By Attila József
Award-winning translator Peter Hargitai celebrates a hundred years of Attila József (1905–1937) during this new collection of a hundred poems. His earlier choice, Perched On Nothing's department (1986), loved a striking run of 5 versions and gained for him the Academy of yankee Poets' Landon Translation Award. His translation of Attila József is indexed one of the global classics pointed out through Harold Bloom within the Western Canon.
Praise for Peter Hargitai's translation of Attila József:
""These grim, sour, iron-cold poems emerge technically robust, spare and genuine in English, and they're admirably modern in syntax."" —MAY SWENSON
in quotation for the Academy of yank Poets
""A wealthy nuanced translation via Peter Hargitai. those poems are ageless, mirroring the human stipulations and focusing in humankind's existential loneliness."" —MAXINE KUMIN
""I have lengthy considered Attila József as one of many nice poets of the century, a sad realist whose paintings fantastically redeemed the insufferable stipulations of the lifestyles to which historical past condemned him. those new translations by means of Peter Hargitai should be welcomed by way of József's admirers and may definitely upload to their number."" —DONALD JUSTICE
""[Other] translations of József's paintings are stiff and educational, while Peter Hargitai's models are colloquial and emotionally charged because the originals. studying them one lapses into the silence that attends the reception of all nice poetry."" —DAVID KIRBY"
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Extra resources for Attila József Selected Poems
Eating everything. In my sleep the rangeland’s burning and in my pocket a shard of obsidian from the world’s last melting Folly becomes us, the end of empire uncomfortable and strange, in the Walgreens’ parking lot always someone with hand outstretched and I am stretched inside, drawn thin, more perplexed than anything, useless in this growing dim, incandescent lights replaced with little coils, blackout 28 curtains meant to blank away the security lights that click on whenever someone passes, yard flooded with brightness all hours, night sky a blotted mess I must have dreamt once: Road to the mountain pocked with salt antediluvian boulders etched with spirals, arrows, constellations I’m a woman waiting for world’s end, assembling secondhand matter in lidded jars.
Even in my shaking, love. Downstairs: tin cabinets, chicken pot pie. We cannot save anyone. At night, sleep coming, my big eye peers into the house like so.
And the ruins, they’re beautiful, and day is beautiful, a real Lazarus, a skinjob miracle. Collapse loneliness, get adoration, if you’re lucky, boulevard redbud-blowsy, branch branch and shatter what the city wills of glass, silk lining rain-stained unto ghost blot amid these vinegar hours, this sour that begs: taste, taste, hosanna may we. What else is left? 30 2 31 Tinnitus This is how time sounds, body breaking down, river birds dinosaurian. Who wouldn’t pass out outright, given plastic catching rain, the lost chairs Orphan, Smokebreak, Minor Mishap?