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domingo, 24 de marzo de 2013


János Arany
Salonta, HUNGRÍA 1817-Budapest, 1882 

Poeta húngaro. Es autor del poema satírico La constitución perdida (1845), de contenido político, y de la trilogía poética Toldi (1847-1879), su obra maestra. Tradujo a Shakespeare y a Aristófanes, fue un bardo húngaro de poesía épica, considerado el más grande de los poetas épicos de Hungría.
Su principal obra es la trilogía de Toldi, compuesta de los escritos Toldi de 1847, Toldi estéje de 1854 y Toldi szerelme 1848–1879, donde se narran las aventuras de Nicolás Toldi, un caballero húngaro del siglo XIV que poseía una extraordinaria fuerza física. La serie de textos fueron recibidos con admiración por un público deseoso de una literatura nacional de calidad, en un lenguaje que todos pudiesen entender.
Otras de sus notables obras fueron un fragmento de un poema épico títulado Bolond Istók de 1850 y La Muerte del Rey Buda de 1864. El escrito Őszikék lo redactó poco antes de morir, donde reflexiona de un modo conmovedor sobre su percepción de incumplimiento personal y soledad.

En las guerras

En las guerras, antiguamente, 
no seguían principio alguno,
el más fuerte siempre al más débil
le quitó todo cuanto pudo.
Ahora no es así. El mundo
regido está por conferencias:
cuando se hace el fuerte una trampa.
Se reúnen- y allí la aprueban. 



Como el fuego de pastores en las noches de verano
Que arde desde lejos en el inmenso desierto
Así llamea delante de mí la imagen de Nicolás Toldi
Hace nueve o diez generaciones.
Me parece ver su enorme estatura
Sus golpes con el palo en las batallas destructoras
Me parece escuchar el tonante sonido de su voz
Que hoy les pareciera a ustedes la ira de Dios.

El más fuerte era él, cuando hacía falta.
No habría nadie parecido ni en tierras lejanas
Si hoy resucitara y volviera entre ustedes
Creerían de todas sus cosas que sea magia
Ni entre tres podrían levantar su pesada maza
Ni sus piedras de honda, o su chuzo golpeador.
Se asustarían al ver su terrible blinda
Y las espuelas que traía en las botas.

Cosmopolitan poetry

I have no shame, no regret 
That born Hungarian, I write 
As one, that I can never let
My words beyond this soil take flight. 
No ‘Wonder of two worlds,’ my song 
If charm it has, is due to them,
My people; I am theirs, belong
To one land wholly, root and stem. 

Let tongues of the mighty propagate 
Their own language, sovereignty 
Their god, a roaring flood in spate 
That washes all, destructively.
But let the poet of a small nation 
Placed in destruction’s very path, 
Find at home his true station, 
Death, else, the aftermath.

Or is our glory here so small
It needs must sink into the grave 
Along with the nation? Do you call 
Us inferior, that neighbours gave 
No heed to us? Is there no test 
Worthy of our strength at home, 
Subject for song, no native quest? 
Must we crave Albion’s loan?

Be a „world poet;” if you can, 
Stir up the whole lazy west.
The cradle that rocked me Hungarian 
Is one that I must still call blessed. 
A thousand threads bind me - I deal 
With motherland, with this one spot. 
I sing of no abstract ideal,
Voice such, I’d rather not.

And what becomes of this sad mistake? 
His race, his nationality
Have left a mark he cannot shake: 
Will the great poet despise them, he? 
I have scanned the pages of the best, 
Contemporaries of mine as well; 
All were mirrors, each confessed 
People and land he alone could tell. 

Pray do not think that a people stricken 
Are extinguished, blotted out suddenly, 
While poet and homeland in harmony quicken 
With a national, endless melody.
And were you to picture some future danger, 
Or should its semblance in fact appear, 
Would you desert like any stranger
The holy flag, its peril near? 

Oh, with a worthier lute to sing 
As Homer did, a land reborn, 
No longer a poet sorrowing
For a land of griefs now left forlorn. 
But should its fate indeed be death, 
Then let me be an Ossian dwelling
In a place that fades, no mongrel breath 
Intoning, but a live song swelling. 

The Bard Of Wales

Edward the king, the English king,
Bestrides his tawny steed,
'For I will see if Wales,' said he,
'Accepts my rule indeed.

'Are stream and mountain fair to see?
Are meadow grasses good?
Do corn-lands bear a crop more rare
Since wash'd with rebel's blood?

'And are the wretched people there,
Whose insolence I broke
As happy as the oxen are
Beneath the driver's yoke?

'In truth this Wales, Sire, is a gem,
The fairest in your crown:
The stream and field rich harvest yield,
And fair and dale and down.

'And all the wretched people there
Are calm as man could crave;
Their hovels stand throughout the land
As silent as the grave.'

Edward the king, the English King
Bestrides his tawni steed;
A silence deep his subjects keep
And Wales is mute indeed.

The castle named Montgomery
Ends that day's journeying;
The castle's lord, Montgomery,
Must entertain the king.

Then game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
A hundred hurrying servants bear
To please the appetite.

With all of worth the isle brings forth
In dainty drink and food,
And all the wines of foreign vines
Beyond the distant flood.

'You lords, you lords, will none consent
His glass with mine to ring?
What? Each one fails, you dogs of Wales,
To toast the English king?

'Though game and fish and ev'ry dish
That lures the taste and sight
Your hand supplies, your mood defies
My person with a slight.

'You rascal lords, you dogs of Wales,
Will none for Edward cheer?
To serve my needs and chant my deeds
Then let a bard appear!'

The nobles gaze in fierce amaze,
Their cheeks grow deadly pale;
Not fear but rage their looks engage,
They blanch but do not quail.

All voices cease in soundless peace,
All breathe in silent pain;
Then at the door a harper hoar
Comes in with grave disdain:

'Lo, here I stand, at your command,
To chant your deeds, O king!'
And weapons clash and hauberks crash
Responsive to his string.

'Harsh weapons clash and hauberks crash,
And sunset sees us bleed,
The crow and wolf our dead engulf -
This, Edward, is your deed!

'A thousand lie beneath the sky,
They rot beneath the sun,
And we who live shall not forgive
This deed your hand hath done!'

'Now let him perish! I must have'
(The monarch's voice is hard)
'Your softest songs, and not your wrongs!'
In steps a boyish bard:

'The breeze is soft at eve, that oft
From Milford Havens moans;
It whispers maidens' stifled cries,
It breathes of widows' groans.

'You maidens, bear no captive babes!
You mothers, rear them not!'
The fierce king nods. The lad is seiz'd
And hurried from the spot.

Unbidden then, among the men,
There comes a dauntless third
With speech of fire he tunes his lyre,
And bitter is his word:

'Our bravest died to slake your pride -
Proud Edward, hear my lays!
No Welsh bards live who e'er will give
Your name a song a praise.

'Our harps with dead men's memories weep.
Welsh bards to you will sing
One changeless verse - our blackest curse
To blast your soul, O king!'

'No more! Enough!' - cries out the king.
In rage his orders break:
'Seek through these vales all bards of Wales
And burn them at the stake!'

His men ride forth to south and north,
They ride to west and east.
Thus ends in grim Montgomery
The celebrated feast.

Edward the king, the English king
Spurs on his tawny steed;
Across the skies red flames arise
As if Wales burned indeed.

In martyrship, with song on lip,
Five hundred Welsh bards died;
Not one was mov'd to say he lov'd
The tyrant in his pride.

''Ods blood! What songs this night resound
Upon our London streets?
The mayor shall feel my irate heel
If aught that sound repeats!

Each voice is hush'd; through silent lanes
To silent homes they creep.
'Now dies the hound that makes a sound;
The sick king cannot sleep.'

'Ha! Bring me fife and drum and horn,
And let the trumpet blare!
In ceaseless hum their curses come -
I see their dead eyes glare…'

But high above all drum and fife
and trumpets' shrill debate,
Five hundred martyr'd voices chant
Their hymn of deathless hate 

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