Poetry, Gyula Illes, Tyranny

A Sentence About Tyranny
‘’Egy mondat a zsarnokságról’’
By Gyula Illyés
Translated by George Szirtes

Over the last few days I’ve read quite a lot here about tyranny, sometimes what I read is called tyranny, and sometimes it isn’t. Not every one seems to find tyranny in the same place, some people don’t recognize it, and others don’t seem to care. This man stared tyranny in the face, he recognized it and left this poem for the rest of the world to take heed from.

Gyula Illyés
(November 2, 1902 – April 15, 1983)

He was a Hungarian poet and novelist, he was born into a family of farm servants (his father was a mechanic of agricultural machines) on one of the big estates of Transdanubia and  he was educated in Budapest and in Paris. He was one of a group of writers and poets called the  'népi' ("from the people") They were know by this name because via their writings they brought the awful conditions suffered by their country men to the rest of the world. 

This poem has been translated from the original Polish by George Szirtes and it looks as if the exact nature and wording of the original has been sacrificed a little in order to maintain the poems  rhyme and rhythm. It is quite a long poem but stay with it………..it’s worth it.

At the bottom of the page is a video of the original version recited in Polish by the author, and another video with a different translation recited in English.  The English recital is probably a translation closer in word to the original Polish.


I’ve included these paintings because; while at first glance they look harmless and quite wholesome paintings of farming folk, they are paintings used to promote the most tyrannical regime in recent history. Sometimes tyranny doesn’t look like tyranny, maybe we need to learn to recognize it.
The Art of the Third Reich, the officially approved art produced in Nazi Germany between 1933 and 1945, was characterized by realistic representations rural family life that were  ‘traditional’ in style and that glorified the "blood and soil" values of racial purity, militarism, and obedience, while at the same time banning modern styles as degenerate. Other popular themes for Nazi art were traditional agricultural workers toiling in the fields and a portrayal of a strictly paternalistic society with strict division of gender roles. This art was required to promote a return to the simple virtues of ‘Heimat’ (love of homeland), and the female role of child bearing and raising.
Similarly, music was expected to be tonal and free of jazz influence; films and plays were censored.
Among the well known artists endorsed by the Nazis were the sculptors Josef Thorak and Arno Breker, and painters Werner Peiner, Adolf Wissel and Conrad Hommel. These paintings are all by Adolf Wissel, without prior knowledge they look like family portraits and scenes of honest hard working men and women going about their daily business. They don’t look at all sinister, but like I said…..sometimes tyranny doesn’t look like tyranny either.

Gyula Illyés
(19O2-1983)
Hungarian poet, narrator, dramatist.

The following poem was written in 195O,
but was published in 1956 at the time of the revolution.A Sentence About Tyranny

Where tyranny exists
that tyranny exists
not only in the barrel of the gun
not only in the cells of a prison
not just in the interrogation block
or the small hours of the clock
the guard's bark and his fists
the tyranny exists
not just in the billowing black fetor
of the closing speech of the prosecutor,
in the "justified use of force"
the prisoners' dull morse
not merely in the cool postscript
of the expected verdict
there's tyranny
not just in the crisp military
order to "Stand!" and the numb
instruction "Fire!", the roll of the drum,
in the last twitch
of the corpse in the ditch
not just in the door half open
and the fearful omen,
the whispered tremor
of the secret rumour
the hand that grips,
the finger before the lips,
tyranny is in place
in the iron mask of the face
in the clench of the jaw
the wordless O
of pain and its echo
and the tears
of silence-breeding fears,
in the surprise
of starting eyes
tyranny supplies
the standing ovation, the loud
hurrahs and chanting of the crowd
at the conference, the songs
of tyranny, the breasts
that tyranny infests,
the loud unflagging
noise of rhythmic clapping,
at the opera, in trumpet cry,
in the uproarious lie
of grandiose statues, of colours,
in galleries,
in the frame and the wash,
in the very brush,
not just in the neat snarl
of the midnight car
as it waits
outside the gates
tyranny permeates
all manners and all states,
its omnipresent eyes more steady
than those of old Nobodaddy,
there's tyranny
in the nursery
in father's advice, in his guile,
in your mother's smile
in the child's answer
to the perfect stranger;
not just in wires with barbs and hooks
not just in rows of books,
but, worse than a barbed wire fence
the slogans devoid of sense
whose tyranny supplies
the long goodbyes;
the words of parting,
the will-you-be-home-soon-darling?
in the street manners, the meetings
and half-hearted greetings,
the handshakes and the alarm
of the weak hand in your palm,
he's there when your loved one's face
turns suddenly to ice
he accompanies you
to tryst or rendezvous
not just in the grilling
but in the cooing and the billing,
in your words of love he'll appear
like a dead fly in your beer
because even in dreams you're not free
of his eternal company,
in the nuptial bed, in your lust
he covers you like dust
because nothing may be caressed
but that which he first blessed,
it is him you cuddle up to
and raise your loving cup to
in your plate, in your glass he flows
in your mouth and through your nose
in frost, fog, out or in
he creeps under your skin
like an open vent through which
you breathe the foul air of the ditch
and it lingers like drains
or a gas leak at the mains
it's tyranny that dogs
your inner monologues,
nothing is your own
once your dreams are known
all is changed or lost,
each star a border post
light-strafed and mined; the stars
are spies at window bars,
the vast tent's every lamp
lights a labour camp,
come fever, come the bell
it's tyranny sounds the knell,
confessor is confession,
he preaches, reads the lesson
he's Church, House and Theatre
the Inquisition;
you blink your eyes, you stare
you see him everywhere;
like sickness or memory
he keeps you company;
trains rattling down the rail
the clatter of the jail;
in the mountains, by the coast
you are his breathing host;
lightning: the sudden noise
of thunder, it's his voice
in the bright electric dart,
the skipping of the heart
in moments of calm,
chains of tedium,
in rain that falls an age,
the star-high prison-cage
in snow that rises and waits
like a cell, and isolates;
your own dog's faithful eyes
wear his look for disguise,
his is the truth, the way
so each succeeding day
is his, each move you make
you do it for his sake;
like water, you both follow
the course set and the hollow
ring is closed; that phiz
you see in the mirror is his
escape is doomed to failure,
you're both prisoner and gaoler;
he has soaked, corroded in,
he's deep beneath your skin
in your kidney, in your fag,
he's in your every rag,
you think: his agile patter
rules both mind and matter
you look, but what you see
is his, illusory,
one match is all it takes
and fire consumes the brake
you having failed to snuff
the head as it broke off;
his watchfulness extends
to factories, fields and friends
and you no longer know or feel
what it is to live, eat meat or bread
to desire or love or spread
your arms wide in appeal;
it is the chain slaves wear
that they themselves prepare;
you eat but it's tyranny
grows fat, his are your progeny
in tyranny's domain
you are the link in the chain,
you stink of him through and through,
the tyranny IS you;
like moles in sunlight we crawl
in pitch darkness, sprawl
and fidget in the closet
as if it were a desert,
because where tyranny obtains
everything is vain,
the song itself though fine
is false in every line,
for he stands over you
at your grave, and tells you who
you were, your every molecule
his to dispose and rule.
(1950)

 I thought this was interesting, a photograph of poor Polish immigrants being turned back from Ellis Island 50 years before this poem was written.
Group photograph from Ellis Island  captioned 'Hungarian Gypsies all of whom were deported' in The New York Times, Sunday Feb. 12, 1905. Sherman, Augustus F. (Augustus Francis) -- Photographer. 1902-1905

delete reply bostonsdandd wrote on Aug 14, '09 This is unbelievable! I loved it from start to finish. I didn't listen to the videos. For some reason I didn't want to ruin what was in my head LOL. To me it reads a little differently than for some. I think it would start out in a soft, mellow voice heating to an angry, demanding on in the middle, only to return to the soft voice of reasoning at the end. Make any sense LOL? http://bostonsdandd.multiply.com/journal/item/344

delete reply sweetpotatoqueen wrote on Aug 11, '09 This is powerful and within these words lies a glimpse into the past by one who certainly knew about tyranny in person. When reading this I felt as if this writer spilled his thoughts into words about the various shapes and forms of tyranny~he certainly must have faced the ugliness of oppression in many layers. Thanks for this reminder of this point and time in history~ let us never forget.

delete reply mitchylr wrote on Aug 11, '09 Despite the liberties possibly taken by the translator, it packs a powerful punch in the description of tyranny in poetic form every bit as much as Orwell did with '1984' in novel form. In fact, as I read this, I felt like I was reading paraphrased portions of Orwell's work. Possibly because both identified what is the very 'essence' of tyranny. I can't stream vids at the moment, so was unable to watch the two you posted, but all in all your post was engrossing and thought-provoking.

edit delete reply forgetmenot525 wrote on Aug 11, '09 bennett1 said he Soviets did the same thing - pictures of the yes.............I almost posted one of their artists rather than the German one but decided against it because these pictures have more in common with the world we know today. On any of the sites or in any of the literature about 'Nazi approved Art' it does say that this was an identical form of political propaganda to that used by the Soviets.

delete reply bennett1 wrote on Aug 11, '09 Great blog!! The Soviets did the same thing - pictures of the "common worker" wielding either hammer or sickle in support of the great Stalinist regime.

delete reply brendainmad wrote on Aug 11, '09 I agree that the translator probably took liberties in his translation for the sake of rhyme. Still it's a provocative piece and the paintings you've chosen are ideal. So glad you were able to post this.

delete reply skyerider wrote on Aug 11, '09 Very powerful.

delete reply starfishred wrote on Aug 10, '09 he put it all in one poem wow the presentation is wonderful loretta- and yes tyranny comes in all forms silent and loud

delete reply caffeinatedjo wrote on Aug 10, '09 forgetmenot525 said there's tyranny in the nursery in father's advice, in his guile, in your mother's smile Tyranny sure can be covert and completely innocent looking on the surface, eh? What a wonderful message this poem brings to the world. People need to remember that all is not what it may appear to be.

delete reply lauritasita wrote on Aug 10, '09 A wonderful presentation, Loretta ! Thanks so much. Love, Laurita.

delete reply kwika wrote on Aug 10, '09 One word WOW!