The power of verse

We hosted a very moving event last week. George and Mari Gömöri had assembled a collection of poetry about the holocaust, written by Hungarian Jews, non-Jews and Roma who had either experienced it personally or by those touched by it in other ways. They and their collaborators translated the verses into English and published the book “I Lived on This Earth”. It was launched in London at the end of February and the Hungarian launch took place here in the Embassy.

It’s an appropriate place not just because of the Hungarian born Gömöris’ strong links with the UK but because the Embassy building is so closely tied to the historic and tragic story of Raoul Wallenberg, whose legacy is now commemorated through a Memorial Year in Hungary. Google him if you can – the story is inspirational and much of it took place in the Embassy building when it was a bank.

During the launch event we listened to recitals in Hungarian and English of a selection of poems in the collection, interspersed with music, some also written by those who lost their lives in the Holocaust.

I was really moved. I shan’t try to explain, but rather (and with the Gömöris’ permission) let me share one of the poems we heard.

Zoltán Sumonyi: Mauthausen 2009

It’s not the fortress walls, the battlements,
or watch-towers of the castle, or the gate;
it’s not the wreaths, or late heads bowed, too late,
nor is it an entire nation’s monuments.
It’s not Death’s engineering, cóvert, crafted,
nor lawns, green-engineered, and handsome-grafted
in carpet-squares, to look as if just grown
actually thére. No, it‘s the old photos shown.

It’s not the tiered bunks crammed into the gloom
of barrack blocks. It’s not the urine-drains.
It’s not the shower-roses’ plural bloom
from cellar ceilings, or twin-vents for grains
of ash beneath the oven-bed’s sprung coils.
It’s not the lamp that gleamed over the tiles
in the operating-theatre. These don’t tell the place.
A bunch of faded snapshots shows its real face.

It’s not the corpses carted, ditched and heaped,
or skeleton-survivors, chosen ones,
but the photos the camp-guards took, and kept,
of one another, portly myrmidons –
smug, rosy-cheeked, these murder-orgy fellows,
pistol cases belted on belly-pillows,
greed, lust and envy smouldering in their eyes,
ready to rage, again, should ever chance arise.

(Translated by Richard Berengarten and George Gömöri)