If he would live today, he would be followed standing by paparazzi, he was the superstar of the literature in the 1910’s.He had an affaire with an older married woman (called in the poems Leda), and later a young girl (Csinszka), one of his fans married him. He was journalist and poet.
He lived in Paris, and described the feeling no matter if you are in this metropolis, there is something calling you standing to home, back to your little-poor motherland.
His poetry, his “new songs” was modern and strange, he was the symbolist poet in the Hungarian literature, like Baudelaire in France.
He was born on 22. November in 1877.
My favourite poem by him, after the love with Leda has gone:
Hawk Mating On The Fallen Leaves
Up. Up. And onward into Autumn fly
In shrill pursuit and raucous hunting cry
A pair of hawks with summer-weary wings.
Summer has bred new pirates in her care
And fresher pinions flutter down her air
To join the lists of Love which now are wide.
We fled from Summer, now ourselves pursued,
Till somewhere sometime in an autumn wood
We stooped with fluttered wings for very love.
This is our final mating. Now the keen
Talon on feather tears the quick between
And so we fall together with the leaves.
Up. Up. And onward into Autumn fly
In shrill pursuit and raucous hunting cry
A pair of hawks with summer-weary wings.
Summer has bred new pirates in her care
And fresher pinions flutter down her air
To join the lists of Love which now are wide.
We fled from Summer, now ourselves pursued,
Till somewhere sometime in an autumn wood
We stooped with fluttered wings for very love.
This is our final mating. Now the keen
Talon on feather tears the quick between
And so we fall together with the leaves.
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