Ágnes Nemes Nagy
Posthumous Poems 1979-1991
"On God" in Two Versions
On God
The Gravest of our Deficiency Diseases
Istenrôl
Hiánybetegségeink legnagyobbika
Admit it, my Lord, this just won't do. It just won't do to create like this. To put such an eggshell Earth in a void, such eggshell life on the Earth, and into that—like an inconceivable punishment—consciousness. That's too little, that's too much. That's misgauging the scale, my Lord.
Why do You demand that we squeeze a universe into our children's toy skulls that can be clasped in two palms? Or are You doing to us what You did to the oak—squeezing the whole tree into an acorn?
I'd never treat my dog like You treat me.
Your existence is not a scientific but a moral absurdity. To presume Your existence as the creator of such a world is blasphemy.
If only You hadn't baited the trap with so many temptations. If only You hadn't made clouds, gratitude, a golden head for the autumn acacia. If only we didn't know the thin, greenish, sweet-sweet taste of existence. Your sweet lime-twig is monstrous, my Lord!
Do You know what it's like when the blood-sugar level sinks? Do You know what it's like when the little white patch of leukoplakia thickens? Do You know what fear is? Bodily pain? Ignominy? Do You know with what wattage of light the murderer glitters?
Have You swum in a river? Have You eaten a lemon-apple? Have You grasped calipers, bricks, scraps of paper? Have You got fingernails? To carve on live trees with them, scribble on scaly plane trees, while up there, on and on the afternoon goes on? Have You got an up-there? Have You got an above-You?
I haven't said a word.
Translated by Bruce Berlind
Concerning God
The Gravest of our Deficiency-Induced Diseases
Istenrôl
Hiánybetegségeink legnagyobbika
Admit it, Lord, this just won't do. This mode of creation simply will not do. To deposit this eggshell of a world in the solar system, this eggshell of life on earth, and then, to top it all—mysterious punishment—consciousness. This is both too little and too much. This is to lose all sense of proportion, Lord.
Why expect us to cram an entire universe into toy skulls two human hands can compass? Or will you do with us as you do with acorns into which you have crammed entire oaks?
I wouldn't use a dog as You use me.
Your existence is not a scientific but a moral absurdity. To postulate your existence as creator of such a world is an act of blasphemy.
You might at least have refrained from baiting the trap with so many temptations. No one forced you to make clouds or gratitude or to crown the autumnal acacia with a head of gold. Not to have known the slender, greenish, sweeter-than-sweet taste of being. That sweet limed twig of yours, Lord—horrible!
Do you know what it's like to feel your blood-sugar sinking? Do you know what that faint small patch of leukoplakia is like when it's growing? Do you know what fear is? Or bodily pain? Ignominy? Can you tell the wattage a murderer emanates?
Have you swum in a river? Eaten a crab-apple? Have you handled calipers, bricks, small slips of paper? Do you have fingernails? To scratch the living trees with, to carve nonsense on peeling plane trees with, while above you the afternoon stretches ahead, on and on into the distance! Do you have an up there? Is there anything above you?
I haven't said a word.
Translated by George Szirtes
