Scots Owersets Of Poems By Miklós Radnóti Poem by Sheena Blackhall

The Scots Owersetts of Radnóti’s poems were made from the English versions of translators named in each of the following poems

Postcard 1 written August 30,1944. From an English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oot o Bulgaria, the muckle wud skelloch o the artillery thunners,
rick-ma-ticks on the craggy Bens, echoes, syne dwines tae seelence

The whyles, men, breets, cairts an imaginins aa growe greater
the road neighs an breenges, nicherin; the maned lift gallops;
an ye are aywis wi me, ma dearie, aybydan amids the stooshie,
glimmerin inbye ma better sel —sheenin, stinch.

Somewye inbye me, ma dearie, ye bide foraye —
quaet, unmeevin, mute, like an angel knelled tae seelence bi daith
or an emerteen bidin in the hairt o a blichtit tree.


Postcard 2 written October 6,1944 near Crvenka, Serbia. From an English translation by Michael R. Burch

A fyew miles aff they're burnin
the rucks an the hooses,
while dowped doon here on the side of this blythe lea,
the shell-shocked fermers quaet-like sook their pipes.

Noo, here, paiddlin in this still puil, the wee shepherd quine
sets the siller watter a-jigglin

betimes, leanin ower tae drink, her wooly yowes
seem tae sweem like wauchtin clouds.


Postcard 3 written October 24,1944 near Mohács, Hungary From an English translation by Michael R. Burch

The kye slivver bluidy spit;
the men pee bluid in their stoor.

Oor stinkin squad devauls, a heeze o swytin breets,
addin oor guff tae daith's soor ugsome stink


Postcard 4 his final poem, written October 31,1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary From an English translation by Michael R. Burch

I cowped aside him — corp already stiff,
ticht as a string pued, richt afore it brakks,
shot in the back o the heid.

'This is foo ye’ll end tae; lie quaet here, '
I fuspered tae masel,
patience brierin frae ma risin dreid.

'Yon ane’s aye meevin, ” the voice abune me said
I hardy hear it throwe a yirdy plug
O dubby bluid slaw steekin up ma lug.


‘Number 4 of the 'Razglednicak' poems was written on October 31, the day that Radnóti's friend, the violinist Miklós Lovsi, suffered that fate. It is the last poem Radnóti wrote. On November 9,1944, near the village of Abda, he too was shot on the roadside by guards.’
And so will I wonder...? —Smajd igy tűnődöm...? , from an English translation by Gina Gönczi

I lived, bit syne in livin I wis dweeble
I aywis kent they’d beery me here in the eyn,
that year biggs upon year, daud on daud, stane on stane,
that the corp swalls an in the cweel, wirm-
wummlin derkness, the nyakit bane will chitter.
That abune, pammerin time is rummlin throwe ma poems
an that I’ll sink deeper inno the grun.
Aa this I kent.

Bit tell me, ma work—ma poems- did they live on?


Lines from 'Maybe'— From an English translation by Steven Polgár, Stephen Berg and S. J. Marks

... Bit dinna leave me, dweeble mind!
Dinna let me gae gyte.
Sweet bladdit reason, dinna
leave me noo.

Dinna leave me. Let me dee wioot fear,
a clean, braw daith,
like Empedocles, fa smiled as he drapped
intae the mawe o Etna.


Peace, Dread— From an English translation by Zsuzsanna Ozsváth and Frederick Turner

I gaed oot, steeked the street yett, an the clock struck ten,
on sheenin wheels the baker dirded by an bummed,
a plane bizzed in the lift, sun shone, an it struck ten,
I thocht o ma deid aunt an in a glisk it seemed
aa the unleevin I’d lued flew ower ma heid

wi hunners o seelent deid the lift wis derkened syne
o a suddenty, alang the waa a shadda fell.

Seelence. The mornin warld stude still. The clock struck ten,
ower the street peace flichtered: cauld dreid wis its daith-knell


Foamy sky—Tajtékos ég, From an English translation by Gina Gönczi

The meen swyes on a faemy lift,
I am bumbazed that I live.
Owerzealous daith searches this age
those it sikks oot aa luik sae unca pale.

Betimes the year keeks roon aboot an skirls
Keeks roon, syne dwines awa.
Sic an Autumn cooers ahin me again
Sic a Winter, bladdit bi sic pain.

The widlans bled an in the furls o
time bluid ran frae ilkie oor.

Muckle hauntit nummers wir
screived bi the win on the snaa.

I lived tae see this an thon,
the air wyes wechty on me.
War’s soun-filled seelence bosies me
as afore ma nativity.

I stop here at the fit o a tree,
its croon swyin angeret
A branch raxxes doon — tae grab ma neck?
I'm nae a cooard, nor am I dweeble,

jist wabbit. I listen. The frichtened
branch explores ma hair.
Tae forget wid be best,
Bit I’ve niver forgot a thing yet.

Faem poors ower the meen an the pyson
draws a derk green line on the hyne-awa horizon.

Slowly, cannily, I live
I rowe maself anither cigarette.



Lines from 'Eclogue VII'— From an English translation by Steven Polgár

Wioot commas, ae line teetle the other
I screive poems the wye I live, in derkness,
blin, crossin the paper like a wirm.
Flashlichts, buiks — the guairds tuik aathin.
There's nae mail, anely haar wauchts ower the barracks.


Forced March— From an English translation by George Szirtes

He's daft, fan aince he’s drapped, resterts his trauchlet beat,
A meevin heeze o cramps on foonert human feet,

Fa rises frae the grun as if on borraed wings,
Spurnin the dubs tae which he daurna cling,

Fa, gin ye speir fit wye, haives back at ye a wird
O foo the thocht o luve makks deein less absurd.

Puir glekit gype, the cheil is bit a feel
Aboot his hame anely the scorched wins reel,

His brukken waas lie flat, his orchard gies no fruit,
His ilkie nicht is rigged in terror's wrunkled suit.

Ochone, cud I believe that sic dreams had a stert
Ither than in ma hairt, some local reistin airt;
Gin anely aince again I heard the quaet thrum
O bees bi the sitooterie, the jar o orchard plums

Cweelin wi late simmer, the gairdens hauf asleep,
Sappy fruit hingin on branches dreepin deep,

An she afore the hedgerow stude wi sun-bleached hair,
The latchy mornin screivin flim-flam shaddas on the air...

Foo nae? The meen is fu, her cercle is complete.
Dinna leave me, frien, skreich oot, an see! I'm on ma feet!



3 poems from War Diary— From an English translation by Lucy Helen Boling

1. Tuesday Evening

Noo I sleep peacefu
an gyang slaw aboot ma wirk—
gas, airplanes, bombs are raised agin me,
I can neither be feart, nor greet;
sae I live hard, like the road biggers
amang the cauld Bens,

fa, gin their dweeble hoose
crummles ower them with age,
pit up a new ane, an betimes
sleep deep on scentit wid shavins,
an in the morn, splyter their faces
in the cauld an sheenin burns.

I live heich up, an teet aboot:
it is growin derker.
As fan frae a ship's prow
at the glimmer o lichtnin
the watchie skreichs oot, thinkin he sees lan,
sae I believe in the lan as weel—an still I skirl oot life!
wi a fitened voice.

An the soun o ma voice brichtens
an is cairriet hyne awa
wi a cweel starnie an a cweel evenin win.

2.
2. Weary Afternoon

A deein wasp flees in at the windae,
ma dwaumin wife spikks in her sleep,
an the hems o the broonin clouds
are blawn tae fringes bi a saftsome breeze.

Fit can I spikk aboot? Winter is comin, an war is comin;
sune I will lie brukkken, seen bi naebody;
wirm-etten yird will stap ma mou an een
an reets will pierce ben ma corp.

Ah, doucely sweyin eftirneen, gie me peace—
I will lie doon tae, an wirk later.
The licht o yer sun is already hingin on the hedges,
an yonner the gloamin cams ower the knowes

They hae killed a cloud, its bluid is faain on the lift;
aneth, on the stems o the glimmerin leaves
sit wine-scentit yalla berries.


3. Evening Approaches

Ben the sheeny lift the sun is climmin doon
an the gloamin is comin early alang the road.
Its comin is watched in vain bi the sherp-eed meen—
wee tooshts o mist are gaitherin.

The hedgerow is waukenin, it catches at a trauchelt gangrel;
the gloamin is spinnin amang the tree branches
an thrummin looder an looder, the whiles these lines bigg up
an lean on ane anither.

A frichtened squirrel lowps inno ma quaet chaumer,
an here a six-fittit iambic couplet pammers by.
Frae the waa tae the windae, a broon meenit—
an it's gane wi feint a trace.

The fleein peace gyangs by. Seelent
wirms wummle ower the hyne aff parks
an slawly chaa tae smush the eynless
raws o the streekt oot deid.


original poem title and English translator unknown

The poem gaithers its makk like the
raindrap. The water gaithers,
takks form, growes langer
syne it faas aff an while faain,
it makks a perfeck drap.


Fragment: from an English translation by Thomas Ország-Land

I lived upon this Eirde in sic an age
fin man wis sae breet-like he socht tae kill
for pleisur, nae jist tae follae orders,
his faith in fausehoods drave him tae corruption,
his life wis ruled bi ravin sel-deceptions.

I lived upon this Eirde in sic an age
that idolised the sleekit polis clypes,
fas heroes wir the killers, spies, the reivers –
an the fyew fa held their wheesht or anely failed
tae cheer wir loathed like victims o the pest.

I lived upon this Eirde in sic an age
fan they fa risked complaint wir wyse tae hide
an gnaa their neives in self-consumin shame –
the wud fowk grinned aboot their terrifeein
weird, wud an fu on bluid an yird.

I lived upon this Eirde in sic an age
fan the mither o a bairnie wis a curse,
fan pregnant weemen wir gled tae abort,
the leevin envied the corps in the mools
whyles on the brods faemed their pysoned cup.
I lived upon this Eirde in sic an age
fan even the bard fell quaet an wyted in hope
for an auncient, awfu voice tae rise again –
for nane cud spikk a better curse o horror
bit the scholar o dreidfu wirds, Isaiah the prophet