The Seventh by Attila Jozsef
Posted on | June 22, 2009 | 1 Comment
If you set out in this world,
better be born seven times.
Once, in a house on fire,
once, in a freezing flood,
once, in a wild madhouse,
once, in a field of ripe wheat,
once, in an empty cloister,
and once among pigs in sty.
Six babes crying, not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.
When you must fight to survive,
let your enemy see seven.
One, away from work on Sunday,
one, starting his work on Monday,
one, who teaches without payment,
one, who learned to swim by drowning,
one, who is the seed of a forest,
and one, whom wild forefathers protect,
but all their tricks are not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.
If you want to find a woman,
let seven men go for her.
One, who gives heart for words,
one, who takes care of himself,
one, who claims to be a dreamer,
one, who through her skirt can feel her,
one, who knows the hooks and snaps,
one, who steps upon her scarf:
let them buzz like flies around her.
You yourself must be the seventh.
If you write and can afford it,
let seven men write your poem.
One, who builds a marble village,
one, who was born in his sleep,
one, who charts the sky and knows it,
one, whom words call by his name,
one, who perfected his soul,
one, who dissects living rats.
Two are brave and four are wise;
You yourself must be the seventh.
And if all went as was written,
you will die for seven men.
One, who is rocked and suckled,
one, who grabs a hard young breast,
one, who throws down empty dishes,
one, who helps the poor win;
one, who worked till he goes to pieces,
one, who just stares at the moon.
The world will be your tombstone:
you yourself must be the seventh.
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March 8th, 2010 @ 10:47 pm
The Seventh One
Once you set foot on this earth,
Your mother gives you seven births!
Once in a blazing house afire,
once in an icy flood’s cold mire,
once inside a loony bin,
once amidst waving wheat so thin,
once in cloister’s hollow eye,
once among pigs in the sty.
All six cry, it’s not enough, son,
Be yourself the seventh one!
If an enemy stands before you,
Have seven men who’d stand up for you.
One who begins his day at leisure,
one who works his daily measure,
one who teaches gratis at his whim,
one who’s thrown in the water to swim,
one who’s the seed of a forest’s growth of years,
one who’s protected by his ancestor’s tears.
But ruse or reproach won’t get it done, –
Be yourself the seventh one!
If you’d go looking for a lover,
Have seven men try to find her.
One who for her word gives up his heart,
One who pays for his own part,
One who pretends to be a dreamer,
One who gropes her skirt to get her,
One who knows where her hooks can be found,
One who steps on her hanky on the ground, –
They all buzz like flies around carrion!
Be yourself the seventh one!
If you could afford to compile a tome,
Have seven men compose this poem.
One who builds a marble town,
One born asleep, his eyelids down,
One who charts the sky and knows it well,
One whose words can cast a spell,
One who sells his soul, trying to thrive,
One who carves up a rat while it’s alive.
Two are brave and four are wise, son –
Be yourself the seventh one!
And if all this happened as was written,
Go to the grave as if you were all seven.
One who rocks on a milky chest,
one who grasps at dried hard breasts,
one who tosses away empty pans,
one who lends the poor his helping hands,
one who works like a man possessed,
one who stares at the Moon, obsessed;
You’re already underground, my son!
Be yourself the seventh one!
(1932)
translated by Gabor G. Gyukics and Michael Castro.