Sándor Kányádi
Metaphors Coming Apart
at the Seams
A Tale of Tales
[...]
It is understandable that interest in poetry has waned.
Where are those volumes of poetry published in several tens of thousands
of copies? The numbers have dwindled, diminished to a couple of hundred,
at the most a couple of thousand. And I must say, though with a heavy heart,
thank goodness.
Metaphors are coming apart at the seams
like some old and threadbare eiderdown,
only moths devour the down, and worse,
it's too much of a bore even for the winds to disperse.
There is no need any longer to wrap into poems, into metaphors all that
may now be made known in newspapers, on television and radio, or even shouted
in the street. Yet there is some real uneasiness mingled with nostalgia
in that thank goodness of mine. Seeing the deluge of alkalizing rather
than fertilizing poems flowing unimpeded, unrestrained, one involuntarily
thinks of the words Thomas Mann put into the mouth of the old Goethe, who
started the day by reading the papers: Why do I hate this precious freedom
of the press? Because
it breeds mediocrity. End of quotation. Well, one must admit there is some
truth in this.
unclothed, stripped to the skin
it offers itself, though winter is coming
the poem bares itself, shameless, like many
who prostitute themselves for money
Another common feature of the writing of young poets today--who otherwise
show clear indication of real talent--is that their poems are dressed up
in an ostensive way, returning in top hat and tails and swinging a cane,
as if on some kind of nostalgic journey, to the period between the two
world wars. There are newspapers instead of an undershirt beneath all the
frills and ruffles, and one cannot always tell whether the lack of underpants
is intentional or due to lack of funds, which may be the reason why they
say things that would formerly have been unprintable. Obviously the intention
behind all this is some kind of revolt--or at least an attempt to épater
les bourgeois--against the excessive dressing up of the recent past. Yet
we are forever lamenting that we do not have a bourgeoisie in the western
sense of the world-- which is true. T.S. Eliot is quite right in saying
that poetry is beholden to language. For there is no poetry without language.
It is to the interest of poetry, and its duty, to support, enrich and add
hue to language-- and to save it if it is in danger of extinction or eradication.
It was this last that we were afraid of not so very long ago, so it is
understandable that there were--there still are--writers who try to dress
up their work linguistically in the way a bride is dressed in tradition-bound
regions, so that you can barely see the bride for the finery. I remember
one time watching a performance by a provincial company playing a Transylvanian
piece in the National Theatre of Budapest in the company of an American
lady of Hungarian extraction who spoke very good Hungarian. I hoped she
would like the play, which had met with great success in our country, and
as she was a professional, a certificated translator to boot, that she
would perhaps be disposed to translate it. Much to my resentment she fell
asleep during the performance. By way of excuse she pleaded that the embroidery
on the wall, or on the tablecloth, whatever, was very pretty, but that
the author was not a pro. Without a doubt the young people of today already
spoken of cock a snook (or, on occasion they bare their bottoms) at this
excessive finery, at the embroidery. Language cannot be the object of literature,
of poetry, not even its tool. They belong to each other. They are companions
for life, consequently are contemporaries. Living language is always modern.
True poets are true and contemporary poets linguistically if they succeed
in distilling the living language of their age in such a way that it retains
all the values, all the flavour and zest of the past, and over and above
affording delight with its suggestiveness and richness, if this serves
as a suitable foundation for posterity.
[...]
Sándor Kányádi
is a poet and translator who lives in Transylvania.
