Death of a Pupil. (Budapest 1956.) (poem) by Peter J. Oszmann on AuthorsDen

Death of a Pupil. (Budapest 1956.)
by Peter J. Oszmann → (All Poetry by Peter J. Oszmann)
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In Memoriam. (23 October � 4 November 1956.) Also dedicated to the memory of all those fallen in battle, or as a consequence of fighting, anywhere in the world, past, present and future. "Dolce et decorum est pro patria mori�??!" From blood-soaked paving stones they lifted the thin Battered, bloodied corps of the little urchin Pupil of Budapest. Into a rough-hewn untrimmed box, made of wood, They placed his broken body, best way they could, Laying gently to rest. With awkward and clumsy words - how else could they - With halting, stumbling tongues they tried to convey His �great heroic� act To his mother. Standing there stiff and subdued, Her grieving soul with anguish deeply imbued, She just could not react. �He stood on the barricades, steadfast, erect, Reflections of red flames that raptures elect Painted over his face. His back firmly set against a crumbling wall, Wild Angels of Death on the street he would call, With rage and deadly grace. Falsehoods and gross lies his staple diet had been, Distorted truth, that's all he had ever seen, All he would ever know. Now was the time, at last, to dispel the lie, What did it matter who would live, who would die, Ugly death he would sow. When the "On Your Feet Magyar" * called him to act, He grabbed a machinegun wildly to react� He would stand up and fight. Fervent wind of freedom gripped hold of his heart, His soul lifted up and like a golden dart To the sky it took flight. He stood on the barricades, steadfast, erect, Reflections of red flames that raptures elect Painted over his face. His back firmly set against a crumbling wall, Wild Angels of Death on the street he would call� �. And they flew in his face� Little black holes, pierced through the wall of his chest, Now abruptly ended the "heroic" quest� �And instead Of gloriously mad Ecstasy, Surprise and dread Settled On his face� �His lips cold� �Eyes glazed� �Ice-cold�. �Dead� In front of him towered a burned out tank's shell, Conjuring visions of dark deeds of black hell; A dark shadow of gloom� On it stiff carcass of young Russian soldier, Lying as if stuck by gleeful Death's solder� A stark echo of doom� As he sat there, his final breath to expel, - Little red rivulets onto the pavement fell - His eyes so sadly glazed, Could life�s wisdom become apparent to him, Whilst the setting red sun through the veiled and dim Sky so painfully blazed? Maybe if he could just one last act perform, Defying conventions, defying the norm, He would stand up and say To the Russian lad in trembling wistful moan: "Get up my dear young friend, your death I bemoan; This really isn't the way! Your parents, your kin and multitude of friend Wouldn�t wish your life ingloriously to end� And nor my parents would Want me to be buried in an unmarked grave. Life to me my mother not for this she gave, And nor she ever could"� But alas!� Sad fate� this is the bitter end� No hope of respite, no hope of helping hand� �Stop at the end of line Writ in cold bullet... History's cruel joke Ended his short life and lifted off his yoke... His bones covered with lime� Illusions of liberty blindly beacon, Clouding judgment, hiding truth, hiding the con� All just futile promise� His young immature life, his entire being Bled for an illusion of new beginning... What was the new premise?� �. On dull, grey, smog covered banks, marshy quicksand Of rapid rivers of blood, carved crosses and In wombs of open graves Young pupils� carcasses rot� Air reeks with stench� Vultures in the clouds, circling above the trench, Eying all the dead �braves�. They all descended, believing in their right And millions more are lining up for new fight, For a vain illusion� Empty open graves, in disorganised rows, Eagerly await where river of blood roars� What endless delusion! In unmarked mass grave a young lad�s body rest� I remember that student of strife torn Pest� A memory to keep� As I remember I feel the need to cry And also for future generations I Stand quietly and weep� � Peter Oszmann (1966 - in Hungarian. Translation 2002. Revised 2003. Reworked & final revision February 2004.) � Illustration: Photograph of original Oil Painting. (1967) Reduced in Photoshop (2004) * �Talpra Magyar hiv a haza!� = �On your Feet Magyar, your country calls you!� The opening lines of the �Nemzeti Dal� (National Song) written by S�ndor Pet�fi the revolutionary poet of the 1848 Hungarian Uprising against the Habsburgs. Footnotes: For a fuller explanation of the historical background and about the birth, development and transfiguration of this poem for over a period of some forty years, please read the article �The Death of a Pupil (Budapest 1956); The birth, development and transfiguration of a poem based on historical events�, posted here simultaneously at AD amongst my articles, if you are interested. A brief summary is given below. On the 23^rd of October 1956 the students of Budapest demonstrated on the streets for freedom from Soviet style tyranny. My wife, Erika and I - final year Dental Students at the Medical Faculty of the University of Budapest - were amongst the marchers. Later that evening the State Security Police (AVH or AVO) opened fire on unarmed demonstrators outside the Radio Building and a day of peaceful, good-natured demonstration turned into a desperate, bloody and ultimately futile and tragic insurrection. An estimated 20,000 Hungarian and thousands of Russian lives were lost in the ensuing battles. Over two hundred thousand Hungarians � Erika and I amongst them - subsequently fled from their native land. Freedom from Soviet tyranny came only after the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union. The original of this poem was written in 1966 - in Hungarian - in memory of all those fallen in the Uprising of 1956. That version was written in free rhyming verse. I posted the first English version here in 2002 and a very slightly revised version in 2003. Both of those versions were also in free rhyming verse. I was never fully satisfied with the result, either in Hungarian or in English, hence the revisions. I cannot say that I am fully satisfied with the final result, but I now � reluctantly � accept my limitations. I am posting the poem here again - for the third and final time � dedicated, in humble reverence, to the memory of all those who lost their lives in Budapest in 1956, and also in remembrance of all innocent lives lost in, or as a consequence of battles anywhere in the world, past, present� and future� Revised for the 50th Anniversary of the Revolution. It had been brought to my attention that an earlier version of this poem under the title: "The Little Urchin Pupil of Pest" was chosen to be included in the official program of the 50th Anniversary Celebration of the Hungarian Society of Victoria B.C.

Reviewed by Mitzi Jackson

Reviewed on November 18, 2004

This is a brillant testament, testamony to the horrific tradgedies that war of any kind brings forth.....I am one that beliefs that confrontations are the way to freedom, but it takes honesty and good nature to up hold....I do not beleive in war, nor do i believe in oppression...so what is the answer?

this history with all it's brutal ways sadly will and have and do repeats itself how? why? because respect will never be givin' when there is such hungers as power and greed equality is only a word ppl use to makes things sound good it is not a true desire in ppl hearts, ppl will always want to be better than others, be held above others and praised...your poem is excellent in it's message and nature

your right many more needs to read it has touched me greatly
thank you

Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen

Reviewed on November 3, 2004

I am ... enchained, Peter. You've looped me with your memories, your words, your life that was lost. You've (I was going to say killed, but that isn't right...) 'opened' that part of my mind that takes in this kind of pain even further. It is not a pleasant feeling, to know such horror in sickness of mind lives in Mankind. I see no limitations, Peter, only a lack of being 'opened' to evil that may prevent your satisfaction, to being able to portray that which you are not... It is an exquisite and important piece, relative to us, to them, to the tears of Humanity. To the pain of being. I wonder, a lot, how suffering can be so single-minded, not caring of victims, only needing them. Is it an entity, Pain? Is it only on Earth?

I am struck with a startling unease with this phrase:

"wombs of open graves"

Such a vivid and 'wrong-feeling' image...

Reviewed by A PAX

Reviewed on November 2, 2004

Hello Peter
I do hope you are feeling better, you seem to be a survivor :)

God bless you.

In the future, please do not ask me to read poetry on the subject of war....its too close to home. I sent you a message telling you my son was in the Middle East as a Marine, and as a courtesy, I said I would read your poem later on.......but I feel that you could have extended the same civility to me....and warned me the exact content of your write....

I read the whole thing thru......

I am upset with you.......

thanks alot............

Reviewed by Kay P Devenish

Reviewed on October 26, 2004

Dear Peter,
This excellent poetry is oh so real and so true too,it makes me feel like crying as well.War is so painful to all but especially
to mothers.What a waste of life it is.
Great work Peter!
Also...wow! your painting is awesome!I love it.
Best wishes always to you and yours
from
kay.

Reviewed by Kate Clifford (Reader)

Reviewed on October 25, 2004

The truth weaved throughout your poem I believe will touch a soul and save it. War is what it is. WAR. there is no glory in killing. This is a rare gem you have shared with us. I am glad you have spoken.

Reviewed by Sue Hess

Reviewed on October 25, 2004

this is exceptionally written, thank you for pointing it out to me, i wouldn't have missed it for the world

Reviewed by Retta (Reindeer) Mckenzie

Reviewed on October 25, 2004

This is indeed a powerful and necessary message to everyone. It is a horrifying thing to have witnessed, but your poem here will bear that witness forever. I am at a loss for words. outstanding and raw emotion in this poem.

Reindeer

Reviewed by Ch'erie de Perrot

Reviewed on October 25, 2004

Peter,
Reading your work, your story in rhyme, made me feel as though I were right there in the crowd, witnessing the event, Its that powerful!!

So my review of this masterfully written piece is so simple, you saw, you felt, you lived, you breathed, you survived, to share, and that my friend is something you have done to perfection, despite the pain involved in the process.
Bravo, Glad to of reviewed you and met you in here at last.
Kindest Regards
Ch'erie

Reviewed by Leland Waldrip

Reviewed on October 24, 2004

Peter, your art and poetry are both a powerful indictment of war. This was painful to write I'm sure, but so well done that it brings that pain and emptiness to the reader like an explosion. Here's to the hope that war becomes obsolete.
Best regards,
Leland

Reviewed by Ed Matlack

Reviewed on October 24, 2004

Firstly, Peter, I read everything I see of your works, so no letter or note or apology is necessary...I will do so as long as I can read and you can write...

Secondly, I do not see any limitations you have to accept, short of tears being hard to write through, as this piece brought tears to my eyes just from the title...

Thirdly, I find myself awed herein, I find, beyond the above, the lack of ability to find words to describe the pain that I have read of herein and my own pain dealing with the imagery you have evoked...

This was and is a powerful statement of what is essentially a war, as all wars are terrible and costly and they should be outlawed worldwide...I hope you can find personal peace and that your surgery on Monday goes well...Sincerely, Ed & Rufuz

Reviewed by Lisa Hilbers

Reviewed on October 24, 2004

Peter, The devastation is more than obvious in both painting and poem.
Just the thought of being faced with such an event would have been terrifying and heartbreaking as you had to watch while many fell. One can understand your stand on war, we all hold a place within us, filled with the hopes for peace.
It seems dreams go unanswered time and time again, when uprisings occur and lives are lost. Blood of youth pour out, but it's never enough to quench the thirst of the insurgents that demand their drink.
History repeats, like a scratched up record, hanging on the part where man closes his bloodshot eyes to tragedy. And again lives are plowed through like fields ready for harvest. While the tears fall from the cheeks of loved ones grieving in sorrow, somewhere around the globe, another shot is fired and another tear will fall, and the eyes of man will remain closed.
I feel your pain, your anguish and your torment...and I thank you for sharing it all with the rest of us.
I pray for your quick recovery and your return to the halls of AD.

Lisa

Reviewed by Edwin Larson

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

I read this three times in a row and I will read it again....Your painting and your words each provide a human percpective to this tragedy that is highly visual and emotional...excellent piece(s)both..

EDL

Reviewed by Nancy D.

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Peter,
Thank you for sending me this message, I have been away for awhile, since the death of my mother. You are a true friend to keep in touch with me. Outstanding sums up my thoughts on this poem. The picture alone says so much. It's heartbreaking.

Your in my prayers for your surgery, please keep in touch, I miss you as well as many others here on AD. When I get some time I will be checking in on your work. Take care and many blessings for your recovery and hurry back. Love Nancy

Reviewed by Michelle Kidwell Power In The Pen

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Peter, ty for sharing this here, it is the first time I have read this and am deeply touched. This must have been horrifying, and may everything go well with you...
God Bless
Michelle~

Reviewed by Nordette Adams

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Peter, thank you kindly for sharing this moving, provocative write with all of us at AuthorsDen and others who will drop by the site. It needs to be heard. Never hesitate to send out a broadcast. We want to hear from you, and do get well quickly.
Nordette

Reviewed by Sara Coslett

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

I realize it it is easy for people who have never lived under the threat of war, let alone having fought in a war, to let others fight their battles. I realize that when the wars that rage on around the world are far from one's home it makes it easy to allow that war to go on.

Peter we all wish for peace. Well almost all of us. But I am sure you know that there are many on this planet who actually enjoy the never ending conflict. What should we do with them? Allow them to continue raising hell, in their own particular sadistic way?

There are no easy answers. Unfortunately when it comes to armed conflict people on both sides die an untimely and horrible death.

I dream of peace. It frightens me what others dream of.

Take care. I wish you a speedy recovery. Come back soon with renewed vigor.

~ Sara

Reviewed by Amira van Kerk (Reader)

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Dear Peter,
thanks alot for your message and letting me know about this new poem you posted.
It is excellent, though sad. We can only read and try to understand, though we probably won't. We cannot feel what somebody felt who was amongst those people. It was another tragedy, another black moment in history.
Will it ever end?
I don't think so. The madness goes on...
Sorry to hear that you are in hospital. Will hard times ever slow down for you? I 'll be thinking of you and wish you a quick recovery. Pls let me know once you are home again.
Love
Amira

Reviewed by Ronald Hull

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Your painting shows how grim, your poem, how futile, armed conflict is for both sides. There is no glory in in early, brutal death. In War's End, I write for a kinder, gentler approach. Hope that yuou come out of your surgery with a renewed zest to write.

In the fall of 1956, we had some new students who were rapidly learning English but welcome to our school, nonetheless. They were the lucky ones, the pupils who got to finish their studies free from tyranny.

Ron

Reviewed by Lori Moore

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Thanks for this. The message needs to be heard. Excellent.

Reviewed by Katy Walsvik (Reader)

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

First, Peter, not a moment of apology for sending me the note to come and read this, for I am humbled and honored that you did so.

The poetry, itself, is profound and beautifully composed. The painting is amazingly sensitive and human.

I could feel myself begin to slow, internally, and as I read, wanting to miss nothing... needing, somehow to take it all in, appalled and drawn in all at once. It is an internalizing piece, graphic, yet above the meaning of that word. It drew me in, I could feel my rage, my fury escalating... but, in the end, it was the utter feeling of emptiness, a hollow feeling that, once begun, this was never going to end any other way. The indignity of the mass graves left me tingling...

I sit here, running out of words, yet filled with them, but not able to bring them out in a meaningful way. Is it appropriate to say thank you for inviting me to read this? I do thank you. If nothing else, it makes vividly clear that even in a mundane, ordinary day or life, there is much to celebrate, if only because of the contrast to this horror here. I'm so glad you survived it to tell us. That, and not our history books, is where the truth is.

I wish you a speedy recovery in your hospital bed. Thank you, Peter... for bringing my life into view, and sharing this most painful experience. Change nothing, is my advice. It is, in all its pain and horror, so moving. Take good care... katy xox.

Reviewed by E T Waldron

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

This poem is an outstanding condemnation of war, and the horrific toll it takes on all who must engage in it.War is hell and I pray it won't happen, hoever, it takes two sides to make war. Though we may want it to end the other side may have a different idea.

This poem deserves to be published and read by the multitudes. It is powerful and beautifully composed! However, it won't make terrorists stop what they have sworn to do! Destroy all infidels like you and me!

I will pray you have succesful surgery and a quick and full recovery!
Eileen

Reviewed by Sandie May Joyce (Sandie Angel)

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

Much sadness and heartfelt write, Peter. Very descriptive of feelings and event for some of us who had never been to any wars. This was horrific.

A well-expressed poem.

Sandie May Angel :o(

Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

stunning painting and poem; powerful stuff! well done, peter!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in america, karen lynn. :( >tears <

Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner

Reviewed on October 23, 2004

(((peter)))

an exceptionally painful lesson from the horror of war, this poem is a tearful tribute to those lives lost--innocent students!--thank you for paying homage to their memory. they have not died in vain.

(((HUGS))) and love, karla. :(

In Memoriam. (23 October � 4 November 1956.)