The
most famous Molvanîan poet is, of course, the acclaimed Bratislav Demko
(1734-1789). A peasant by birth, he wrote plays, novels, and satiric verse. His
most famous work was Gorzenmko ur Turj ('My Beating Heart'),
twelve volumes of densely allegorical, highly-stylized verse depicting the
fortunes of a working class Molvanîan family. It has been described by scholars
as one of the most significant works of literature never read.
Demko’s birthday, 13 January, is often celebrated with suppers and poetry readings, most of which emphasize Demko’s nationalism and frequent toasting with homemade brandy. Demko suppers rarely follow any set program, as either vomiting or fighting usually dominates the festivities long before any actual poetry is read out loud.
Demko was born in Gyrorik, Molvanîa. It was once a dreary rural village but is now a dreary industrial city, perhaps best known for having the oldest nuclear reactor still in use in Europe. In the centre of Gyrorik, in St Pankreas Square, stands a statue of the beloved bard. Demko is depicted in a typical pose – with his pants around his ankles, a bottle of brandy in one hand and a gypsy boy in the other.
The modest cottage of Demko’s birth was preserved for many years but was lost to fire in 1951, when it was rebuilt in concrete to match the rest of the city. A well-vaccinated traveller could easily spend a day here: an hour or two touring the exhibits and the rest of the day queuing for the museum’s only toilet, which is immensely popular among tourists and locals alike, in that it actually works.
Some of Demko’s least unpopular poems:
But the fleet hours pass pitilessly fleeter,
Or where, half-sadly warbling as it went,
Like a boy-poet’s happy discontent.
The stiff wain creaks ‘neath the nodding wheat;
Flit, yaffel, flit from tree to tree.
The babe is hushed on its mother’s teat,
And the acorn drops at your dreaming feet,
Flit, yaffel, flit from tree to tree.
The wimpering winds have lost their way,
Scream, yaffel, scream from tree to tree.
The flocks of the wand’ring waves
I hold In the hollows of my hand
And I let them loose, like a huddled fold,
And with them I flood the land.
Til they swirl round villages, hamlets, thorpes,
As the cottagers flee for life:
Then I fling the fisherman’s flaccid corpse
At the feet of the fisherman’s wife.
Alas! Molvanîa! Molvanîa! Fair land of my birth,
Thy fame will be wafted from the mountain to the sea
As being the greatest goat-rearing nation on earth
At the cost of men’s blood thro’ thy garlic brandy.
An academy of animal husbandry thou hast lately built
Where thy beautiful and enchanting boys are invited to come
And learn to be physically fit and mentally strong
And learn the wonders of a fine goat.
Farewell O Visitor to our beloved Molvanîa
Soil as much enriched by you standing on it
As you enriched by having it ‘neath your
Travelling shoe.
Though we part as friends most true
Next time we meet may be in battle
And we shall shed each other’s blood
And slit each other’s throat.
Indeed, our sons will hate each other
As is the way of God and Nature
Just as the Sun despises the Moon
And the Donkey his Ears.
But let us now drink a toast
And wish each other well
Though I place a curse on you and your family
For all eternity.
