Ora Et Labora

Por: Sándor Halmosi
Traductor: Éva Korontai from Hungarian ©

The poet is naked (background check attempt)
Manifesto For Pure Literature

Proofread by Anna Bentley

For it is not only the king who is naked, but also the poet.
Either because he has no desire to hide or because there’s nowhere to hide anyway; or because all he wants to do is hide, not to show his genuine face, which he may even have lost.

For one of these two, life and art are one and the same – he himself is an open book.  He’s lying there on the operating table for anyone to poke around inside him; he cannot escape, nor does he want to.
There’s nowhere to go, and there are no loopholes. 
He desires to uplift and enrich the world. This often causes him to find himself impoverished.
He talks little.
He’s aware he could be wrong. This is allowed.
He’s thin, and he only grows slighter over time. Translucent. He rolls light like a ball.

The art and life of the other are entirely separate – he spends all his time in search of loopholes, practicing dodgery, and maneuvering himself into position. He’s elbowing his way through, he’s trampling over everything. He shoves everyone to the side. It is not the truth he speaks.
He wants to get rich – here and now.
He’s forever talking, he’s a busy-body. He’s putting on an act.
He’s inauthentic. He thinks he’s infallible. 
He is bogged down in the mud. Resistant to light.

For there are those who labor, and those who are maneuvering themselves into certain positions. Or, as Magda Szabó would say, “There are those who sweep, and those who have the floor swept.”

It is these two main haplotypes all of us contemporary poets are bouncing back and forth between. This said, we have the option to decide, and we do always decide in favor of one or the other. We put our vote in.
And to put that vote in, difficult as it may be, is a must.
For, “We must admit, / When a question is posed, / we are obliged to answer sincerely. / We must take on the fight / honorably, / we must walk down the road / with dignity, / I must play my role / with all my might / rock-solid, regardless of all else.” This is the credo of Jenő Dsida, a sacred poet, in his poem entitled, “Regardless.” He adds, “One cannot serve both the Christ and Pilate.”

Literary public life is abuzz with a myriad of topics – it is only those which are of utmost importance that are seldomly discussed: literature and quality. The soul. Authenticity, the root poetic stance, the responsibility of the literati. What our job is. The sort of life that can birth the kind of poetry which uplifts the soul and gives us something to hold onto even in the most difficult of times.  Which, by way of words, can reassemble a world that falls apart daily, and can re-imagine it. Words that should be said or should remain unspoken. How not to constantly poison the well, the source. For the spoken word is powerful. It posessess creative and malignant powers. And woe to the poet, a hundred times, a thousand times over if does not dedicate his life to the former. If anyone, he should know that demons only have power over us until we call them out by their names and see through them. They then cease to exist automatically. Even our own daimons, which are the most persistent ones.

Speak the truth, not just the evident. For words of truth will beget initiation and healing. And the poet, as a spiritual leader, has no option but this. It is not possible to lie through art, anyway.

This literary public discourse, destined for the better, more graceful, more noble, more elevated, is dominated mainly by ordinary speech, institutional speech, the embitterment of life and overall disgust, ditch picnics, lowly temper-tantrums and acts, boring panel discussions, spineless character assassinations, lack of silence, expectations, divisions, daily immersion in politics or something believed to constitute as such, the pointing of the finger at each other or someone else, the dodging of responsibility, us less frequently coming across a sincere word, a soul-elevating idea, synthesis speech, self-reflection, benevolent silence, actual achievement. Until the ratio is reversed, it might be prudent for us to grow quiet, to practice introspecion, to sweep around our own front door, and just labor, and labor, and sweep. Lots. Like Stanislavski and his troupe prior to every performance.

Numerous classical and contemporary examples confirm that it is indeed possible to create, to produce a credible oeuvre even without continuous state support, scholarships, awards, or even in the complete absence of these. It is more difficult, but it is possible. And one can fail even when supported ad nauseam. Fall through the outer and inner protective nets. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not speaking pro or contra moral and financial support. Quite the contrary! They can also be good, sensible, just, well-deserved, well-earned, aiding the artwork and its creator. There are several classic as well as contemporary examples of this. I am talking about us here. About the fact that the poet has one supreme task: to preserve his faith, his credibility, the vulnerability resulting from his nakedness. His healthy distance from pathos. His zest for life, his sense of humor. So that he can master his dread of the depths, his being constantly outside of his comfort zone. So that he can maintain his inner silence, so that he will hear the spaces, even when he’s sobbing inside. So that he can be vigilant and thereby be able to recognize and separate the benign from the malicious, the dark from the light, the important from the less important. The spiritual, even in the material. Diacrisis pneumaton. If, whilst doing this, he is always expecting something, is pointing fingers, is flailing his arms around, and is judging [using double standards], it is easy for him to lose balance and fall into the depths.

And, although the saying goes that the only good poet is a dead one, let us disprove that. 
For as long as we live, let’s work. Let’s create value. Let’s be vigilant, let’s be present. Let’s look inside of ourselves. Let’s bow our heads at times, let’s sort out our own and communal dealings. Let’s converse more often, let’s function as a spiritual workshop. Take the phalanx seriously when we’re building it; let’s laugh about it when we’re not. Let’s rejoice in our handiwork, let’s step out of ourselves, and find ourselves as someone else’s extension. Let’s destroy our towers stacked up on top of each other, let’s eat an apple each day. If there is silence, let it be peaceful, if there is speech, let it be liberated; let’s not weigh our words but trust that the other will disarm us if we come on too heavily, and will fend us off, for he is skillfull, for he respects us and trusts us. There is something to be borne from everything, even from the pain, it is only destruction that’s infertile. Survival is not enough, one must live. Proudly, beautifully, jovially. Relationships can be restored, we have the possibility to forgive ourselves and others, people can be reached out to and invited over – we must rejoice in times of untainted joy, we must be wayshowers when things fall apart. And we must work, and not give in to degradation.

Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country.

Just as the poet is society’s conscience, so is the editor-poet, the curator-poet, the head of the institution-poet, the poet-poet [the poet who is the impersonification of the unity of the world as a single individual] the conscience of literature. If he performs his job well, if he serves as he should, order and peace will come [Lao-ce-Weöres: Tao Te King]. If he doesn’t, all will be swallowed up by the swamp, mud, and bog stench. Then the fabric of society will disintegrate, its morals will become distorted, its immune system weakened – it will be knocked over by the first breeze. If we are dealing with a problem, it hasn’t just recently come about. It has been manifest for decades, possibly for even a century. Completely independent of the eternal mainstream. Moreover, regardless of the mainstream. The literary old-boy network is an ancient inner world, laying low within the mainstream, the course of the river. You could say it is cursive. Kowtowing, slavish, peddling, bullying, condescending, making you wait in the antechamber. If there are two sides in this country, then they are definitely these. On the one hand, the author who abuses his power by keeping you in the antechamber; on the other, the author who flatters, kowtows. Begs. Panhandles. Who is cowardly and opportunistic. As if centuries have passed without a trace. The almighty author who abuses his power and numerous positions to negotiate and extort awards for himself, the editor who doesn’t respond to authors’ letters, the publisher who prints only the same few authors while advertising himself, both in inner and outer circles, that he is the editor of literature, the seasoned-eyed reviewer of the well-known, representative selections of poetry, but who makes no effort to do more than skim a few pages, much less review the entire publication sphere, including works published only as physical volumes; the curator, the almighty decision-maker who always has his own interest and those of his narrow circle in mind, even if the tender does not limit him, and he could select from a wider spectrum; the store chains and distributors whose job it should be to connect the works with the readers, yet often they are the ones who stand between them – everyone, who does not promote synthesis, meaningful convergence, dialogues, the selfless aiding of quality conquering the largest possible territory.

But we do have here heads of institutions, editors, curators, laureates, small and large publishers, distributors, writers, poets of innocence, who have committed their lives to literature, who perform their work with great dedication, selflessness and humility, who manage their papers and publishers well; who, when they are awarded public funds, utilizte them well, but even if they are not, they persevere to the very end; many of whom hold civilian occupations, raise children in the evenings, write at night, who are able to maintain their integrity even in the most dire personal and community crises, live, create and work without compromise, day after day. They are constructing an image of the country. They put in hard, persistent, thorough work. They can always be counted on. I have faith that they are the majority. I have faith that they are literature. In which one single aspect prevails: the literary. And quality. Where joy reigns and not mistrust.

If we do not destroy more than we build, and if we can make the world one iota better, we won’t have lived in vain.

And just as monasticism played a key role in the creation of the world ethos, so the monk-poet of today cannot run away from the gigantic task of rebuilding this battered ethos, which has been destroyed partially by poets and the literati. He is responsible. In him has evolved intelligence.
Da capo al fine.

The way we treat each other is our homeland.

To work and pray. Not by words, but by deed.
Let our lives be the prayer and not the other way around.
And if all else fails,
may poetry and silence be with us.

For the gods they
Often are asleep
And all the pretty-eyed ones
Disappear
In times like this it is you who embraces
Who picks flowers
Who rejoices
For us
It is you who brings damnation
And if you didn’t exist
The world would be left hanging
Unabsolved.

Budapest, 5th February 2020
1st publication (Hungarian):  https://drot.eu/kialto-szo-tiszta-irodalomert-halmosi-sandor-irasa