On this day in 1905, Attila József, Hungary’s greatest poets was born. Since 1964, the nations marks the 11 April as a celebration of Hungarian poetry.

You get poetry on public transport, and Hungarians gather to share poems and celebrate its power. Poetry has been instrumental in Hungary’s quest for cultural identity. Poetry helped process its difficult history, unbreakable spirit, and rich cultural heritage. Famous Hungarian poets include the revolutionary and of course Attila József, famous for his exploration of social issues and existentialism. Here is one of his poems.

At Last 1926

I have scrubbed boilers, I have cut seedlings,
On rotting straw mattresses I've found sleep;
Judges have sentenced me, fools have mocked me,
My glitter poured forth from cellars deep.
I've kissed a girl who sang even as
she was baking someone else's bread,
I was given clothes and I gave books
to peasants and to workers instead.
I was in love with a well-to-do girl
but her own class wrested her from me;
I ate but once every other day
and I got an ulcer finally.
I've felt that the world, too, was a turning
inflamed stomach and that slimy thing,
our dyspeptic love was our mind, while war
was nothing but bloody vomiting.
Since sourish silence has filled our mouth,
I kicked my heart that it might shout with rage.
How could my active mind content itself
with lulling songs composed for a wage.
They offered money for my great vengeance;
Priests have said: trust in the Lord, my son.
And I knew, he who returned empty-handed,
with axes and hoes and stones would come.
I have flashing eyes and the will to win,
and I must have the willingness, the means
to do justice and so to take sides
with these severest of memories.
But what concern are memories to me?
Rather, I lay my worthless pencil down
and start grinding the scythe's edge instead,
for time is ripening in our land
with a silent, threatening sound.

Translated by John Székely