A Sentence on Tyranny

Gyula Illyés
  (19O2-1983)
  Hungarian poet, narrator, dramatist.
  
  This poem was written in 195O, but was published in 1956 at the time of the Hungarian revolution, 
  during a brief period when censorship was lifted due to the initial success of the revolt. 


  Where seek out tyranny?
  There seek out tyranny,
  Not just in barrels of guns,
  Not just in prisons,

  Not in the cell alone
  Where third degree goes on,
  Not in the night without
  Challenged by sentry-shout,
  
  Not where in deathbright smoke
  Prosecutors' words provoke,
  Not just in the emphasis
  Of wall-tapped morse messages,
  
  Not in confession told,
  Not in the judge's cold
  Death-sentence: 'Guilty!'
  Not in the military
  
  'Halt!' and the snapped-out 'Aim!'
  'Fire!' and the drums of shame
  Scattering the squad as it
  Drags the corpse to the pit,
  
  Not in the furtively
  Guarded, and fearfully
  Breathed words the message bore
  Passed through half-open door,
  
  Not in the 'Ssh!' revealed
  On mouth by finger sealed,
  Nor confine tyranny yet
  To rigid features set,
  
  Peering through bars that still
  Show, through that iron grille,
  Cries that dumb throats retract
  Stopped in the cataract
  
  Of inarticulate tears
  Deepening the silent fears
  In pupils griefs dilate
  Darkened by looming fate,
  
  Not only in 'Viva!' cries
  Track down all tyrannies,
  Surging on tiptoe, strong,
  In the acclaiming song,
  
  Where seek out tyranny?
  There seek out tyranny,
  Not just in mustered bands,
  Tirelessly clapping hands,
  
  Fanfares, and opera-stalls;
  Just as crude, just as false,
  Monuments, art-galleries,
  Though cast in stone, speak lies;
  
  Yes, each framed lie can crush,
  Even in the painter's brush,
  Or in the car with slight
  Noise gliding through the night,
  
  Where it draws up and waits
  Throbbing in front of gates,
  There omnipresently,
  More than your ancient God
  
  There seek out tyranny,
  In school, in nursery,
  In father's counselling rule
  And in the mother's smile,
  
  In, where a stranger puts
  Questions that touch the roots,
  Answering the stranger's gaze,
  What the child always says;
  
  Not just where barbed wire twines,
  Not just between book-lines,
  More than in barbed wire, in
  Slogans that stun you:
  
  There, more discreet, it is
  In a wife's parting kiss,
  Near you and at wour back:
  'When, dear, will you be back?'
  
  In words that folk repeat,
  'How d'you do's in the street,
  In the then suddenly softer
  Handshake a moment after
  
  Making your lover's face
  Found in the meeting-place
  Freeze on the instant
  Because it is present,
  
  No only in the interrogation
  But, too, in love's confession,
  In the words' sweet wine
  Like a fly in the wine,
  
  For even in your dreams
  You are preceded:
  In the bridal bed
  And in the desire it bred;
  
  Nothing you think fair
  But it has already claimed;
  Your bed it did share
  Even when love was named;
  
  It is in the plate, the glass,
  In the nose and the mouth,
  It is in the cold and the dark,
  In the outer air and in your house;
  
  As if through an open window
  Came the reek of carrion
  Or somewhere in the house
  There was a leak of gas
  
  Talk to yourself and hear
  Tyranny, your inquisitor;
  You have no isolation,
  Not even in imagination;
  
  The Milky Way through it becomes
  A frontier terrain, scoured by beams,
  A minefield, and the star
  A spy-hole in a war;
  
  The swarming canopy of the sky
  Is a monstrous labour-camp:
  The Orator Tyranny
  Speaks from bells on the ramp;
  
  From the priest to whom you confess,
  From his sermon no less,
  Church, Parliament, these
  And the rack, are but stage properties;
  
  Open and close your eyes;
  Still its scrutiny lies
  Upon you like a sickness,
  Following you with memory's quickness;
  
  Hark at the wheels of the train;
  This is their refrain:
  'You are taken prisoner, prisoner';
  On the hill, by the sea, you inhale the same reminder;
  
  In the lightning flash it is seen
  In every unforeseen
  Little noise; its dart
  Lights up your astonished heart;
  
  Where you rest, there it is
  In boredom's manacles,
  In showers that forge nearby
  Bars that reach up the sky;
  
  In the snow, whose fall
  Sheer as a cell wall
  Hides you while it looks
  Through the eyes of your dog,
  
  For it is in all you intend,
  In your to-morrow it is at hand,
  Before your thoughts it is aware,
  In your every movement it is there;
  
  As water cleaves the river-bed
  You follow and form it; but instead
  Of peering from that circle anew,
  Out of the glass it looks at you;
  
  In vain you try to escape its wrath:
  Prisoner and jailer, you are the both;
  It works its own corrosive way
  Into the taste of your tobacco,
  
  Into the very clothes you wear -
  It penetrates you to the marrow;
  You detach your sense from it, only to find
  No other thought will come to your mind;
  
  You look about, but what prompts your gazing?
  You use your eyes, but what do they catch?
  Already a forest fire is blazing
  Fanned into flame by the stick of a match
  
  Where carelessly you threw it down
  As you walked, and forgot to tread it in,
  And now it guards you in the town,
  In the field and home and the factories' din;
  
  No longer you feel what it is to live;
  Bread and meat, you do not know them;
  You cannot have desire, nor love;
  To strech out your arms is now denied you;
  
  Thus does the slave forge with care
  The fetters he himself must wear;
  You nourish tyranny when you eat;
  You beget your child for it;
  
  Where seek tyranny? Think again:
  Everyone is a link in the chain;
  Of tyranny's stench you are not free:
  You yourself are tyranny;
  
  Like a mole on a sunny day
  Walking in his blind, dark way,
  We walk and fidget in our rooms
  Making a Sahara of our homes;
  
  Because, where tyranny is,
  Everything is in vain,
  Every creation, even this
  Poem I sing turns vain,
  
  Because it is standing
  From the first at your grave,
  Your own biography branding,
  And even your ashes are its slave.
  
  
  
  Gyula Illyés
  (19O2-1983)
  Hungarian poet, narrator, dramatist.
  
  The poem was written in 195O,
  but was published in 1956 at the time of the revolution, in a brief period when censorship was lifted.