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One Sentence on Tyranny

from the Hungarian of Gyula Ilyes
translated by Judit Brody and Simon Pride.

Where there is tyranny
you'll find it not only
in the rifle's muzzle
not only in the jails,

not only in the interrogation cells,
not only in the yells,
the shouts and calls,
the guard's voice at nightfall,

you'll find it not only in
the prosecution's summing up
(dark as smoke), in confessions,
in prisoner's morse signs,

not only in the cold
verdict of the judge: "Guilty.!"
You'll find it not only
in the military "Take aim!"

or "Fire!", in the drums
and how the corpse is lowered
into the ditch;
not only in the whispered news

through half-open doors,
finger to the lips,
you'll find it not only in
the face’s guarded expression

or the voiceless scream
behind that face -
in the eloquence of mute tears
swelling the silence in huge pupils,

not only in the standing ovations,
the cheers, the marching songs:
where there is tyranny
you'll find it not only

in the clapping hands,
in the trumpets, in the opera,
in the marble statues
that shout just as loud,

in colours, in art galleries,
on each canvas,
before that in the paint,
and in the painter's brush,

not only in the silent
black gliding vehicle
of the night (it has stopped
in front of your house)

where there is tyranny
you'll find it present everywhere
it is in everything,
more so than your ancient Gods,

you'll find it in the kindergarten
in Father's admonition,
in the mother's smile,
in the way the child acts around strangers;

not only in the barbed wire,
not only in the ranks of books,
in the harangues more barbed
and boring than the wire;

it is there
in the goodbye kiss,
or the way a wife asks
"When are you coming home, dear?"

in the usual "How do you do?"s
in the street,
in the handshake that's so
unexpectedly soft

or the way your lover's face
abruptly freezes, surprised
in the tryst yes,
of course it’s there again,

not only in the confession of guilt
but in the confession of love
as well the spring of sweet nothings
spoiled at the source a fly in the wine

for even in your dreams
you've been usurped; it's
already in the bridal bed,
before that in your growing passion,

because all you desire
is what it already claimed;
nothing but a bedmate
when you thought you were making love;

It's in the plates and cups
in the nose and the mouth,
in the cold and the dark,
in your place and outside too

as if the smell of corruption
came creeping through the open window,
or there were a gas leak
somewhere in the building...

your thoughts, the voice in your head
is Tyranny, grand Inquisitor;
your flights of fantasy
never reach liberty;

above the Milky Way has changed
to a frontier scanned by searchlights
a mine field and each star
is now a tiny spyhole,

the tent of the night sky flaps
over one huge labour camp
because tyranny calls
from fever beds, from church bells

from the confessional grille, and the priest behind,
from his pulpit and sermon no less;
Church, Parliament and torture chamber
are stage sets, cardboard flats,

open and close your eyes, find it
always staring back at you
ever present, like a disease
lingering on with the persistence

of memory: the wheels of the train
(listen!) go “Prisoner prisoner"
on the track: you breathe it in
on the mountains, by the sea,

it shows in every lightning bolt
in every sudden noise,
in every flash of light,
in the heart's murmur,

in silences,
in this manacle boredom,
in the patter of the shower,
in the sky high railings

in the snowstorm that makes
whitewash cell walls to hide you
it looks at you
through the eyes of your dog

because it moulds all your hopes,
your tomorrows, your "one of these days"
underlying your ideas,
in every little move you make¬

like a river, you still keep
the course you first wore as a stream )
or stare in the mirror;
can you get another, different

point of view? All you see
is tyranny looking back at you,
in vain you try to get away¬
by now you're prisoner and warder too;

it infiltrates your cigar smoke,
distills itself into your clothes,
soaks in through them, down into
the marrow of your bones;

you'd have your own ideas?
their basis lies in tyranny!
take a good look around you;
but what you see is built on it;

a forest fire is raging, kindled
by the single match you dropped,
and thought there was no need to stamp it out;
encircling you, it guards you now
in factories or fields, and houses;

you forget what living is, what
bread or meat would taste like; love,
desire, or the way to open
your arms to another have gone,

like this the serf first forges,
then puts on his chains;
you eat, and so sustain it,
multiply it with your children -

where there is tyranny,
we are all links in the chain,
your body stinks of tyranny,
you yourself are tyranny:

we stumble around and around it,
blind, like moles in the sun,
pace our rooms, or sit and flinch
on the Sahara of the front room carpet -

where tyranny is, everything
is futile, all poems like this,
however true; for by your grave
tyrranny was always standing,
and now your ashes are his slave.