Nothing.”

“Let me hear it!” “It’s just a small rubbing.

The collar does that, which ties me up.”

“You’re tied up?” shrieked the Wolf.

“Good bye then! Eat as much as you want,

I do not wish to join your kennel

for all the lamb in the world!”

replied the Wolf and ran away.

(Aesop’s version adds:

Better starve free than be fed as a slave.)

This Is Not A Common Fire!


Bind the sacrificial wood

with strong ropes!

Because it hisses and watches,

bind it’s neck, bind it to hope!


It’s kicking against it with nymph-legs,

press it to the altar with steely webs!

It’s kicking against it with nymph-legs,

never untie it’s waist, even if it begs!


It put it’s branch-hands

on the altar,

it never wants to turn back

it’s bushy head to the halter!

(Even if it scratches and scrapes…)

Bind the sacrificial wood

with strong ropes!


It should burn long and pretty,

like the star burns on the sky.

The sacrifice is not worth a penny

without the obedience of the wood.


Let it blaze in the fire of the burning bush,

as log as the vision lasts!

(Love is passing by.)

This is the time it can show what kind of a tree

it was cut out from by the blessig of the blast!


This is not a common fire!

It’s the flame of love:

it binds you, like a slave,

sets you free like the rebel’s fire.

No river may quench it,

no water can wash it away!


Bind me with ropes,

with dauntless ropes,

like the sacrificial wood!


As log as the vision lasts…


If I’d wash the glass from the inside,

it would be better.

It needs some washing in the outside,

but in it’s lair

Coke-drops take brown slips.

I wipe it in vain with the napkin,

that outer crystalline crust,

my industrious hands don’t clean

the inside’s clammy must.

If I’d wash the glass from the inside,

it would be better.

It would be – – better.

Compelling Circle

as when your

drooping soul already echoes with the blazing prohibition,

your heart is jugging in the mortal fear of the yet hovering eternity, knowing there’s no remission,

your itchy eyes still look into the snake-eyes,

your hand still to the toxic fruit flies,

as when…

(it’s as if

the fly would wilfully fly into the spiderweb,

it’s as if

the turkey would chop down it’s own stupid head,

the orgy of a foolish set…)

as when you

hear behind you the scorching scream,

then closer to your head the bluster of the fire-stream,

till you look inside you, and find hell there,

still an eye looks back, as idol-stare,

still your foot recoils as a salt-stair,

as when…

(it’s as if

the worm would gladly jump into the beak of the woodpecker,

it’s as if

it would voluntarily jump out from the nest, that fluffy flapper,

the coquetry of a senseless matter…)

as when at departure

in your tumbledown car you don’t fasten your seatbelt,

then you don’t slow down a bit in the hairpin bend,

you’d like to live, but an intrinsic revolt cries crazily

that despite all of this you should play a bit merrily

in the compelling circle of the ancient adversity,

as when…

Sadness? It’s a big ocean…

I have mixed feelings about the poetry and life of probably the best known Hungarian poet, Sándor Petőfi.

But I like his short poems, musings about various subjects.

So here’s the rough translation of one of his shorties.

Sadness? It’s a big ocean by Sándor Petőfi

Sadness? It’s a big ocean.

And joy?

A small pearl of the ocean. Maybe.

By the time I manage to bring it

to the surface, I might even break it.