A Teacher
Postcards of Memory (4) May
"Fragrance passing through the terrace, / our old apple-tree has come to bloom..." Every spring I remember this poem. Here in Nishi-Eifuku, while looking at cherry blossoms, I also see a garden in Debrecen with fruit trees. They look like beautiful brides, honey-bees flying around them. The image reminds me that wherever I live - right here or over there - home does exist and revival does exist.
The poet Kiss Tamas, my high-school teacher of Hungarian literature looked old to us, as his face wrinkled early and densely. He was told to be a kind teacher with a philosophy that "literature is recreation for our heart". I never heard these exact words from his mouth, though. What did I learn from him? I have absorbed all those many lessons, and today, after more then three decades I wouldn't be able to recall what he told us about The Odyssey, which we studied thorougly; about his favourite poets or even about Csokonai, on whom he wrote a novel.
I remember one sentence by him clearly, from 1970. I can see exactly where he is standing in front of us and the way he glances through the classroom window at the sky. I can hear the echo of his emphasis vividly; his voice is warm and with an dynamism in it; it belongs to someone who is able to be surprised and is able to dream:
"They bring ... India!"
It makes me shiver that Kiss Tamas understands us. He knows why we are so excited about that band of the four Englishmen - the guys who traveled to Asia recently, who are even playing sitar in their music; the band who took inspiration from the East.
"Fragrance passing through the terrace, / our old apple-tree has come to bloom..." Every spring I remember this poem. Here in Nishi-Eifuku, while looking at cherry blossoms, I also see a garden in Debrecen with fruit trees. They look like beautiful brides, honey-bees flying around them. The image reminds me that wherever I live - right here or over there - home does exist and revival does exist.
The poet Kiss Tamas, my high-school teacher of Hungarian literature looked old to us, as his face wrinkled early and densely. He was told to be a kind teacher with a philosophy that "literature is recreation for our heart". I never heard these exact words from his mouth, though. What did I learn from him? I have absorbed all those many lessons, and today, after more then three decades I wouldn't be able to recall what he told us about The Odyssey, which we studied thorougly; about his favourite poets or even about Csokonai, on whom he wrote a novel.
I remember one sentence by him clearly, from 1970. I can see exactly where he is standing in front of us and the way he glances through the classroom window at the sky. I can hear the echo of his emphasis vividly; his voice is warm and with an dynamism in it; it belongs to someone who is able to be surprised and is able to dream:
"They bring ... India!"
It makes me shiver that Kiss Tamas understands us. He knows why we are so excited about that band of the four Englishmen - the guys who traveled to Asia recently, who are even playing sitar in their music; the band who took inspiration from the East.
posted by bm at 10:09 AM
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