A productive old age E-Book

Varsás Frigyes Mihály

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 126

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

What you are holding in your hands is a book with a particularly charming and magical content. Its author is a teacher with a realistic bent who, at the age of 70, decided to take up poetry - and rightly so. His melodious, sometimes almost undulating lines have a magical effect on the mind, relaxing it. This is matched by the content, which is extremely varied: the book contains poems about love, happiness, the wonders of the seasons, the weather, family, the world's troubles. The landscape of the author's home and its natural wonders feature prominently among the themes, making this book of poems an enjoyable and entertaining read for all ages.

Leseprobe

Homeward thoughts

Esteledik. Soon it will be nine o'clock.

It is a mild winter. Though the wind blows, the eaves drip.

My heart too, softly thou dost slip away

His calling word, and to you he brings his soft message.

Mother of my boys! Thinking of you.

Wherever the gloomy world dawns over our heads.

Every night, every minute the wind carries you

Listen to the evening breeze, it tells of my heart.

This wind will bring you back, on a still night.

Wait for me on the latticed porch of our little house.

Nine hours. Here I sit in front of my candle,

I remember all those wonderful times,

When together we kiss our happy love

His whisper came to my heart "good night, my darling"!

The flame of my candle dances, as I know it does with you.

With shining eyes you now make your spotless bed.

You put three sons in her with a kiss, our three sons...

They ask you, darling: "When is our father coming"?

They put their little arms around your shoulders, my darling,

You lull her to sleep with kissing faith, soft and silent...

And while on their eyes your aching heart wove A sweet dream,

You think of me again in front of your candle.

Esteledik. Nine hours have passed, perhaps.

Thinking of me on my faithful spouse's kissed lips

A longing sigh flies towards me. I feel it, my love!

With a happy heart I always remember you.

Budapest, 22 Jan 1943 The poem was written by my father

Crocodile tears

Was I even alive, or just barely?

What do I mean when I am alive, and what am I worth when I am dead?

Where have I left my tracks, in sand or stone?

What is left after me in space and time?

Will anyone bow their head, will anyone shed a tear,

Remembering the moments we spent together?

Someone will say to my grave:

"Behold a righteous man, whom this urn hides"?

But let only those weep who truly loved,

Who has love in his heart,

Who honoured me for my deeds in my life,

But not just pretending, but with true faith.

Chain, chain

Our destiny is just one big chain with links,

But only if they are all great.

May they all be the same to your heart,

Any one of them breaks, the whole thing falls apart.

To bear the weight your fate has placed on you,

Protect, care for, polish, if one is worn out,

For time is a great master, and rust never rests,

You should only load it with what it can take.

When your strength is completely gone,

And every eye in the chain is now worn out,

You can go proudly, you can say,

That it was just the time that got you.

Whimsical Easter

Easter is often a beautiful time with a smiley face,

He brags about white snowdrops and daffodils,

But now in April, riding on the wind,

He's a whimsical stalker.

Every girl is wearing a festive skirt today,

Who are waiting with eggs for many a young lad,

Hoping both, one will embrace his waist,

And gives a kiss for every egg.

Passion runs high in the joyful youth,

They sprinkle cologne on their beautiful sweetheart's hair,

And then a bucket of water will be poured over him,

They all have a good laugh in the yard of the little house.

Change

There is no such thing as a flawless human being,

We have mistakes and we have sins.

Unfortunately, this small mistake cannot be avoided,

But transgressions are often forgettable.

He may sin who does what he ought not to do,

Or if it should be done, it would rather stay still.

Who takes no responsibility for any of it,

But to take his share, that he never curses.

Some people often hurt others,

But he still feels that he is the victim.

Whose wealth has fallen easily into his lap,

And yet he complains that his fate is cruel.

Some people create it and love it,

But another person can easily take it away.

Some people see it, but stay away,

"Someone else will do it," he says, moving on.

Everyone could say, we will change one day,

That we are not just dreaming, but creating.

We would all be looking for what can be done,

We know we could do it, but unfortunately we don't have the energy.

Resurrection

He died for us at Easter

Torture death of the Messiah,

He rose on the third day,

But Thomas did not believe it.

When he touched

All the wounds of stigma,

Said the unbeliever:

"Behold, I bow down before you".

You can no longer see it,

But don't be an unbeliever,

Say with the word of faith:

"Oh, my Lord, oh, my God"!

Open your heart

And listen to the word of God.

Confess your faith,

Hold up your flag!

Celebrate at Easter

The risen Messiah,

Kneel before him,

And see that all is forgiven.

The first Muse

Created in six days

The earth is the Lord,

Free remained a quieter,

Then came a feat.

It was a beautiful world, blue flowers

They were scented,

Still it was a pity, it was still missing

Word as it shines.

Forests, fields, gardens, meadows

They were given colours,

Meg autumn before bittersweet

Basic tastes.

Eve and Adam to love

They got hearts,

And for a grateful reply

Lavish rhymes.

Adam is a quiet, grateful child,

He was a famous figure,

He did nothing else at first,

He carved a rhyme.

Through the woods humming, a breeze whispered

"Old poet, well,

Buzzing in the rain: the first muse

It's nice that it was Eve".

My plum tree

Late autumn on my plum tree

The leaves are yellowing.

Signalling the passing of time,

Slowly mind-blowing away.

When all the

He went down into the hole,

Because you can't put it back,

My heart cries for him.

I weep in the light wind

swaying foliage,

Deep in my soul I think I see,

As he nods silently.

In the shade, in the hot summer

I was lying in a dream,

At a time like this, the many, many sorrows

I have forgotten all its weight.

I can still smell its fruit

Its smell and flavour,

But when I look at the bald branch,

My soul is filled with sorrow.

Killer or victim?

It was freezing cold, the bells were ringing,

The tormented beauty was buried in Csejté.

Doubt was buried at the dawn of August,

They wept and rejoiced on either side of his grave.

Some had tears of joy in their eyes,

When the funeral bell rang for the last time,

There were those who locked the pain in their hearts,

Believing the horrific accusations to be false.

He was mad who buried the murderers of six hundred girls,

Who bathed his body in the blood of virgin girls.

He thought he could hear the screams of the tortured,

Mistaking the ispotala for a murderers' ball.

Some believed everything they heard,

They knew the dead man to be a blood-sucking vampire.

They thought he was just a heretic,

A cruel judge of innocent virgins.

He was glad who accused him of a distracted mind,

Her dazzling beauty nursed by a bloodbath

And like Darvulia, he thought she was a witch,

Thinking in horror of all the villains' deeds.

There were those who mourned him, who thought he was a victim,

Thurzo was the target of cruel curses,

Knowing that he admired her magical beauty,

Wishing you the widow of Nádasdy.

He coveted her beauty, her vast wealth,

Having a hard time carrying Elizabeth's basket.

He used torture to extract accusations from servants,

Deceiving hundreds of gallantly mistaken.

It was freezing cold, the bells were ringing,

The tormented beauty was buried in Csejté.

Who was he, a murderer or an innocent victim?

It is not known which is the authentic version.

It is still unclear whether Erzsébet Báthory, the wife of Ferenc Nádasdy, was the murderer of 600 young girls or a victim of the plot of Count György Thurzó, who was expelled by him.

Cooking but cleverly

A delicious stew for lunch,

Boiling in the pot'

The little lid on top

It flips and tilts sometimes.

Illeg-bobbles, rattles a few,

There's a lot of steam underneath,

But since lunch can wait,

I'll put it on a base.

I adjust the lid,

I save on gas,

I'm taking a little break

With a little chuckle.

My good mother taught me,

Then the stew is good,

If he hardly breathes on the fire,

Cook over a slow fire.

Always cook sparingly,

On a low flame, take it easy,

It's good if the pot is

Our hat does not move.

If that's how the stew was made,

Watch out for that one,

So the plate doesn't rattle,

Let there be silence in the house.

The power of sound

The silence is dark, the sound is bright,

when I am silent, I am myself,

if anything hurts, I need a word,

only what is audible is real.

Where there are children and a rocking horse,

let the song be a lullaby,

Let the bellflower ring,

spread its sweet fragrance.

When the grass is green or the sky is blue,

when summer is fine, or winter is harsh,

and the leaves fall into the open,

sung by a gentle breeze.

Where there is a lad and a pretty girl,

and a single heartbeat,

from kisses ask for a repetition,

and let a serenade be sung.

While anything is beautiful or exciting,

necessary or not,

too simple or complex,

can tell a beautiful sonnet.

If the end is here and you have to go,

examine the past, what half.

The last melody

cannot be, only symphony.

Symphony of Fate

My fate was marked by music everywhere,

Now, among the sounds, there are many memories.

I've had a couple of springs with crickets playing the violin,

But the music faded with time.

My summer music is a cacophony.

Sometimes two little birds would sing to me,

At other times, it's an annoyingly hoarse trumpet,

Sometimes I longed for silence around me.

Now I listen to the harp of the weary autumn,

This long-awaited wonderful melody.

I enjoy the song and the lukewarm breeze.

For winter I hope a quiet, whispering prayer.

And when the final, redemptive rest comes,

I can look forward to the symphony of fate in peace.

Necrologist instead

I came as a tabula rasa,

When I was born,

Years came, years went,

I have become many things.

I would have been a marble slab

Intended for eternal life,

A huge hornbeam tree

And a beautiful harp.

I was paper, pretty clean,

The ink caught me,

Maths teacher, deceitful,

A sample for many children.

I was on a long, high mountain range,

I have tall oaks.

I was an oak tree once,

And I was considered wise.

They cut down the tall oak,

They were cut to pieces,

They could not see the valley from me,

They all chanted.

Once they burn,

So scatter me,

Daisies on my ashes

Let them proclaim that I have lived.

Cheesy rhymes

Look, there's the squinting Jancsi.

It's not Mecheche, like Anchy.

A duck in a poke.

He who sees it knows it, he's a tramp.

On the top of his head a small...

A jug on Bones' wrist.

What is it? Oh, it's just a ratty ratchet,

And a stubborn cat mess.

Grumpy's hand is a small jug.

Ma kisses ponchos macho.

Behind him is a colt with hocks,

In his hand is a bare glider.

Trianon

Nineteen hundred and twenty, what a shame, they have mutilated our country,

"Marosmenti Fenyveserdő" is a song we secretly sing.

Two thirds of the big whole has been taken away by somebody,

But we still have our dances, our poems and our songs.

No longer a defender and no longer a Hungarian who stands on the Harghita,

In the middle of Gheorghe no Hungarian heart is happy!

The snow falls on someone else below the Chitari mountains,

And in the Anchorage tavern, "suddenly good soon".

Hey, Chisinau, Gheorghe and Tricity, a gift for Romanians,

The two towers of Nagyabonyi give us nothing but shade.

These are all my little homeland, and Oradea, where Ady lived,

Nagyszalonta too, where János Arany once boasted.

Crane bird up in the sky flying home,

From there he looks out over Sighisoara, weeping silently.

The city of King Matthias was swindled in a raffle,

Don't go to Cluj or Napoca, thinking of Cluj.

All our songs are still ours, a defender stands on the Harghita,

In the "Marosmenti Fenyveserdő" that little place is not Romanian!

Will we still be a nation that the world notices?

It changes the two thirds that are destroying us.

Roof

A blanket of snow has long covered the trees in the silent forest,

Hesitant, tired deer stand on the distant slope.

They look anywhere in a lush landscape at bud break,

Where they grazed on the grass in the summer in the variegated meadow,

And where bittersweet autumn leaves were loosed from the branch,

There is no food anywhere, so today the tender leaf is just a dream.

The ice, frozen on the snow, cracks and cuts their knees,

Their feet glowing, their blood dripping on the snow.

Never mind the blood, the wound, the pain, the ice -

They walk forward until they reach a thatched top feeder.

Barely alive when they finally stand in front of the manger,

Escaped, they rejoice in the fragrant mess

The old poet

I was born, I was a child, the years have passed,

Am I old or just old, how long will I live?

I ask myself, what kind of person was I?

What have I achieved in my life, what will I be worth dead?

Are there a few dozen people I have made better?

Have I made a lasting impression, have I been brave?

I helped anyone know what to do and what not to do,

I asked someone what God is like?

Have I told ten people, have I told a hundred,

All that I have experienced, all that I have seen?

You change under the weight of decades,

What you have seen, said, felt can fill a sea.

I think, so I am, I dream often,

I dream I have an angel inside me somewhere.

This angel whispers, "all that you have seen,

You have to show it to others, look and see".

From bucket to bucket

Everybody knows him, that's his name, Oedönke.

There was a girl in front of him, so he was behind her.

Below was a dirt road, the blue sky above.

He stared, stepped on a piece of junk.

The girl saw this and laughed back:

I don't want to see such a tick.

He clenches his fists in anger,

He slows down, rolls away, no one in front of him.

But he still stumbles into a big bucket'

From there it falls into a deep hole.