The Bloody Sonnets #5

Adaptation of Krvavé sonety.

Welcome to my series of adapting Pavol Országh Hviezdoslav’s The Bloody Sonnets into free-verse. This is the fifth of thirty-two sonnets.

Following the adaptation, there is a discussion.

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If only the blood that 
     spills now could pour
to flushing muscles 
     and brains —
it could turn the 
     engine of progress
and light the 
     spark of summer.

It could unburden the burdened
     and heal their pain!
But what of the spirit that 
     yearns for the rising sun?
That will melt into gunsmoke 
     on the battlefield
and will be snuffed out 
     with divine fervor.

And over all this, 
     heartache.
The tears of son-less mothers,
     for which we have no word,
young widows and orphans 
     made premature in the 
          blink of dawn.
Every day we cut flowers 
     for fresh mourning.
And what of mankind's weeping genius?
That too will enter eternal shadow.

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The original is in the Slovak language, which was originally written in 1914:

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Čo krvi stečie takto prívalom,
jejž pôsoblivé v žilách, v svaloch prúdy
skvost leta mohli vyviesť z každej hrudy,
pokroku slynúť rušňom-dvíhadlom,

byť odčinom bied, bremien odvalom!
Čo ducha, budúcna v ňomž svit sa budí,
v nič rozplynie sa s bojišťa tam čmudy,
pohasne navždy s božským zápalom!

A nad tým v srdcelomnom bolestení
čo prelejú sĺz biedne matere,
predčasné vdovy, siroty! mrk denný
im oviv novým flórom kadere —
A čože ľudstva rozplakaný génij?
ten do večnej sa tône uberie!

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Discussion

This one was a bit of struggle, but I’m happy with the result. This exercise is really quite a nice process. It really forces me to put on a Hviezdoslav mask and perspective. I’m learning on the fly and I appreciate all of you traveling along with me.

The last stanza is pretty close to the original. Which I think is a driving point of this sonnet. How much collective effort is spent on making weapons of war? The innovation in murder outpaces nearly every other industry. And yes, we occasionally get the scraps that fall from the plate like the original Internet, but what if these energies were spent elsewhere?

It reminds of the story of Alan Turing, if you will excuse the WWII example. The man who played such a role in enabling the technology you are using right now to read this poem-essay, applied his brilliant mind to save his country, and was sentenced to chemical castration for his sexuality by the same country he worked to save.

Before his suicide, Alan Turning sent postcards to Robin Gandy. The following haunting track is what I think of when I read And what of mankind’s weeping genius? That too will enter eternal shadow.

They are Alan Turnings words, each on a postcard titled “Messages from the Unseen World.”

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Here is the previous Sonnet.