The Desert of Love: Selected Poems

by János Pilinszky, Ted Hughes (Translator)

This selection of his work demonstrates the luminous intensity of his vision.

Genres: Poetry, Hungarian Literature

Paperback

First published January 1, 1976

Reviews

[Steve]

János Pilinszky (1921-1981)

The silence of the heavens will be set apart
and forever apart
the broken-down fields of the finished world,
and apart
the silence of dog-kennels.
In the air a fleeing host of birds.
And we shall see the rising sun
dumb as a demented eye-pupil
and calm as a watching beast.


One of 20th century Hungary's most esteemed poets, János Pilinszky was extremely reserved and deeply distressed. His unique poetry resulted from a curious combination of a profound Roman Catholic faith with a dark pessimism that was at least as powerful as his faith. Drafted into the Axis Hungarian army in 1944 as the end was near, Pilinszky's unit followed the retreating Nazis into Germany, where he saw the Ravensbrück concentration camp, among others, an experience that shaped much of his future work. This experience of the worst of human nature was reinforced by the Communist takeover of Hungary at the end of the war and then the brutal suppression of the Hungarian uprising in 1956. Unwilling to compromise with the authorities, the publication of his second book of poems - particularly scarred by his wartime experience - was forbidden for a decade.

Pilinszky spoke from the heart of the 20th century's suppurating wound in a quiet chant of profound disillusion and alienation.

FISH IN THE NET

We are tossing in a net of stars.
Fish hauled up to the beach,
gasping in nothingness,
mouths snapping dry void.
Whispering, the lost element
calls us in vain.
Choking among edged stones
and pebbles, we must
live and die in a heap.
Our hearts convulse,
our writhings maim
and suffocate our brother.
Our cries conflict but
not even an echo answers.
We have no reason
to fight and kill
but we must.
So we atone but our atonement
does not suffice.
No suffering
can redeem our hells.
We are tossing in a starry net
and at midnight
maybe we shall lie on the table
of a mighty fisherman.

- trans. by Ted Hughes and János Csokits

Like a good number of the most important mid-20th century European poets, Pilinszky had to write with the conviction that words are useless, indeed meaningless, and that silence and grief are the only seemly stances. He asserted that ‘I would like to write as if I had remained silent.’ But important poets are driven to express their age, and the untrustworthy word is their primary tool. The most significant poetry of that period stands therefore under a nearly unimaginable strain, is warped into contortions that fascinate and repel, that give insight into our often lamentable nature and existential state.

Strangely, though, since it seems to be a contradiction, in such poetry - the poetry of Anna Ahkmatova, Paul Celan, Nelly Sachs, and János Pilinszky (to mention a few) - the blackness, horror and suffering acquire a radiance through the poet's art and integrity that gives one hope again for our all too often regrettable species.

I've spent a few months now with Pilinszky's work through the intermediaries of translations into English by Ted Hughes and János Csokits (Selected Poems, 1976; The Desert of Love, 1989) and by Peter Jay (Crater, 1978), and into French by Lorand Gaspar and Sarah Clair (Même dans l'obscurité, 1991). Its dark intensity is consuming, though there are moments of resigned peace:

NOVEMBER ELYSIUM

Convalescence. You hang back, at the verge
of the garden. Your background
a peaceful yellow wall's monastery silence.
A tame little wind starts out across the grass. And now,
as if hands assuaged them with holy oils,
your five open wounds, your five senses
feel their healing and are eased.

You are timid, and exultant. Yes,
with your childishly translucent limbs,
in the shawl and coat grown tall,
you are like Alyosha Karamazov.

And like those gentle ones, over yonder,
who are like the child, yes, you are like them.
And as happy too, because
you do not want anything any more.
Only to gleam like the November sun,
and exhale fragrance, lightly, as a fir-cone.
Only to bask, like the blest.

- trans. by Ted Hughes and János Csokits

It appears that as time passed Pilinszky became even more laconic, his poems more compressed and indirect, but still haunting and intense.

INFERNO

Maison. Chien. Auto.
Pelouse et réceptions.
En vérité le paradis est-it plus beau
parce que des êtres cimentés dans l'enfer
qui renient leur enfant, leur sexe, leur race
et tout ce qu'ils possèdent
se tiennent en équilibre sur des pattes d'araignée
et salivent pour personne, pour rien?

- trans. by Lorand Gaspar and Sarah Clair

Truly a poet to savor, albeit not in large doses, for the sake of one's mental well being.


(*) Those interested can directly compare Hughes' with Gaspar's translation of the first verse of Apocryphal: this review's epigraph with the following

Le silence des cieux,
celui des terres du bout du monde,
celui encore des niches à chien
seront à jamais disjoints.
Dans l'air une armée d'oiseaux en déroute.
Et nous verrons le soleil levant,
muet comme une pupille démente,
calme comme une bête sauvage aux aguets.

[Markus · Rating 4 out of 5]

Desert of Love
Poems by Janos Pilinszky (1921-1981)

His poetry has one single message: « Suffering »

They originate from the author's life experiences at the end of the Second World War.

Dark paintings in Chinese ink, in all shades of grey, black, and grey.
Creepy feelings, trembling with fear, shuddering and rattling, like skeletons, screaming in horror.
Cold rain, snow, mud, wet, and hungry, trying to eat your flesh, but there is only skin and bones.
And death.

A monument of sorrow to the generation that had survived the war.
Some of these images will haunt me.

[lenthepufferfish · Rating 5 out of 5]

oh, to read this again for the first time. definitely one of my favorite poets, and an excellent translator. something about the way Pilinszky weaves together a collection is both elliptical and balanced, direct but only decipherable with patience, and yet coherent. anyways, i can’t do this book justice in my description, but this was truly a wonderful read.

[Víctor Bermúdez · Rating 5 out of 5]

I am because I am not.

Pilinszky

[Kate Savage · Rating 4 out of 5]

Pilinszky was ostensibly a devout Christian. But he's a kind weighted more in the Old Testament, terrified of God and what God's going to put us through.

It's said when he went to the German POW camps, he finally found a world that matched his mind.

[Steve]

János Pilinszky (1921-1981)

The silence of the heavens will be set apart
and forever apart
the broken-down fields of the finished world,
and apart
the silence of dog-kennels.
In the air a fleeing host of birds.
And we shall see the rising sun
dumb as a demented eye-pupil
and calm as a watching beast.


One of 20th century Hungary's most esteemed poets, János Pilinszky was extremely reserved and deeply distressed. His unique poetry resulted from a curious combination of a profound Roman Catholic faith with a dark pessimism that was at least as powerful as his faith. Drafted into the Axis Hungarian army in 1944 as the end was near, Pilinszky's unit followed the retreating Nazis into Germany, where he saw the Ravensbrück concentration camp, among others, an experience that shaped much of his future work. This experience of the worst of human nature was reinforced by the Communist takeover of Hungary at the end of the war and then the brutal suppression of the Hungarian uprising in 1956. Unwilling to compromise with the authorities, the publication of his second book of poems - particularly scarred by his wartime experience - was forbidden for a decade.

Pilinszky spoke from the heart of the 20th century's suppurating wound in a quiet chant of profound disenchantment and alienation.

FISH IN THE NET

We are tossing in a net of stars.
Fish hauled up to the beach,
gasping in nothingness,
mouths snapping dry void.
Whispering, the lost element
calls us in vain.
Choking among edged stones
and pebbles, we must
live and die in a heap.
Our hearts convulse,
our writhings maim
and suffocate our brother.
Our cries conflict but
not even an echo answers.
We have no reason
to fight and kill
but we must.
So we atone but our atonement
does not suffice.
No suffering
can redeem our hells.
We are tossing in a starry net
and at midnight
maybe we shall lie on the table
of a mighty fisherman.

- trans. by Ted Hughes and János Csokits

Like a good number of the most important mid-20th century European poets, Pilinszky had to write with the conviction that words are useless, indeed meaningless, and that silence and grief are the only seemly stances. He asserted that ‘I would like to write as if I had remained silent.’ But important poets are driven to express their age, and the untrustworthy word is their primary tool. The most significant poetry of that period stands therefore under a nearly unimaginable strain, is warped into contortions that fascinate and repel, that give insight into our often lamentable nature and existential state.

Strangely, though, since it seems to be a contradiction, in such poetry - the poetry of Anna Ahkmatova, Paul Celan, Nelly Sachs, and János Pilinszky (to mention a few) - the blackness, horror and suffering acquire a radiance through the poet's art and integrity that gives one hope again for our all too often regrettable species.

I've spent a few months now with Pilinszky's work through the intermediaries of translations into English by Ted Hughes and János Csokits (Selected Poems, 1976; The Desert of Love, 1989) and by Peter Jay (Crater, 1978), and into French by Lorand Gaspar and Sarah Clair (Même dans l'obscurité, 1991). Its dark intensity is consuming, though there are moments of resigned peace:

NOVEMBER ELYSIUM

Convalescence. You hang back, at the verge
of the garden. Your background
a peaceful yellow wall's monastery silence.
A tame little wind starts out across the grass. And now,
as if hands assuaged them with holy oils,
your five open wounds, your five senses
feel their healing and are eased.

You are timid, And exultant. Yes,
with your childishly translucent limbs,
in the shawl and coat grown tall,
you are like Alyosha Karamazov.

And like those gentle ones, over yonder,
who are like the child, yes, you are like them.
And as happy too, because
you do not want anything any more.
Only to gleam like the November sun,
and exhale fragrance, lightly, as a fir-cone.
Only to bask, like the blest.

- trans. by Ted Hughes and János Csokits

It appears that as time passed Pilinszky became even more laconic, his poems more compressed and indirect, but still haunting and intense.

INFERNO

Maison. Chien. Auto.
Pelouse et réceptions.
En vérité le paradis est-it plus beau
parce que des êtres cimentés dans l'enfer
qui renient leur enfant, leur sexe, leur race
et tout ce qu'ils possèdent
se tiennent en équilibre sur des pattes d'araignée
et salivent pour personne, pour rien?

- trans. by Lorand Gaspar and Sarah Clair

Truly a poet to savor, albeit not in large doses, for the sake of one's mental well being.


(*) Those interested can directly compare Hughes' with Gaspar's translation of the first verse of Apocryphal: this review's epigraph with the following

Le silence des cieux,
celui des terres du bout du monde,
celui encore des niches à chien
seront à jamais disjoints.
Dans l'air une armée d'oiseaux en déroute.
Et nous verrons le soleil levant,
muet comme une pupille démente,
calme comme une bête sauvage aux aguets.

[Paddyspub · Rating 4 out of 5]

Reverence for God apparent throughout.

[Meg · Rating 4 out of 5]

I find it difficult to compare Pilinszky to other poets I read - though several in this collection are reminiscent of Rilke.

A line, from "World Grown Cold," I found quite fascinating:

"And this is how the eternally unknowable
gets its homely look.
As with the leaves in their withering,
my decay embalms me."

[Mills College Library]

894.51113 P638d 1989

[Mills College Library]

894.51113 P638s 1976