Istvan Turczi ia a widely known published poet, fiction writer and translator. A Phd holder, he is a professor lecturing in creative writing and contemporary literature in Hungary and Eastern Europe. Founder and editor of Parnassus Poetry Journal and Parnassus Books poetry series publishing the writtings of today’s most active poets, as well as poetry translations from other languages. He is General Secretary of Hungarian Writer’s Association. He is the 2nd Vice President of World Congress of Poets and published 12 volumes of poetry, 4 novels and some books of translations from English, American, Australian and Finnish Literature and writers. His works had been acknowledged by prizes like International Poetry Award in Warsaw 2004, Jozsef Attila Prize 2006, Golden Ribbon of Mongolian Cultural Academy 2006, Honorary Literary Doctorate of World Congress of Poets 2008, Poet Laureate of the Hungarian Republic 2012, Prima Primissima Award 2014, He lives in Budapest, Hungary.
THERE WONT BE ANYMORE POEMS
There won’t be any more poems. No more. I can’t do it. Why bother. I don’t feel like it. A day in front of a blank page is as much as a thousand years. Waiting for the words to rise up, like air: futility itself. There’s no sunrise someone hasn’t glorified already. Summer shouts into the house; used rhymes act as the blinds. How long the stars have been falling to the rhythm of romantic breaths. Names have long lost their body hair, and it’s no reassurance to be a fragment. Everything is merely a word, then merely another word. Yet still I’m unable to stop. I stop as many times as I begin, and I begin again as many times as I stop. It’s just like thirst. There won’t be any more poems, just this one poem here. And this poem isn’t mine, but that of the person who reads it.
TIADA LAGI PUISI
Tiada lagi puisi selepas ini. Tiada lagi. Aku tak boleh menulis lagi. Kenapa perlu Aku tak terasa nak menulis lagi. Sehari di depan kertas kosong sama seperti seribu tahun lamanya.Menunggu perkataan muncul, seperti mencari udara:dan segalanya hampa.Tiada matahari terbit yang belum pernah disanjung orang.Bahang musim panas seperti menjerit ke dalam rumah; rima yang digunakan bertindak sebagai bidai.Entah sudah berapa lama bintang gugur ke ritma hembusan nafas yang romantik. Nama-nama telah lama kehilangan kemasyuhrannya, dan ianya bukan kepastian menjadi suatu fragmen. Segalannya hanya kata-kata, dan kata-kata yang lain.Tapi aku masih tidak dapat berhenti.Aku berhenti berkali-kali sebanyak aku mula menulis lagi, dan aku menulis lagi sebanyak aku berhenti. Ianya seperti dahaga.Tiada lagi puisi, hanya ini saja. Dan puisi ini bukan milik ku,tapi menjadi hak orang yang membacanya.
ALL DOORS ARE OPEN
I live in a whitewashed clay house at the edge of the forest. A shoelace plot on the bounds of the Börzsöny. Tésa, Ipoly county, Hungary. Feels good to write it, say it: like picking flowers, then tying their stalks with a single well-practised movement. I have a porch, a furnace in the courtyard, a long, vaulted cellar at the back, with a cool, covered rest area in front, which we call the wine lodge. They say this is the prettiest house in the village. They ask me why I live here, half-fleeing from life. The apples grow big around here, as do the kids who throw them. The women carry laughter around in pails. You can feel the weight, the smell, of the earth. And I fit into the landscape, too. Come in, no need to knock, all the doors are open. What would hiding defend me from? In the air, thick with silence, the candle’s flame still dances my animals’ souls to life. Anyone who doesn’t so much as come here doesn’t know what they’re missing.
Translated into BAHASA MELAYU by Siti Ruqaiyah HASHIM
FROM: NEWS FROM STRASBOURG ANTHOLOGY 2017.