Chapter 7 Someone is shouting, it's not me - Hungarian poet Attila Joseph

Ming Pao July 12, 1999 "I was born in Budapest in 1905...my father, the late Jarno Joseph, left Hungary when I was three years old. I was placed in foster care with a family until I was seven. At that time I started To work, to look after pigs. My mother, the late Pobala Boss, took me back to Budapest, doing laundry and housework, feeding us— "April 11": Must be an important holiday / Believers flock to church / Saints bless with sad hands / Tremble and stumble as church bells ring / The tranquility of the vast evening, full of heart / The murderer, murdered his dead / Cap in hand, ready to leave in a small pine box /

Tulips in the cradle and living hopes / That year the constitution enacted me / In 1905 : She held the cup with two hands / One Sunday, quietly smiling / She sat for a while / In the closing darkness In tiny dishes she brings home / Suppers from rich masters / I always think about it when I go to bed / Some people eat too much My mother is a small woman / Died early, like so many washerwomen / Their feet trembled from the burden and their heads ached from the ironing... I saw her ironing stop / Her frail body, thinner and thinner/Finally crushed by capital/Thinking of this, my gay proletarian, her body is buckled by dirty clothes/

I never knew she was a young woman / In her dreams she wore a clean apron / The milkman would say hello to her The war broke out when I was nine years old.I also have my front line: I lined up to buy food from 9:00 pm, and by 8:00 the next morning, the cooking oil was gone.I would help my mother, sell food and water in front of the movie theater, or steal firewood and coal from the freight station.My mother was very ill... I sold newspapers and smuggled banknotes.My mother died in 1919. ... I finished sixth grade of high school with excellent grades.But during that time I committed suicide several times, after which I left school to look at the valleys in the fields and started writing poetry.

"No Hope": At last you reach the dunes / On the sad grassy plain / In the mist you look left and right / You nod and hope no more I always thought it was this way: / Simple and carefree / When the silver ax danced / And the leaves of the ash tree... Then I worked as a salesperson in a bookstore in Budapest.I later worked as an accountant in a private bank...they gave me the job of my superiors, and at the same time made fun of my poems that were published in the magazines. "I wrote poetry when I was your age," they usually say. I later decided to be a writer.I studied French and Hungarian literature, and philosophy at Singh University.I got excellent grades... I ate at my friend's and paid the rent with royalties. ... All my hopes were broken for Professor Antik Kang: He raised my poems and said, whoever writes such poems can't let him teach the next generation badly.

"Dusk into the Night": This sharp, clear dusk into the night is almost all for me / In the distance, the bare branches hold up / The thin air / I, become the subject, isolated/submerged or even destroyed in the self...Maybe all human beings are like that?I do not know. / One winked at me and said, "You're lovely." / Another said, "Slacker. You don't work any more, but you'd better get your stomach full." (Maybe/ I shouldn't? ) This man slips money into my hand / "Should be happy, I, too, suffered. The pillow I lay on steals / I look forward, look behind, push forward, embrace behind /

But no one heeds the hump on my back / Like a fetus in the womb of a hyperactive mother / Will give birth to silence, the utter emptiness of a room. " Later the Ministry of Foreign Trade was established, and I became a French correspondent (my former employer, Thaddeus Godotti, would be happy to provide proof).At this time I suffered from depression and was sent to a nursing home.I left the Ministry of Foreign Trade and lived off my poetry fees. ... In addition to my native language Hungarian, I can write and read German and French.I can write Hungarian and French official documents.I can type, take shorthand, and be familiar with printing.I can express myself clearly.I believe that I am an honest person, and that I am smart, hardworking, and hard working. "

The Hungarian poet Attila Joseph met his lover "Kona" after being in and out of a mental nursing home, and published his last collection of poems "Very Painful", trying to live a normal life.On December 3, 1937, Attila jumped under the train wheel No. 1284 and died at the age of thirty-two. Today, the avenue from the Budapest Chain Bridge to Pest is called Attila Joseph, in memory of the poet.A junior high school student, I asked him to read a poem to me when I visited the school.He read Attila Joseph's poems, but he didn't know which ones.