Miklós Radnóti / Rabid Sky

Reading Trakl got me thinking about other war-torn poets, and in particular, Miklós Radnóti. Radnóti's "Tajtékos ég" is a poem I had been interested in translating ever since I first encountered it back in 1992 or 93. Not surprisingly the main stumbling block was that I didn't know a lick of Hungarian. Still don't. What caught my attention were Steven Polgar's remarks about the difficulty of translating the title (in Clouded Sky, trans. Polgar, Stephen Berg, and S.J. Marks, and now available in a revised edition I haven't checked out yet). Having discussed the literal translation of tajtékos (which basically comes down to foamy, frothy, or spumy, whether of a liquid, a mouth, or the ocean), Polgar notes that "'tajtékos' is still commonly used . . . in the Hungarian equivalent of the phrase 'foaming at the mouth.'" What's more, the verb form "is most often found in the phrase "tajtékzika dühtól," which is best rendered in English by 'boil over with rage' or 'foam at the mouth with rage.'" My immediate thought was that the sky was foaming because it was rabid, and I was surprised the Polgar team didn't even mention this as one of the many possibilities they kicked around. Visually, the image worked for me, conveying the threatening clouds of a stormy sky. Aurally, it was similar to "clouded"—a little faster, not as full, but harsher. And though it may lack the sophisticated understatement of "clouded", "rabid" still seems more precise, and is at least better than "foamy" (which was used in the other generally available edition of Radnóti's poems in English). As Polgar accurately saw it: "'foam' has become connected with such things as soap, cleansers, plastics (as in 'foam rubber') . . . images that have nothing to do with the association of a Hungarian reading the word 'tajtékos.'" But, like I said, I can't pretend to know myself what associations an Hungarian would have. All I know is that after many years, and half as many tries, I finally think I have something. It still owes a lot to the Polgar-Berg translation. And, really, I shouldn't post this when it's still so fresh—I may regret it in the morning. But hell.

RABID SKY
                        by Miklós Radnóti

The moon dangles in the rabid sky.
To my surprise I am still alive.
Death watches us avidly, carefully:
Those it finds whiten violently.

Sometimes a year will pause halfway and howl
Before dropping to its knees.
The fall overwhelms me: it lurks once more,
And winter lurks, too, with its bruising dark.

The wilderness bleeds. The hours bleed.
Time itself spirals overhead
And the wind scribbles shadowy numbers
Large as trees across the snow.

Yet I remain. And now I know why.
I understand the heavy air—
Warming around me, a silence of light hums,
The way it felt before I was born.

I come to rest on the roots of a tree.
Its leaves twitch with rage.
A branch reaches down. To strangle me?
I may be exhausted, but I'm no coward.

I'm no weakling. Just mute as the branch
Wrenching my hair even while it trembles.
I should forget it, but no:
I shall forget nothing.

The clouds devour the moon and leave
Only anger's poison-green bruise.
Slowly, carefully, I roll myself
A cigarette. I am alive.
                                   June 8, 1940