German Poetry

[stlukesguild]

As with the initial posting on the "French Symbolism" thread I am making a concerted effort here to address a perceived shortcoming... the lack of any serious exploration of poetry beyond that written in the English language (impressive as that body of poetry may be) and especially limited to the figures of English Romanticism as represented by the 6 "greats" (Blake, Byron, Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Coleridge). Again... my attempt is not to undermine their worth, but to suggest that certainly there are other "movements" or "periods" of poetic achievement that are of equal merit and worthy of examination. My love... obsession with poetry was profoundly marked by my personal discovery of the French "Symbolists". On the other hand, I have also made more than a few forays into the realm of German poetry... partially, perhaps, in response to my own German heritage... but also because I had the advantage of having studied German in high-school (most of which I have completely forgotten... although I might be able to force my way through a simpler work with the aid of a good dictionary). I might also claim that a large part of my interest stems from my love of classical music and the lieder of Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Wolf, Strauss, etc... who masterfully set the works of any number of great German poets. Schiller, Goethe, Novalis, Hölderlin, Mörike, Heinrich Heine, Georg Trakl, Rilke, Hermann Hesse (as poet), Bertolt Brecht (as poet), Ingeborg Bachmann, paul Celan, Hans Magnus Enzenberger are all among the great poets... and yet Rilke and Goethe seem to be the only figures mentioned from time to time... and with Goethe this is commonly in reference to Faust or The Sorrows of Young Werther. So here I offer a chance to explore something beyond the usual "canon" of which JBI so rightfully complains... (yet without, admittedly, any reference to Canada:D)

***********************

Goethe is undoubtedly on of the giants of Western literature. He ranks with Shakespeare, Homer, Tolstoy, Dante, and the like. His poetry, however, has rarely been so well translated as to truly sing in English. The simple ballads of Heine have been repeatedly translated well... as have been the difficult poems of Friedrich Hölderlin. Goethe, however, has always involved something of a game of picking through the mediocre translations for something that the suggests the leat bit of a truly great poet. Among my favorite poems by Goethe I would include Another Night Song:

Another Night Song

O'er all the hill tops
Is quiet now
In all the tree tops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees;
Wait, soon like these
Thou, too shall rest.

-tr. Longfellow

Ein Gleiches

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum ein Hausch;
Die Völgelein scweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Rühest du auch.

The sound of the German conveys something of a hush and perhaps the slight rustling of leaves better than the translation... but again what translation can begin to capture all of the original?

Another favorite is Gretchen at the Spinningwheel (from Urfaust)

Meine Ruh ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.
Wo ich ihn nicht hab,
Ist mir das Grab,
Die ganze Welt
Ist mir vergällt.

Mein armer Kopf
Ist mir verrückt,
Mein aremer Sinn
Ist mir zerstückt.

Nach ihm nur schau ich
Zum Fenster hinaus,
Nach ihm nur geh ich
Aus dem Haus.

Sein hoher Gang,
Sein' edle Gestalt,
Seines Mundes Lächeln,
Seiner Augen Gewalt,

Und seiner Rede
Zauberfluss,
Sein Händedruck,
Und ach, sein Kuss.

Mein Busen drängt
Sich nach ihm hin.
Auch dürf ich fassen
Und halten ihn,

Und küssen ihn,
So wie ich wollt,
An seinen Küssen
Vergehen sollt!

***

No peace of mind
Heartache and pain,
No peace I find
Ever again.

Where he is not
For me to have
Is a bitter spot,
For me a grave.

Poor head of mine
Turned upside down
Poor heart of mine
Is torn to shreds

No peace of mind
Heartache and pain,
No peace I find
Ever again.

Go to the window
Only to see
Or out of doors
If there he be.

His gracious figure,
Lofty walk,
His mouth, the smile!
That piercing look.

And speech that flows
With sorceries,
His hand, a touch,
And ah! his kiss!...

excerpted from tr. Christopher Middleton

Perhaps a better "translation", however, would be that made by Frans Schubert. With a little bit of German one can easily pick up on far more of what this poem is about from Schubert's lied... One can especially catch the rhythm of Gretchen singing as she nods to her labors on the spinning wheel... and catch her passion:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MY0eeotSDi8

I remember coming upon an article discussing German culture (was it Borges?) in which the author suggested that the Germans had little need for the literature of the novel and Romantic poetry... after all they had such music. It leads to some interesting questions outside of the scope of this thread regarding how a national culture or tradition is passed down. Virtually all we think and know of the Egyptians is owed to their achievements in the visual arts. In spite of Dante and Petrarch and Boccaccio and even JBI's beloved Leopardi, the literature of Italy is nothing in comparison to its painting, sculpture, and music. Britain is quite the opposite (at least until recently) having but few giants in music or art... but such a wealth in literature.

But back to German poetry...

Any favorites?

[Barbarous]

I agree with you when you say Rilke and Goethe are some of the most enduring and everyone's favorite when it comes to German poetry, and I am no different. I enjoy Goethe's simpler poetry and 'Der Zauberlehrling' (The Sorcerer's Apprentice) and Rilke's Duino Elegies are astounding, though I feel the translation I read lacked alot of what the orignal consisted of. Only another reason to learn German!

I have heard wonderful things about the other poets you've mention such as Heinrich Heine and Hölderlin, though I've read little of either. Hopefully ze fellow lit-netters can provide! This is the start of a great thread.

[stlukesguild]

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2565/3854391485_5dc4e2bd08_o.jpg

Another favorite... that I may have grasped and appreciated through my ability to read it (with a degree of struggle) in the original German and through another of Schubert's "translations" is The Erlking or Der Erlkönig. A true "sturm und drang" bit of German Romanticism complete with supernatural, ghostly overtones... various encyclopedic entries state that the poem is perhaps as well known among the German-speaking populace as something like Blake's Tyger:

Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind?
Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind.
Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm,
Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm.

Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?
Siehst Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht!
Den Erlenkönig mit Kron' und Schweif?
Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.

Du liebes Kind, komm geh' mit mir!
Gar schöne Spiele, spiel ich mit dir,
Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand,
Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht,
Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht?
Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind,
In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.

Willst feiner Knabe du mit mir geh'n?
Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön,
Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn
Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.

Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort
Erlkönigs Töchter am düsteren Ort?
Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh'es genau:
Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.

Ich lieb dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt,
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!
Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an,
Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan.

Dem Vater grauset's, er reitet geschwind,
Er hält in den Armen das ächzende Kind,
Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not,
In seinen Armen das Kind war tot.

*******

O who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?
It is the fond father embracing his child;
And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?"
"O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud."
"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

"O come and go with me, thou loveliest child;
By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for theee many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy."

"O father, my father, and did you not hear
The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?"
"Be still, my heart's darling--my child, be at ease;
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' the trees."

"O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy?
My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy;
She shall bear three so lightlyt thro' wet and thro' wild,
And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child."

"O father, my father, and saw you not plain
The Erl-King's pale daughter glide past thro' the rain?"
"Oh yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon;
It was the grey willow that danced to the moon."

"O come and go with me, no longer delay,
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away."
"O father! O father! now, now, keep your hold,
The Erl-King has seized me--his grasp is so cold!"

Sore trembled the father; he spurr'd thro' the wild,
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child;
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread,
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was dead.

-tr. Sir Walter Scott

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?"
"Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?"
"My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
Full many a game I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?"
"Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care.
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?"
"My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
"My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

-tr. Edgar Alfred Bowring, 1853

The poem was perfectly suited for a dramatic treatment and was repeatedly set to music during the Romantic era. Beethoven even began an attempt, but abandoned it. Still... one almost wishes it had been given an orchestral for (perhaps by someone like Liszt, Berlioz, Richard Strauss, or Mahler) with four different voices... one each for the narrator, the father, the child, and the Erlking. Still Schubert does convey these varying voices well through an economy of means with just a single voice and piano-

The incomparable Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XP5RP6OEJI

and here is an actual orchestral transcription with the ever wonderful Anne Sophie von Otter:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdhRYMY6IEc

And Carl Lowe's setting of the poem... a contemporary of Schubert:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6v6xt981S6Q

There are some other "unique" takes on Goethe's poem:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NwAsySSnN24

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fY3PkEHlZNA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idBZPteNJxs

[Madame X]

Continuing with the theme of unsettling atmospheres; a little something by Trakl. I attempted the translation myself so that I could include the poem in its entirety, not sure of its success but, suggestions always welcome. :thumbs_up

Das Herz

Das wilde Herz ward weiß am Wald;
O dunkle Angst
Des Todes, so das Gold
In grauer Wolke starb.
Novemberabend.
Am kahlen Tor am Schlachthaus stand
Der armen Frauen Schar;
In jeden Korb
Fiel faules Fleisch und Eingeweid;
Verfluchte Kost!

Des Abends blaue Taube
Brachte nicht Versöhnung.
Dunkler Trompetenruf
Durchfuhr der Ulmen
Nasses Goldlaub,
Eine zerfetzte Fahne
Vom Blute rauchend,
Daß in wilder Schwermut
Hinlauscht ein Mann.
O! ihr ehernen Zeiten
Begraben dort im Abendrot.

Aus dunklem Hausflur trat
Die goldne Gestalt
Der Jünglingin
Umgeben von bleichen Monden,
Herbstlicher Hofstaat,
Zerknickten schwarze Tannen
Im Nachtsturm,
Die steile Festung.
O Herz
Hinüberschimmernd in schneeige Kühle.

The Heart

The wild heart turned white in the forest;
O dark fear
Of death, as the gold
In the grey cloud died.
November evening.
In the bleak gate of the slaughterhouse stood
A flock of needy women;
Into every basket fell
Rotten meat and entrails;
Repulsive food!

The blue dove of the evening
Brought no conciliation.
The dark trumpet-call
Travelled through the fresh
Golden foliage of the elms,
A tattered flag
Smoking with blood
To which a man listens
With wild anguish
O! your honourable days all
Buried there in the red evening.

Out of the dark corridor steps
The golden figure
Of a young girl
Surrounded by the pale moon,
Autumnal court,
Black fir trees snapped
In the night-storm,
The steep fortress.
O heart
Glimmering above the snowy chill.

[quasimodo1]

'Once there were gods'

Once there were gods, on earth, with people, the heavenly muses
And Apollo, the youth, healing, inspiring, like you.
And you are like them to me, as though one of the blessed
Sent me out into life where I go my comrade's
Image goes with me wherever I suffer and build, with love
Unto death; for I learned this and have this from her.

Let us live, oh you who are with me in sorrow, with me in faith
And heart and loyalty struggling for better times!
For such we are! And if ever in the coming years they knew
Of us two when the spirit matters again
They would say: lovers in those days, alone, they created
Their secret world that only the gods knew. For who
Cares only for things that will die the earth will have them, but
Nearer the light, into the clarities come
Those keeping faith with the heart's love and holy spirit who were
Hopeful, patient, still, and got the better of fate.

[quasimodo1]

Conviction
by Friedrich Holderlin
(1770 - 1843) Timeline

English version by
Michael Hamburger





Like the bright day that shines on humankind
And with a light of heavenly origin
All things obscure and various gathers in,
Is knowledge, deeply granted to the mind.

[quasimodo1]

Die Verschwundenen/THE VANISHED

For Nelly Sachs

It wasn't the earth that swallowed them. Was it the air?
Numerous as the sand, they did not become
sand, but came to naught instead. They've been forgotten
in droves. Often, and hand in hand,


like minutes. More than us,
but without memorials. Not registered,
not cipherable from dust, but vanished—
their names, spoons, and footsoles.


They don't make us sorry. Nobody
can remember them: Were they born,
did they flee, have they died? They were
not missed. The world is airtight
yet held together
by what it does not house,
by the vanished. They are everywhere. ... {excerpt}


* * *



Für Nelly Sachs


Nicht die Erde hat sie verschluckt. War es die Luft?
Wie der Sand sind sie zahireich, doch nicht zu Sand
sind sie geworden, sondern zu nichte. In Scharen
sind sie vergessen. Häufig und Hand in Hand,


wie die Minuten. Mehr als wir,
doch ohne Andenken. Nicht verzeichnet,
nicht abzulesen im Staub, sondern verschwunden
sind ihre Namen, Löffel und Sohlen.


Sie reuen uns nicht. Es kann sich niemand
auf sie besinnen: Sind sie geboren,
geflohen, gestorben? Vermißt
sind sie nicht worden. Lückenlos
ist die Welt, doch zusammengehalten
von dem was sie nicht behaust,
von den Verschwundenen. Sie sind überall. ...

[stlukesguild]

Quasi... thanks for keeping the thread alive. I plan on posting a bit more myself once I get over the chaos of these first few weeks of back to teaching.:sick:

[quasimodo1]

lesson plans... what a nightmare.

[stlukesguild]

Worse yet: meetings... and class rosters that change daily... and at least 3 classes with a student population of 40+. I'm gonna end up drinking after work.:eek2:

[quasimodo1]

Now the journey is ending,
the wind is losing heart.
Into your hands it's falling,
a rickety house of cards.

The cards are backed with pictures
displaying all the world.
You've stacked up all the images
and shuffled them with words.

And how profound the playing
that once again begins!
Stay, the card you're drawing
is the only world you'll win.

[JBI]

It's kind of funny actually, the translation in your link, in Chinese, for the Fischer Dieskau Earl King is Magic king :p - I found that kind of interesting.

[Nietzsche]

Grüezi mitenand.. I myself was actually going to make a thread of German poetry, before seeing this one.

Eduard Mörike, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, and Gottfried Benn I am particularly fond of.

Eduard Mörike
Um Mitternacht
Auf Hochdeutsch

Gelassen stieg die Nacht an Land,
lehnt träumend an der Berge Wand;
ihr Auge sieht die goldne Waage nun
der Zeit in gleichen Schalen stille ruhn.
Und kecker rauschen die Quellen hervor,
sie singen der Mutter, der Nacht, ins Ohr
vom Tage,
vom heute gewesenen Tage.

Das uralt alte Schlummerlied -
sie achtet's nicht, sie ist es müd;
ihr klingt des Himmels Bläue süßer noch,
der flücht'gen Stunden gleichgeschwungnes Joch.
Doch immer behalten die Quellen das Wort,
es singen die Wasser im Schlafe noch fort
vom Tage,
vom heute gewesenen Tage.

Um Mitternacht Auf Englisch
Calmly the night has disembarked. She leans dreaming against the wall of hills, her eye sees the golden scales of time at rest in even balance, and the streams come forth more boldy with their purling, they sing into the ear of their mother night about the day, the day that is over today.

The ancient vunerable lullaby, she does not heed it, she is tired of it : the blue of the sky sounds sweeter to her, the evenly curvved yoke of the fleeting hours. But the streams are still talking, they go on singing in their sleep about the day, the day that is over today.


Johann Peter Hebels
Auf den Tod eines Zecher


Do hen si mer e Ma vergrabe,
's isch schad für sini bsundre Gabe.
Gang, wo de witt, such no so ein!
Sel isch verbey, de findsch mer kein.

Er isch e Himmelsg'lehrte gsi.
In alle Dörfere her und hi
se het er gluegt vo Hus zu Hus,
hangt nienen echt e Sternen us?

Er isch e freche Ritter gsi.
In alle Dörfere her und hi
se het er g'frogt enanderno:
"Sin Leuen oder Bäre do?"

Ne gute Christ, sel isch er gsi.
In alle Dörfere her und hi
se het er unter Tags und z'Nacht
zum Chrüz sy stille Bußgang g'macht.

Si Namen isch in Stadt und Land
by große Here wohl bikannt.
Si allerliebsti Cumpanie
sin alliwil d' drei Künig gsi.
Jez schloft er un weiß nüt dervo,
es chunnt e Zit, gohts alle so.

Auf der Tod eines Zecher auf Englisch
We have just buried a man. It was a shame about his gifts: go where you will, you shall not see his like again.
He knew all about the skies. Up and down all the villages he would say "Has anyone seen any sign of a star?
He was a brave knight too. Up and down all the villages he would say "Has anyone seen any sign of a Bear or a Lion?"
And a good Christian. Up and down all the villages he could be seen making his daily and nightly pilgrimage to the Cross.
He was well connected with the gentry, both in town and country. The Three Kings were his favourite company.
Now he's dead and oblivious to all that. One day we will all be like him.



Conrad Ferdinand Meyer
Lethe


Jüngst im Traume sah ich auf den Fluten
einen Nachen ohne Ruder ziehn,
Strom und Himmel stand in matten Gluten
wie bei Tages Nahen oder Fliehn.

Sassen Knaben drin mit Lotoskränzen,
Mädchen beugten über Bord sich schlank,
kreisend durch die Reihe sah ich glänzen
eine Schale, draus ein jedes trank.

Jetzt erscholl ein Lied voll süsser Wehmut,
das di Schar der Kranzgenossen sang--
ich erkannte deines Nackens Demut,
deine Stimme, die den Chor durchdrang.

In die Welle taucht' ich. Bis zum Marke
schaudert' ich, wie seltsam kühl sie war.
Ich erreicht' die leise ziehne Barke,
drängte mich in di geweihte Schar.

Und die Reihe war an dir, zu trinken,
und die volle Schale hobest du,
sprachst zu mir mit trautem Augenwinken:
"Herz, ich trinke dir Vergessen zu!"

Dir entriss in trotz'gem Liebesdrange
ich die Schale, warf sie in die Flut,
sie versank, und siehe, deine Wange
färbte sich mit einem Schein von Blut.

Flehend küsst' ich dich in wildem Harme,
die den bleichen Munch mir willig bot,
da zerrannst du lächelnd mir im Arme
und ich wusst' es wieder-- du bist tot.

Lethe Auf Englisch

Recently in a dream I saw on the waters
a rowboat floating without oars,
the current and sky shone in dim embers
as when day is coming or flees away.

Boys sat in it with lotus-crowns,
slim girls leaned overboard,
circling through their ranks I saw
a gleaming bowl from which each one drank.

And now a song of sweet wistfulness pealed out
that the flock of crowned companions sang,
I recognized your bent neck,
your voice that rang through the choir.

I dived into the waves. It was so strangely cold
that I shivered to the core.
I reached the lightly gliding boat,
pushed myself into the consecrated troop,

and it was your turn to drink,
and you lifted the full bowl,
you spoke to me with trusting eyes,
"Dear heart, I drink to your forgetting!"

I ripped the bowl away from you
in a rage of defiant love, threw it into the water,
it sank, and see, your cheeks
colored with a flash of blood.

Pleading I kissed you in wild distress,
you gave me your pale mouth willingly,
then you melted away smiling in my arms
and I knew it again-- you are dead.

[NikolaiI]

'Once there were gods'

Once there were gods, on earth, with people, the heavenly muses
And Apollo, the youth, healing, inspiring, like you.
And you are like them to me, as though one of the blessed
Sent me out into life where I go my comrade's
Image goes with me wherever I suffer and build, with love
Unto death; for I learned this and have this from her.

Let us live, oh you who are with me in sorrow, with me in faith
And heart and loyalty struggling for better times!
For such we are! And if ever in the coming years they knew
Of us two when the spirit matters again
They would say: lovers in those days, alone, they created
Their secret world that only the gods knew. For who
Cares only for things that will die the earth will have them, but
Nearer the light, into the clarities come
Those keeping faith with the heart's love and holy spirit who were
Hopeful, patient, still, and got the better of fate.

This is beautiful!

[quasimodo1]

When I was a boy...



When I was a boy
a god would often rescue me
from the shouting and violence of humans.
Then, safe and well, I would play
with the meadow flowers,
and heaven's breezes
would play with me.



And as you delight the heart
of plants, stretching their tender
arms toward you,
Father Helios,
so you delighted my heart,
and I was your beloved,
holy Luna, just like Endymion!


All you faithful
friendly gods!
I wish you knew
how my soul loved you!


Naturally I couldn't call you
by name then, nor did you use
mine, as humans do, as if
they really knew each other.


But I was better acquainted with you
than I ever was with humans.
I knew the stillness of the Aether:
I never understood the words of men.


The euphony of the rustling
meadow was my education;
among flowers I learned to love.


I grew up
in the arms of the gods.

[Albion]

I like translating poems but am somewhat disappointed at the German literature. Not only does Germany not share the creativity that characterizes English or French literature, in particular novelists comparable to Jane Austen, George Eliot, Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, etc, but also lacks the lyrical poetry of Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Hugo (again) etc.

Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Eichendorff, for example, are very fine poets and have their moving love and death motives like any others; but are confined to relatively lame expressions in praise of nature and tend to contain a level of resignation or cynicism not found in such degree elsewhere.

I suspect this is a reflection of the lack of unification of Germany (amazingly not until 1871) and the consequent absorbing of many fine minds in the administration of numerous principalities as well as to the relatively landlocked geographical position of the country (particularly Austria) which tended to exclude world visions. Furthermore, they were probably unhappily aware that the world was passing them by in industrialization and world leadership, particularly illustrated in the defeats suffered in the earlier years of the Napoleonic wars, and sought consolation in introversion.
The German culture seems to glorify only what was available to them in their very fine scenery (much excelling that of Britain and encouraging very fine pastoral topics) and, later, the mores found in the unadventurous biedermeier society.

The Austro-German culture was, however, superb in transforming these works into wonderful lieder art songs unmatched by any other country and we will ever be indebted to Schubert, Schumann, Strauss and, to some extent, Beethoven and Mozart for them.
Elsewhere in this platform, I made a plea for the works of Richard Wagner to be understood as great poetry. He was a superb composer but his drama texts are often overlooked or even disdained. They are, however, also great art works in themselves: hours of poetic text full of dramatic and human themes with each drama occupying a different style.

I am sure we can still find good writing in Germany as elsewhere; but I regret that literature the world over is losing its nationalities and merging into a relative mediocrity where few lights now sparkle in the gloom.

[Madame X]

but I regret that literature the world over is losing its nationalities and merging into a relative mediocrity where few lights now sparkle in the gloom.

Writ as would a Teuton true. :)

[stlukesguild]

I like translating poems but am somewhat disappointed at the German literature. Not only does Germany not share the creativity that characterizes English or French literature, in particular novelists comparable to Jane Austen, George Eliot, Charles Dickens, Victor Hugo, etc, but also lacks the lyrical poetry of Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Hugo (again) etc.

Nonsense. I agree (and I think even Goethe would agree) that Germany came into literary maturity rather late (if we exclude medieval writings such as Parsival and the Nibelungenlied. On the other hand, one would be more than hard-pressed to name a literary equal to Goethe of the same era. I can't imagine a more inventive author. He is actually famous for rarely ever repeating himself. In prose he offers masterful examples of aphorisms, novellas, short stories, fairy tales/parables, the bildungromance, the novel, the travelogue, and the autobiography. Among his poetry we find almost every poetic form imaginable... including verse dramas... and then there's Faust I and II... those hybrids of true genius. And that's just Goethe!

Among others there's Novalis (a marvelously original voice), Schiller, Heine, E.T.A. Hoffmann, Buchner... Nietzsche, Freud, Kafka (can you think of a trio with a larger impact upon Modernist thinking?), Holderlin (who may have been the poet best served by translators (at least among older writers), Robert Walser, George Trakl, Frank Wedekind, Rilke (perhaps one of the two or three most translated of modern poets and certainly a towering figure among modern poetry), Thomas Mann, Hermann Hesse, Gunter Grass, Herman Broch, Max Frisch, Friederich Durrenmatt, Heinrich Boll, Ingeborg Bachmann, Paul Celan, etc... It would appear to me that German literature more than holds its own from the time of Lessing, Schiller and Goethe to the 20th century... and from that time forward it might be argued that German literature and German culture in general is among the most dominant.

Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Eichendorff, for example, are very fine poets and have their moving love and death motives like any others; but are confined to relatively lame expressions in praise of nature and tend to contain a level of resignation or cynicism not found in such degree elsewhere.

How so? How is the German praise of nature any more (or less) "lame" than that found in the writing of the Romantic poets of any European country? Novalis lame? Holderlin lame? If so then Shelley, Keats, and Wordsworth might be easily accused of the same. As for cynicism or resignation... how are they the sign of literary weakness? Is Nietzsche or Hesse or Mann or Heine really any more cynical than Sartre, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Leopardi, or even Oscar Wilde?

I suspect this is a reflection of the lack of unification of Germany (amazingly not until 1871) and the consequent absorbing of many fine minds in the administration of numerous principalities as well as to the relatively landlocked geographical position of the country (particularly Austria) which tended to exclude world visions.

The last point is intriguing... but it ignores the fact that Germany sits in a central position between Italy to the south, Russia and Eastern Europe to the east, France to the West, and the Netherlands and Britain to the North/Northwest. The influence of this influx of trade can be clearly seen not only in the literature, but in the art and architecture and the music. Music certainly more than challenges any notion of German provincialism. The German-speaking lands dominate music to an extent unequaled in art or literature: Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms, Haydn, Handel, Schubert, Wagner, Schumann, Richard Strauss, Mahler, etc...

Furthermore, they were probably unhappily aware that the world was passing them by in industrialization and world leadership, particularly illustrated in the defeats suffered in the earlier years of the Napoleonic wars, and sought consolation in introversion.

Perhaps... but then the Russian novel was born in a culture that was medieval by the standards of many European nations. They continued to rise to the greatest heights (Pasternak, Mayakovsky, Bulgakov, Gogol, Mandelstam, Kandinsky, Tsvetaeva, Prokofiev, Shostakovitch) while under the rein of the repressive Soviet regime.

One might argue that German culture... especially as centered in Berlin and Vienna... is only rivaled by that of France (in Paris) and the US in the last century. Among the writers in German we find Nietzsche, Freud, Kafka, Walser, Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, Frank Wedekind, Max Frisch, Georg Trakl, Hugo von Hoffmansthal, Stephan George, Friederich Durrenmatt, Gunter Grass, Paul Celan, Rilke, Joseph Roth, Hermann Broch, etc... Among the German artists we find Gustave Klimt, Egon Schiele, E.L. Kirchner, Paul Klee, George Grosz, Otto Dix, Max Ernst, Joseph Albers, Mies van der Rohe, Max Beckmann, on through the current figures such as George Baselitz, Gerhard Richter, and Anselm Kiefer. We might add to this the outsiders who came into prominence in Germany (just as Picasso and Modigliani came into maturity in Paris) and include Kandinsky, Edvard Munch, Lyonel Feininger, etc... Add film to the mix and we have Robert Wiene (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari), Paul Wegener (The Golem: How He Came Into the World), Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau (Nosferatu), Fritz Lang (Metropolis, M...), on through Leni Riefenstahl, Werner Herzog, Rainer Werner Fassbender, and Wolfgang Petersen. And music? Mahler, Richard Strauss, Alexander Zemlinsky, Kurt Weill, Alban Berg, Arnold Schoenberg, Anton Webern, Joseph Marx, Franz Schreker, Paul Hindemith, Erich Korngold, Hans Werner Henze, Carl Orff, Alfred Schnittke, etc... and this does not begin to touch upon performers, conductors or orchestras.

Of course I may be biased... being of German heritage.:nod:

[mortalterror]

Of course I may be biased... being of German heritage.:nod:
As am I, but with the exception of Buchner and Hesse I do not care for their literature. Goethe you have to respect without really appreciating, much as we tend to do with Milton in our own language but other than that, I think Schiller and Lessing wouldn't overshadow Jonson and Dekker if placed back to back.

However, I did read some of Gottfried Benn's poetry the other day, and it wasn't half bad. Nothing truly inspired mind you. He doesn't put Rilke to any kind of threat, but neither does Rilke challenge Eliot either when you come down to it. I'd put Rilke a little ahead of Montale, and a little behind Neruda.

Odd that someone should compare the German's to the likes of Shelly, Byron, and Keats who's work I don't have a great deal of respect for anyway. The three of them come off as undisciplined kids to me most of the time. The more I delve into the 18th and 17th centuries the more charming the writers of that era appear. Dryden, Pope, Johnson, Wilmot, Goldsmith, Swift, Gay, Addison, Fielding, and Richardson are really starting to grow on me. Despite being raised to the Romantics I believe that these men are quite the equal of their successors.

[Albion]

StLukesGuild
My regard for German culture is second to none. I have lived in Germany and love the country and its heritage more than that of other countries. You are right to extol the pre-eminence of German music; actually, it is world music because any other is inevitably measured against it. I second your list of German composers. My passing reference to Germany's contribution to music was far from slighting; no other country comes near to Austro German heritage here (but I hope your omission of Italy was an oversight).

Germany's geographical position must have contributed greatly to it's maturity; and it's contribution to European and US culture is beyond question. The underlying factor was probably its remoteness in Roman times which allowed it to develop its own culture along north European lines independently from Latin intrusions. Russian culture, in particular, owes a lot to Germany being guided by Catherine II from the 18th century towards French and German models of society, literature and music; and Britain had a close association with Germany until the sad events following the close of the 19th century.

Neither do I disparage the works of the authors listed, although I cannot claim I like them all or even think they are all great figures, particularly some of those 20th century writers mentioned; but that is largely a matter of taste. (You forgot Storm). German painters were certainly influential and deserve a place in history. They were different from but probably not superior to, say, the pre-Raphaelites in a different way; but this similarity of achievement does not negate the reputation of either group. I am not a film scholar but must disagree on the German film heritage which I find rather poor. But try Bernhard Wicki.

My comments were addressed to poetry, however, and, in particular to 19th century poets. All literature is a matter of taste: I do not recognize in the German poets I mentioned the humanity of the (largely English and French) romantic poets ( I am, unfortunately, entirely ignorant of Italian contributions); but I did not say I disdained them, merely that they chose different methods with which to address their subjects. Indeed, they are redeemed in their musical transformations set by the great composers you mention.

Of course they addressed love and death and other powerful themes but I am disappointed at their style. Other romantic poets addressed similar subjects including pastoral ones but I believe they achieved a closer identification with the plaintive human condition, for example, in the lyricism of a Shelley or a Keats than the Germans managed, however undeniably great in other directions.

[stlukesguild]

As am I, but with the exception of Buchner and Hesse I do not care for their literature.

I would not argue that German literature is the rival of that of Britain or France... and perhaps not even American or Spanish/Latin-American. On the other hand... I am quite enamored of more than a few German writers. My personal favorites would include Goethe, Holderlin, Novalis, Heine, Rilke, Hesse, Durrenmatt, Mann, Grass, Celan, and most certainly Kafka.

Goethe you have to respect without really appreciating, much as we tend to do with Milton in our own language...

But I actually do appreciate Milton. I do find that Goethe's lyrical poetry does not translate well in most instances... and many of the ones I admire most are those that I can (or was once able to) read in the original German. On the other hand... I love Faust, Werther, Egmont, and his prose writings (the Autobiographical My Life and the Italian Journey).

I think Schiller and Lessing wouldn't overshadow Jonson and Dekker if placed back to back.

Perhaps not... at least not in the case of Jonson. Still I would not dismiss them as minor writers... or at least no more minor than any number of other interesting writers from any body of literature.

However, I did read some of Gottfried Benn's poetry the other day, and it wasn't half bad. Nothing truly inspired mind you. He doesn't put Rilke to any kind of threat, but neither does Rilke challenge Eliot either when you come down to it. I'd put Rilke a little ahead of Montale, and a little behind Neruda.

I've only read but a little of Benn myself. Among the lyrical poets I find Holderlin, Rilke, and Celan the most inspired. I suspect Holderlin can hold his own against any of the British Romantics while I'd place Rilke higher than you. perhaps not above Eliot... but probably equal to him. Considering how much his poetry resonates in translation I greatly suspect that it would be all the more resonant in the original (Although one never knows for sure). Neruda and Montale are certainly strong comparisons. Many who read Italian and Spanish would place those poets equal to or above Eliot. It may be more than possible that our opinion of Eliot is colored by the fact that we read him in the original and we are more than aware of his impact upon all subsequent English-language poetry. By the way... I'm somewhat surprised that you can place Eliot so highly... considering his limited body of work and his lack of any true work of epic status. The Wasteland may be long in comparison to most lyric poetry... but is it really of epic stature? Tennyson's In Memoriam qualifies, Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal, Neruda's Canto General and Residence on Earth, Montale's Cuttlefish Bones, Rilke's New Poems and a number of other collections by other poets clearly intended to be read as a unified whole may have a far better claim to epic status than The Wasteland (not that I don't love the poem myself :D).

Odd that someone should compare the German's to the likes of Shelly, Byron, and Keats who's work I don't have a great deal of respect for anyway.

Of course I'm still quite the Romantic... in spite of my own artistic leanings that tilt more toward Modernism and Classicism. You'll also recall that the central Romantic for me is Blake.

The three of them come off as undisciplined kids to me most of the time. The more I delve into the 18th and 17th centuries the more charming the writers of that era appear. Dryden, Pope, Johnson, Wilmot, Goldsmith, Swift, Gay, Addison, Fielding, and Richardson are really starting to grow on me. Despite being raised to the Romantics I believe that these men are quite the equal of their successors.

You've been a classicist for as long as I've known you. Dryden has yet to grab me... nor Pope much, for that matter. Wilmot is a charming pervert. Swift I love... but what would you expect from someone as admittedly enamored of Borges? I'm also enthralled with Sterne, Johnson, Boswell... Have you looked much into Smart, Smollett, or Hogg?

Perhaps... as might be expected considering my Romanticist leanings... I am more enamored of even earlier poets: Traherne, Herrick, Spenser, Donne, Sidney, and obviously Shakespeare.

[stlukesguild]

My passing reference to Germany's contribution to music was far from slighting; no other country comes near to Austro German heritage here (but I hope your omission of Italy was an oversight).

I certainly don't dismiss Italian contributions to music in spite of the fact that I know there is this prejudice by some to see Italian music as lightweight in comparison. Monteverdi, Palestrina, Gesualdo, Vivaldi (especially considering the recently discovered wealth of his music just now being performed and recorded), Donizetti, Rossini, Verdi, Pucccini... I love them all... although I think I'm beginning to develop a passion more toward French and Russian music after the Austro-German. The Russians sound even better when one begins to discover the wealth of their vocal music and opera. Neither would I ignore the British contributions of the last century (Vaughan-Williams, Elgar, Bax, Delius, Britten, etc...).

German painters were certainly influential and deserve a place in history. They were different from but probably not superior to, say, the pre-Raphaelites in a different way; but this similarity of achievement does not negate the reputation of either group.

German painting and sculpture was actually towering in achievement during the late Middle-Age and the Renaissance. Painters such as Albrecht Durer...

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... a giant figure who stands easily along side Raphael, Titian, and Leonardo... especially when one considers his achievements in the field of printmaking where German art excelled (Durer is often ranked as the single greatest print-maker ever)...

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And then there's Matthias Grunwald... the first great German "Expressionist"...

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...Lucas Cranach... the sophisticated "decadent"...

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...Albrecht Altdorfer... the father of landscape painting and the panoramic view...

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...Martin Schongauer... the poetic predecessor to Durer... a German Raphael...

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...Hans Holbein... the master "realist"...

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And we also have the marvelous wood sculptors such as Tilman Riemenschneider, Viet Stoss, Michel Erhart, etc...

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All of these German artists may not rival the Italians of the period (seriously... no one comes close... and I wouldn't even think to make such a claim... the Italians dominate the visual arts... especially in the 14th-16th centuries... to the same extent that the German/Austrians dominate music) but they easily stand along side the Netherlandish artists as arguably second only to the Italians.

The 30-Years War and the other conflicts of the Reformation, however, decimated the German states and effectively destroyed the German Renaissance and German art, literature, and music. For whatever reason, the revival of German culture happened first and foremost in music (perhaps a subject worthy of research?). Following the German Renaissance and prior to the 20th century there is essentially but one truly towering figure in German art... and that is the painter, Caspar David Friedrich. Friedrich is equal to... and akin to the great English Romantic, J.M.W. Turner. Where Turner's paintings convey an explosive turbulence in nature, Friedrich conveys a sublime silence... a profound melancholia...

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Friedrich would have a profound impact upon landscape painting as a whole... and especially upon the tradition as it evolved in the US... all the way through the abstractions of Mark Rothko.

continued...

[stlukesguild]

German painting in the 19th century is rather minor... more so than that of Britain even (and in comparison to what was happening in France the Pre-Raphaelites were minor, indeed). It is really with the developments in the 20th century of Expressionism and abstraction that German art takes off. The great Austrian, Gustav Klimt, represents the best image of the late 19th century Viennese "decadent" (although there are other fascinating figures such as Max Klinger, Arnold Böcklin, Ferdinand Hodler, Franz von Stuck, Thorn Prikker, and Alfred Kubin)...

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Intriguingly, German literature takes flight when Schiller and Goethe reject the French literary dominance and focus instead upon Northern traditions... of British literature and medieval Germanic mythologies. The same impulse is behind the 20th century German Renaissance in art: a rejection of the French classical and Mediterranean sensibilities and a rediscovery of the Northern, "Germanic" and "Gothic"/medieval traditions. This takes flight first and foremost through the example of the Norwegian, Edvard Munch, whose career evolved in Germany:

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Munch and Van Gogh... rather than the Impressionists... for the basis of German Expressionism. This... combined with an exploration of Germanic medieval art... the Gothic wood carvings and German history of print-making... leads to figures such as Egon Schiele...

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E.L. Kirchner...

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Emil Nolde...

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Max Pechstein...

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Karl Schmidt-Rottluff...

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continued...

[stlukesguild]

The real explosion of German Expressionism only grows after the First World War... in spite of all the losses, chaos, political and economic turmoil...

We find decadent figures such as Christian Schad...

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Otto Dix...

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George Grosz...

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... all of whom offer dark visions of the sleazy underbelly of urban realities between the wars.

In sculpture we find the merger of an elegant Mannerism... and a gothic sensuality in the work of Wilhelm Lehmbruck...

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2596/3933429950_f0faf4e59e_o.jpg

And then there is the towering figure of Max Beckmann... the painter only rivaled by Picasso and Matisse. Beckmann's paintings merged a medieval Germanic crudeness of drawing, a complexity of mythology and social commentary worthy of Bosch and Breughel... with the glorious colors of Gothic stained glass windows:

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German Expressionism... along side of Surrealism... evolved into one of the most influential and resilient movements in modern art. It continues to inspire artists today. This is equally true of German Expressionist theater and film...

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In spite of the relative limited scale of German film production the intentionally artificial look of German Expressionist film would have a profound impact not only on the look of American horror films, but also film noir, the classic films of Orson Welles, Hitchcock, and even Ingmar Bergman... on through contemporary "gothic" films such as those of Tim Burton. Much of this is due, no doubt, not merely to direct emulation, but also to the influx of German film actors, directors, and producers into Hollywood between the wars.

All of this offers a view of but a single side of the Germanic contribution to the visual arts. A contribution that might be seen as equal in importance grew out of a leaning toward abstract form... often rooted in music... or the notion that visual art might evolve into something as "pure" and abstract as music. Among the artists leaning in this direction we discover Paul Klee...

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and Joseph Albers...

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among many others... The arts, at this time, seem to have all come together for the first time in the German culture... so that one might be hard-pressed to argue that music or literature or painting dominated. The great tragedy is that this entire German "Renaissance" would be destroyed by the rise of the Nazis who set themselves up as the great protectors and promoters of German culture... :(

[mortalterror]

Those are all breathtakingly beautiful right up to Edvard Munch, but you lost me after that.

I am quite enamored of more than a few German writers. My personal favorites would include Goethe, Holderlin, Novalis, Heine, Rilke, Hesse, Durrenmatt, Mann, Grass, Celan, and most certainly Kafka.
I liked Hymns to the Night but wasn't particularly moved by them. I do have a poem by Heine in my scrapbook http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/German/Heine.htm#_Toc70244340 but it doesn't even dominate the page as it's overshadowed by one by Paul Eluard http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Eluard.htm#_Toc8375620 . I find myself more enamored of minor poets like Edwin Arlington Robinson and Rudyard Kipling before my appreciation of Heine kicks in. As far as Grass goes, I tried to read his Tin Drum once, loved the first chapter but was thrown by the tone shift later. It reminds me a lot of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man that way. You know, I forgot about Kafka. Yeah, he's good.

But I actually do appreciate Milton. I do find that Goethe's lyrical poetry does not translate well in most instances... and many of the ones I admire most are those that I can (or was once able to) read in the original German. On the other hand... I love Faust, Werther, Egmont, and his prose writings (the Autobiographical My Life and the Italian Journey).
Appreciate was a poor choice of words on my part. To me, he's like Pope. I don't like what I'm reading the first time through but looking back I see all of these perfect gems of expression and wonder why I didn't like them more. For Milton I thought Book 2 of Paradise Lost was as good as Book 2 of the Aeneid and both were some of the best poetry I've ever read. The rest of their books are fairly dense.

Goethe's "When shall I say oh stay moment stay thou art so sweet?" is also pretty good too. I was digging the beginning of his Faust part 2 not to long ago, though I haven't finished it, and the first didn't work for me. I keep trying to read Werther, especially because it's so short, and it should be easy. But there's something in there that strikes the wrong cord in me, and I never get more than a few pages. I really wasn't enjoying The Italian Journey, so when he quoted a passage of Ovid's Tristia I thought, "I'll just go read that." As for his novels, they didn't have catchy openings like Dickens or Tolstoy to hook me into the story.

Neruda and Montale are certainly strong comparisons. Many who read Italian and Spanish would place those poets equal to or above Eliot. It may be more than possible that our opinion of Eliot is colored by the fact that we read him in the original and we are more than aware of his impact upon all subsequent English-language poetry.
Well, that's certainly possible. It's not like I've read their whole ouvre. My experience of Montale is limited to Cuttlefish Bones, and I've only read a couple dozen poems by Neruda. I was struck by how good Neruda is, especially by that line in A Song of Despair "Cold flower heads are raining over my heart." He's really peaked my interest, and I look forward to reading more by him and Miguel Hernandez too.


By the way... I'm somewhat surprised that you can place Eliot so highly... considering his limited body of work and his lack of any true work of epic status. The Wasteland may be long in comparison to most lyric poetry... but is it really of epic stature? Tennyson's In Memoriam qualifies, Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal, Neruda's Canto General and Residence on Earth, Montale's Cuttlefish Bones, Rilke's New Poems and a number of other collections by other poets clearly intended to be read as a unified whole may have a far better claim to epic status than The Wasteland (not that I don't love the poem myself :D).
I don't really read them that way. It's sort of like how Faulkner said his Go Down, Moses is a novel, but to me it's plainly a collection of short stories. With The Wasteland I look at it and think, "Yeah, that's one poem." It may be an arbitrary ruling, but I'm sort of a judgemental arbitrary kind of guy. The thing that I love about Eliot is the development in his poems. Montale and Rilke have equal power of imagery and metaphor but their stuff seems so loose, disconnected. With Eliot there's always a point and each section comes in a sort of order, a rational structure. That's the sort of thing I love about Donne and Tu Fu: the precision and architecture.

You'll also recall that the central Romantic for me is Blake.
Yeah, I like him too. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Milton, or The Book of Thel really give him an edge over the other Romantics, except for Wordsworth.

I'm also enthralled with Sterne, Johnson, Boswell... Have you looked much into Smart, Smollett, or Hogg?
The more I read of Boswell, the more Johnson grows on me. I read his London the other day and part of his Life of Savage, so I'd know what Boswell was talking about. They're pretty good. They're like the Greeks, operating on a different set of aesthetics and once you get a hint of what they're going for, whole new worlds open up.

I read a little Smart and I think there was small reason to resurrect him.
"For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees."
-"Am I seriously reading a poem about this guy's cat? To hell with this."

However, I did enjoy Samuel Johnson's recollection of Smart: "Madness frequently discovers itself merely by unnecessary deviation from the usual modes of the world. My poor friend Smart showed the disturbance of his mind, by falling upon his knees, and saying his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place. Now although, rationally speaking, it is greater madness not to pray at all, than to pray as Smart did, I am afraid there are so many who do not pray, that their understanding is not called in question."

I did steal a glance at Smollett's Roderick Random in a bookstore once and did not find it funny. I'd rather read Diderot's Jacques The Fatalist or Quevedo's The Swindler from around that time, if I had the choice. The beginning of Hogg's Justified Sinner is promising and I'll have to return to it, but I'd rather read Jame's Macpherson.

A TALE of the times of old!

Why, thou wanderer unseen! thou bender of the thistle of Lora; why, thou breeze of the valley, hast thou left mine ear? I hear no distant roar of streams! No sound of the harp from the rock! Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, call back his soul to the bard. I look forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark billowy bay of U-thorno, where Fingal descends from ocean, from the roar of winds. Few are the heroes of Morven in a land unknown!

Starno sent a dweller of Loda to bid Fingal to the feast; but the king remembered the past, and all his rage arose. "Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno, shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget that beam of light, the white-handed daughter of kings?
http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/ossian/oss08.htm

[stlukesguild]

My experience of Montale is limited to Cuttlefish Bones...

That's where I started... with the William Arrowsmith translation. Its the first volume of the trilogy that really established him and won the Nobel.

I've only read a couple dozen poems by Neruda. I was struck by how good Neruda is, especially by that line in A Song of Despair "Cold flower heads are raining over my heart." He's really peaked my interest, and I look forward to reading more by him and Miguel Hernandez too.

After the French, it was Spanish poetry that really drew me into reading poetry outside of the canon of the Anglo-Americans. Neruda was certainly one of the first and most central figures. His stature among 20th-century Spanish and Latin-American poets seems to be something akin to that of Whitman. The "Renaissance" of Latin-American literature is often seen as beginning with Neruda and Borges... and in spite of my admitted preference, I cannot underestimate Neruda. Hernandez? Yes. I must get back to reading a bit more by him. Indeed... I'm thinking of a Spanish Poetry thread as well.:lol:

[JBI]

Mortal, you completely misread Smart - the Jubilate isn't about the cat - the cat sequence is just the most famous part of it - the poem itself is much longer, and more about God than anything else.

[mortalterror]

Mortal, you completely misread Smart - the Jubilate isn't about the cat - the cat sequence is just the most famous part of it - the poem itself is much longer, and more about God than anything else.
I know, but my point is he was crazy.

[JBI]

I know, but my point is he was crazy.

Who cares - it adds a touch of flavor to the piece.

[mortalterror]

Who cares - it adds a touch of flavor to the piece.
For my cat is a good cat.
For my cat is a pretty cat.
For my cat eats hairballs out of its fur.

[Lulim]

I post two of my favourite poems, one is by Theodor Fontane and one by Friedrich Nietzsche. I post them in german because I am in no way able to achieve an adequate translation -- and I hope you do not mind.


***************************

Herr von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck im Havelland (Theodor Fontane)


Herr von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck im Havelland,
Ein Birnbaum in seinem Garten stand,
Und kam die goldene Herbsteszeit
Und die Birnen leuchteten weit und breit,
Da stopfte, wenn's Mittag vom Turme scholl,
Der von Ribbeck sich beide Taschen voll,
Und kam in Pantinen ein Junge daher,
So rief er: »Junge, wiste 'ne Beer?«
Und kam ein Mädel, so rief er: »Lütt Dirn,
Kumm man röwer, ick hebb 'ne Birn.«


So ging es viel Jahre, bis lobesam
Der von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck zu sterben kam.
Er fühlte sein Ende. 's war Herbsteszeit,
Wieder lachten die Birnen weit und breit;
Da sagte von Ribbeck: »Ich scheide nun ab.
Legt mir eine Birne mit ins Grab.«
Und drei Tage drauf, aus dem Doppeldachhaus,
Trugen von Ribbeck sie hinaus,
Alle Bauern und Büdner mit Feiergesicht
Sangen »Jesus meine Zuversicht«,
Und die Kinder klagten, das Herze schwer:
»He is dod nu. Wer giwt uns nu 'ne Beer?«


So klagten die Kinder. Das war nicht recht -
Ach, sie kannten den alten Ribbeck schlecht;
Der neue freilich, der knausert und spart,
Hält Park und Birnbaum strenge verwahrt.
Aber der alte, vorahnend schon
Und voll Mißtraun gegen den eigenen Sohn,
Der wußte genau, was damals er tat,
Als um eine Birn' ins Grab er bat,
Und im dritten Jahr aus dem stillen Haus
Ein Birnbaumsprößling sproßt heraus.


Und die Jahre gingen wohl auf und ab,
Längst wölbt sich ein Birnbaum über dem Grab,
Und in der goldenen Herbsteszeit
Leuchtet's wieder weit und breit.
Und kommt ein Jung' übern Kirchhof her,
So flüstert's im Baume: »Wiste 'ne Beer?«
Und kommt ein Mädel, so flüstert's: »Lütt Dirn,
Kumm man röwer, ick gew' di 'ne Birn.«


So spendet Segen noch immer die Hand
Des von Ribbeck auf Ribbeck im Havelland.

***************************


Vereinsamt (Friedrich Nietzsche)

Die Krähen schrein
Und ziehen schwirren Flugs zur Stadt:
Bald wird es schnein, -
Wohl dem, der jetzt noch - Heimat hat!

Nun stehst du starr,
Schaust rückwärts, ach! wie lange schon!
Was bist du Narr
Vor Winters in die Welt entflohn?

Die Welt - ein Tor
Zu tausend Wüsten stumm und kalt!
Wer das verlor,
Was du verlorst, macht nirgends Halt.

Nun stehst du bleich,
Zur Winter-Wanderschaft verflucht,
Dem Rauche gleich,
Der stets nach kältern Himmeln sucht.

Flieg, Vogel, schnarr
Dein Lied im Wüstenvogel-Ton! -
Versteck, du Narr,
Dein blutend Herz in Eis und Hohn!

Die Krähen schrein
Und ziehen schwirren Flugs zur Stadt:
Bald wird es schnein, -
Weh dem, der keine Heimat hat!

[quasimodo1]

"Epitaph for François" ... http://www.geocities.com/johbeil/transl_index.html

[quasimodo1]

Columba aspexit / Sequence for Saint Maximin
by Hildegard of Bingen
(1098 - 1179) Timeline

English version by
Barbara Newman

Original Language
Latin
Christian : Catholic

12th Century



A dove gazed in
through a latticed window:
there balm rained down on her face,
raining from lucent
Maximin.

The heat of the sun blazed out
to irradiate the dark:
a bud burst open, jewel-like,
in the temple of the heart
(limpid and kind his heart).

A tower of cypress is he,
and of Lebanon's cedars --
rubies and sapphires frame his turrets --
a city passing the arts
of all other artisans.

A swift stag is he
who ran to the fountain --
pure wellspring from a stone
of power -- to water
sweet-smelling spices.

O perfumers! you who dwell
in the luxuriance of royal
gardens, climbing high
when you accomplish the holy
sacrifice with rams:

Among you this architect
is shining, a wall
of the temple, he who longed
for an eagle's wings as he kissed
his foster-mother Wisdom
in Ecclesia's garden.

O Maximin,
mountain and valley,
on your towering height
the mountain goat leapt
with the elephant,
and Wisdom was in rapture.

Strong and sweet in the sacred
rites and the shimmer
of the altar,
you rise like incense
to the pillar of praise --

where you pray for your people
who strive toward the mirror
of light. Praise him!
Praise in the highest!







-- from Symphonia: A Critical Edition of the Symphonia armonie celstium revelationum, by Hildegard of Bingen / Translated by Barbara Newman

[quasimodo1]

LONGING FOR DEATH


Into the bosom of the earth,
Out of the Light's dominion,
Death's pains are but a bursting forth,
Sign of glad departure.
Swift in the narrow little boat,
Swift to the heavenly shore we float.

Blessed be the everlasting Night,
And blessed the endless slumber.
We are heated by the day too bright,
And withered up with care.
We're weary of a life abroad,
And we now want our Father's home.

What in this world should we all
Do with love and with faith?
That which is old is set aside,
And the new may perish also.
Alone he stands and sore downcast
Who loves with pious warmth the Past.

The Past where the light of the senses
In lofty flames did rise;
Where the Father's face and hand
All men did recognize;
And, with high sense, in simplicity
Many still fit the original pattern.

The Past wherein, still rich in bloom,
Man's strain did burgeon glorious,
And children, for the world to come,
Sought pain and death victorious,
And, through both life and pleasure spake,
Yet many a heart for love did break.

The Past, where to the flow of youth
God still showed himself,
And truly to an early death
Did commit his sweet life.
Fear and torture patiently he bore
So that he would be loved forever.

With anxious yearning now we see
That Past in darkness drenched,
With this world's water never we
Shall find our hot thirst quenched.
To our old home we have to go
That blessed time again to know.

What yet doth hinder our return
To loved ones long reposed?
Their grave limits our lives.
We are all sad and afraid.
We can search for nothing more --
The heart is full, the world is void.

Infinite and mysterious,
Thrills through us a sweet trembling --
As if from far there echoed thus
A sigh, our grief resembling.
Our loved ones yearn as well as we,
And sent to us this longing breeze.

Down to the sweet bride, and away
To the beloved Jesus.
Have courage, evening shades grow gray
To those who love and grieve.
A dream will dash our chains apart,
And lay us in the Father's lap.

[stlukesguild]

Columba aspexit / Sequence for Saint Maximin
by Hildegard of Bingen
(1098 - 1179) Timeline

tr. from original Latin
12th c.

A dove gazed in
through a latticed window:
there balm rained down on her face,
raining from lucent
Maximin.

The heat of the sun blazed out
to irradiate the dark:
a bud burst open, jewel-like,
in the temple of the heart
(limpid and kind his heart).

A tower of cypress is he,
and of Lebanon's cedars --
rubies and sapphires frame his turrets --
a city passing the arts
of all other artisans.

A swift stag is he
who ran to the fountain --
pure wellspring from a stone
of power -- to water
sweet-smelling spices.

O perfumers! you who dwell
in the luxuriance of royal
gardens, climbing high
when you accomplish the holy
sacrifice with rams:

Among you this architect
is shining, a wall
of the temple, he who longed
for an eagle's wings as he kissed
his foster-mother Wisdom
in Ecclesia's garden.

O Maximin,
mountain and valley,
on your towering height
the mountain goat leapt
with the elephant,
and Wisdom was in rapture.

Strong and sweet in the sacred
rites and the shimmer
of the altar,
you rise like incense
to the pillar of praise --

where you pray for your people
who strive toward the mirror
of light. Praise him!
Praise in the highest!...

-- from Symphonia: A Critical Edition of the Symphonia armonie celstium revelationum, by Hildegard of Bingen / Translated by Barbara Newman

Hidegard of Bingen (1098 – 17 September 1179) is one of the most fascinating women in history. Also known as Saint Hildegard, and Sybil of the Rhine, Hildegard was a Christian mystic, German Benedictine abbess, author, counselor, linguist, naturalist, scientist, philosopher, physician, herbalist, poet, channeller, visionary, artist, composer, and polymath. Elected a magistra by her fellow nuns in 1136, she founded the monasteries of Rupertsberg in 1150 and Eibingen in 1165.

Hildegard's designs for paintings and tapestries and illuminated manuscripts... inspired by her mystical visions (which some modern psychologists and medical experts have speculated were related to the migraine headaches from which she is known to have suffered) are among some of the most fascinating creations of the middle ages:

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2776/4145782049_e96ee43dbf_o.jpg

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2713/4145782095_f3b0401c24_o.jpg

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2502/4145782305_637bd4eb3d_o.jpg

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2771/4146541596_143207bc8a_o.jpg

To the present day, Hildegard stands virtually unrivaled among women as quite probably the greatest female composer... certainly one of the most important known composers of the entire middle ages.

Here is the performance of her Columba aspexit by the Gothic Voices:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jdVcKfAZJMU

Intriguingly... right from the very start... Hildegard seemingly falls into the role that will seemingly follow the German's throughout history: that of being far more recognized for her (their) music than for her (their) poetry.

[Taliesin]

Thanks for this thread.
You know, most English poetry doesn't work for me. For me, it often has an artificial, formal tone.
Yet German poetry, it seems, does work for me. I have quite enjoyed a number of poems I read in this topic. Maybe it is the influence German culture and language have had on Estonian.
I remember having this poem in my German book. I copied it from there a long time ago so I might have some typos. Sorry for that.


Als mein Vater
mich zum erstenmal fragte,
was ich mal werden will,
sagte ich nach kurzer Denkpause
"Ich möchte mal glücklich werden."
Sa sah mein Vater sehr unglücklich aus
aber dann bin ich
doch was anderes geworden
und alle waren mit mir zufrieden.

I think the author was noted to be Liselotte Raune.

And, of course, this little poem that a number of people claim to be "the only thing they remember from German"


Ich bin Peter,
du bist Paul.
Ich bin fleißig,
du bist faul.
:lol:

[Taliesin]

And how could I forget this one.


An die Freude
Friedrich Schiller


Freude, schöner Götterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium!
Wir betreten feuertrunken,
Himmlische, Dein Heiligtum.
Deine Zauber binden wieder,
Was die Mode streng geteilt,
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,
Wo Dein sanfter Flügel weilt.
Chor.
Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuß der ganzen Welt!
Brüder, überm Sternenzelt
Muß ein lieber Vater wohnen!

Wem der große Wurf gelungen,
Eines Freundes Freund zu sein,
Wer ein holdes Weib errungen,
Mische seinen Jubel ein!
Ja, wer auch nur eine Seele
Sein nennt auf dem Erdenrund!
Und wer's nie gekonnt, der stehle
Weinend sich aus diesem Bund!
Chor.
Was den großen Ring bewohnet,
Huldige der Sympathie!
Zu den Sternen leitet sie,
Wo der Unbekannte thronet.

Freude trinken alle Wesen
An den Brüsten der Natur;
Alle Guten, alle Bösen
Folgen ihrer Rosenspur.
Küsse gab sie uns und Reben,
Einen Freund, geprüft im Tod;
Wollust ward dem Wurm gegeben,
Und der Cherub steht vor Gott.
Chor.
Ihr stürzt nieder, Millionen?
Ahnest du den Schöpfer, Welt?
Such' ihn überm Sternenzelt!
Über Sternen muß er wohnen.

Freude heißt die starke Feder
In der ewigen Natur.
Freude, Freude treibt die Räder
In der Großen Weltenuhr.
Blumen lockt sie aus den Keimen,
Sonnen aus dem Firmament,
Sphären rollt sie in den Räumen,
Die des Sehers Rohr nicht kennt.
Chor.
Froh, wie seine Sonnen fliegen
Durch des Himmels prächt'gen Plan,
Laufet, Brüder, eure Bahn,
Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.

Aus der Wahrheit Feuerspiegel
Lächelt sie den Forscher an.
Zu der Tugend steilem Hügel
Leitet sie des Dulders Bahn.
Auf des Glaubens Sonnenberge
Sieht man ihre Fahnen wehn,
Durch den Riß gesprengter Särge
Sie im Chor der Engel stehn.
Chor.
Duldet mutig, Millionen!
Duldet für die beßre Welt!
Droben überm Sternzelt
Wird ein großer Gott belohnen.

Göttern kann man nicht vergelten;
Schön ist's, ihnen gleich zu sein.
Gram und Armut soll sich melden,
Mit den Frohen sich erfreun.
Groll und Rache sei vergessen,
Unserm Todfeind sei verziehn,
Keine Träne soll ihn pressen,
Keine Reue nage ihn.
Chor.
Unser Schuldbuch sei vernichtet!
Ausgesöhnt die ganze Welt!
Brüder, überm Sternenzelt
Richtet Gott, wie wir gerichtet.

Freude sprudelt in Pokalen,
In der Traube goldnem Blut
Trinken Sanftmut Kannibalen,
Die Verzweiflung Heldenmut--
Brüder, fliegt von euren Sitzen,
Wenn der volle Römer kreist,
Laßt den Schaum zum Himmel spritzen:
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist.
Chor.
Den der Sterne Wirbel loben,
Den des Seraphs Hymne preist,
Dieses Glas dem guten Geist
Überm Sternenzelt dort oben!

Festen Mut in schwerem Leiden,
Hilfe, wo die Unschuld weint,
Ewigkeit geschwornen Eiden,
Wahrheit gegen Freund und Feind,
Männerstolz vor Königsthronen, --
Brüder, gält' es Gut und Blut--
Dem Verdienste seine Kronen,
Untergang der Lügenbrut!
Chor.
Schließt den heil'gen Zirkel dichter,
Schwört bei diesem goldnen Wein:
Dem Gelübde treu zu sein,
Schwört es bei dem Sternenrichter!


Ode to Joy

Friedrich Schiller

Joy, beautiful sparkle of the gods,
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, fire-drunk,
Heavenly one, your shrine.
Your magics bind again
What custom has strictly parted.
All people will be brothers
Where your tender wing lingers.
Chorus
Be embraced, millions!
This kiss for the entire world!
Brothers, above the starry canopy
Must a loving Father reside.

Whoever has succeeded in the great attempt
To be a friend's friend;
Whoever has won a lovely woman
Add in his jubilation!
Yes, who calls even one soul
His own on the earth's sphere!
And whoever never could achieve this,
Let him steal away crying from this gathering!
Chorus
Those who occupy the great circle,
Pay homage to sympathy!
It leads to the stars
Where the unknown one reigns.

All creatures drink joy
At the breasts of nature,
All good, all evil
Follow her trail of roses.
Kisses she gave us, and the vine,
A friend, proven in death.
Pleasure was given to the worm,
And the cherub stands before God.
Chorus
Do you fall down, you millions?
Do you sense the creator, world?
Seek him above the starry canopy,
Above the stars he must live.

Joy is the name of the strong spring
In eternal nature.
Joy, joy drives the wheels
In the great clock of worlds.
She lures flowers from the buds,
Suns out of the firmament,
She rolls spheres in the spaces
That the seer's telescope does not know.
Chorus
Happy, as his suns fly
Through the heaven’s magnificent plain
Run, brothers, your track
Joyfully, as a hero to victory.

From the fiery mirror of truth
She smiles upon the researcher,
Towards virtue’s steep hill
She guides the endurer’s path.
Upon faith’s sunlit mountain
One sees her banners in the wind,
Through the opening of burst coffins
One sees her standing in the chorus of angels.
Chorus
Endure courageously, millions!
Endure for the better world!
There above the starry canopy
A great God will reward.

Gods one cannot repay
Beautiful it is, to be like them.
Grief and poverty, acquaint yourselves
With the joyful ones rejoice.
Anger and revenge be forgotten,
Our deadly enemy be forgiven,
No tears shall he shed
No remorse shall gnaw at him
Chorus
Our debt registers be abolished
Reconcile the entire world!
Brothers, over the starry canopy
God judges, as we judged.

Joy bubbles in the cup,
In the grape’s golden blood
Cannibals drink gentleness
The fearful, courage --
Brothers, fly from your perches,
When the full cup is passed,
Let the foam spray to the heavens
This glass to the good spirit
Chorus
He whom the spirals of stars praise,
He whom the seraphim’s hymn glorifies,
This glass to the good spirit
Above the starry canopy!

Courage firm in great suffering,
Help there, where innocence weeps,
Eternally sworn oaths,
Truth towards friend and foe,
Mens’ pride before kings’ thrones --
Brothers, even if it costs property and blood, --
The crowns to those who earn them,
Defeat to the lying brood!
Chorus
Close the holy circle tighter,
Swear by this golden vine:
Remain true to the vows,
Swear by the judge above the stars!
I think
is
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kcOpyM9cBg&feature=fvwd] this[/URL]
[URL="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KTi2eCKy06I&feature=related) to be expected after the poem.

[inbetween]

since I am german and therefor tortured with schiller and goethe I can tell you that they don't sound so great when you have to analyse them again and again... every language got its good poets I guess (well perhaps not all but many) but about german poets I prefer christian morgenstern, or ringelnatz and so on ... there are lots of good poets and if you are cappable of the german language you may try this http://www.literaturforum.de
perhaps it helps (I hope so) :)

[stlukesguild]

One of the most powerful post-war poets of Germany was the Romanian-born Jewish poet, Paul Celan (born Paul Antschel). Where the philosopher and musicologist, Theodor Adorno had famously written, "There can be no poetry after Auschwitz," Celan dares to actually write poetry about Auschwitz. His most famous poem is the harrowing death fugue in which the poet creates a fugue-like interweaving and variation upon the central images much as Bach might have done with musical themes. The poem gains its intensity through the contrast of the horrific theme and the emotions it arouses in contrast to the rigorous and even detached... aesthetic nature. Yet Celan was certainly anything but an objective or detached bystander. He had been rounded up into a ghetto after the German invasion of Romania and his parents deported to a camp. His father died of typhus and his mother was shot. Celan would eventually commit suicide years later in Paris.

Death Fugue

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are flashing he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the morning at noon we drink you at sundown
we drink and we drink you
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined.

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play
he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue
jab deeper you lot with your spades you others play on for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon in the morning we drink you at sundown
we drink you and we drink you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents

He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germany
he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke you will rise into air
then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink you
death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true...

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith

excerpeted from the translation by Michael Hamburger
complete text:

http://www.english.txstate.edu/cohen_p/Postmodern/Literature/Celan/Hamburger.html

Interestingly enough the Death Fugue has entered into the larger German culture in a manner not unlike Goethe's poem, Der Erlkönig. Perhaps most interesting... certainly the most powerful use is to be found in the paintings, sculpture, and prints of Anselm Kiefer, arguably the greatest painter working today... most definitely the greatest artist to come out of Germany since the war. Kiefer, who was born in the final days of the war, has long been obsessed with the war and the issue of German guilt and has repeatedly employed the poem in his art work. In the painting Kiefer references the symbol of the ashen-haired Jewish lover, Shulamite, from the Hebrew Song of Songs which Celan uses as a foil to the the blonde blue-eyed Marguerite borrowed from Goethe's Faust. Kiefer draws attention to the choice of the term "ashen hair" in the painting, Shulamith, by representing the Hebrew woman through an image of the ovens at Auschwitz where the Jews were reduced to ashes.

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2485/4163504214_46f3695a8f_o.jpg

Inseveral other paintings he represents the tortured landscapes of war-torn Eastern Europe... often traversed by the train tracks leading into the distance... to the camps... scrawled across with lines taken from Celan's poems and strewn with straw that suggests Marguerite's blonde hair:

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2615/4163565962_c643efab98_o.jpg

[Madame X]

every language got its good poets I guess (well perhaps not all but many) but about german poets I prefer christian morgenstern, or ringelnatz and so on ...

Yes, Morgenstern! Meeeeemoriiiees...

Das aesthetische Wiesel

Ein Wiesel
sass auf einem Kiesel
inmitten Bachgeriesel.

Wißt ihr
weshalb?

Das Mondkalb
verriet es mir
im Stillen:

Das raffinier-
te Tier
tat's um des Reimes willen.

The Aesthetic Weasel

A weasel
sat on a pebble
in the midst of a bubbling brook.

Do you know
why?

The mooncow
quietly revealed to me:

The clever animal
just did it for the rhyme.

Works better in German, obviously. :rolleyes:

[mortalterror]

Does anybody think that Goethe is a better poet than Milton or Wordsworth? He rarely makes it into the best of lists the way that Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Homer, and Dante do, yet he appears to be arguably the greatest German poet. Even with his novels and Faust I get the feeling that Wordsworth, though probably only the fifth or sixth greatest English poet, would be a match for him. Has anybody given thought as to a relative hierarchy of German poets? Would Rilke be placed above Holderlin? What would it look like and where would you rank the authors in an international comparison?

[MarkC]

Hi,


I particularly like this poem..

Wandrers Nachtlied II
Über allen Gipfeln Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen in Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


Its translation is :

WayFarer's Night Song II

Over all the hilltops
is calm.
In all the treetops
you feel
hardly a breath of air.
The little birds fall silent in the woods.
Just wait... soon
by Hyde Flippo

MarkC

[quasimodo1]

marsyas, encircled

Articulation also occasionally occurs
[. . .] when inhaling (inverse sound).
Thus, for example, an inverse [f] is used
from time to time for the expression of a
sudden, mild pain.

R. Arnold / K. Hansen








much later is:
as if rattling as if: the breath got going and
along the edge capsules crackling, even cracking
the seeds they: spurt spray deeper, back
from the shoreline, across the land




before that:
tongue lining the gums with whispers
chirruping, trilling in the (. . .) in the heat
lost in haze – fresh-cut grass – it’s
whirring past – an echo – the wind

© 2003, Anja Utler
From: münden – entzüngeln
Publisher: Edition Korrespondenzen, Wien, Austria 2004
ISBN: 3-902113-33-2

© Translation: 2004, Tony Frazer
From: Mouth to Mouth. Contemporary German Poetry in Translation

[stlukesguild]

Aspen Tree

Aspen Tree, your leaves glance white into the dark.
My mother's hair was never white.

Dandelion, so green is the Ukraine.
My yellow-haired mother did not come home.

Rain cloud, above the well do you hover?
My quiet mother weeps for everyone.

Round star, you wind the golden loop.
My mother's heart was ripped by lead.

Paul Celan (excerpted from translation by Michael Hamburger)

http://www.artofeurope.com/celan/cel1.htm

[Emil Miller]

Hi,


I particularly like this poem..

Wandrers Nachtlied II
Über allen Gipfeln Ist Ruh,
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen in Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


Its translation is :

WayFarer's Night Song II

Over all the hilltops
is calm.
In all the treetops
you feel
hardly a breath of air.
The little birds fall silent in the woods.
Just wait... soon
by Hyde Flippo

MarkC

You have missed the last line: You will be silent too.

Goethe wrote this as a young man on the wall of a hunting lodge. Returning to the lodge when he was very much older, he wept as he read his own youthful words.

[Virgil]

I have Rilke's collected poetry. I'm enjoying it. Any suggestions of must read Rilke poems?

[stlukesguild]

Virgil... whose translation? The Stephan Mitchell and Edward Snow translations are brilliant. Duino Elegies are perhaps Rilke's crowning achievement... but I'd begin with some of the poems from The Book of Images, New Poems, or the Uncollected Poems. There are a number of marvelous works commented upon/referenced here... but I'll try (and I'm certain quasi will pitch in too) to offer a few suggestions.

[Virgil]

Virgil... whose translation? The Stephan Mitchell and Edward Snow translations are brilliant. Duino Elegies are perhaps Rilke's crowning achievement... but I'd begin with some of the poems from The Book of Images, New Poems, or the Uncollected Poems. There are a number of marvelous works commented upon/referenced here... but I'll try (and I'm certain quasi will pitch in too) to offer a few suggestions.

Stephan Mitchell. This is what i have:

http://img.infibeam.com/img/735fc656/616/1/9780679601616.jpg

[Emil Miller]

I post two of my favourite poems, one is by Theodor Fontane and one by Friedrich Nietzsche. I post them in german because I am in no way able to achieve an adequate translation -- and I hope you do not mind.

Anyone who has read Theodor Fontane and Nietzsche will recognise those elements of their personality in these poems. The sentimentality that permiates Fontane's novels is apparent in the poem you have mentioned, as is the stark reality of the poem by Nietzsche. Nevertheless, I prefer Fontane to Nietzsche because he speaks to a majority of people rather than a select few.

[wlz]

From the Minnesingers:

Dietmar Von Aist

'Parting at Morning', (Slafest, du min friedel).

"Dear love, dost thou sleep fairly?
Alas, there wakes us early
A pretty bird that flew but now
And pearched aloft upon the linden-bough."

"Full softly I was sleeping,
Child, till I heard thee weeping.
Sweet must have its sorrow still;
But all thou bid'st me, sweetheart, I'll fulfil."
The lady fell a-moaning:
"Thou'lt ride and leave me lonely.
And when wilt thou come back to me?
Alas, thou takest all my joy with thee!"

12th Century.

[wlz]

'There is an Old City' by Karl Bulcke

An old town lies afar
From where the great towns be;
The storm roars over the town;
Beside it thunders the sea.

There is an ancient house;
Long locked the gate has been.
On its grey walls the trembling
Blades of the grass are green.

There is a lonely heart,
Strange, full of fears,
That town and that house and that heart
Shut in my boyhood's years....

[anahatalie]

Hey everyone!

Will you please help me figure out the right way to translate these two lines:
Mit deinen Augen, welche müde kaum
von der verbrauchten Schwelle sich befrein
in Rilke's poem "Entrance"?

Here's the whole poem:

Eingang

Wer du auch seist: Am Abend tritt hinaus
aus deiner Stube, drin du alles weißt;
als letztes vor der Ferne liegt dein Haus:
Wer du auch seist.
Mit deinen Augen, welche müde kaum
von der verbrauchten Schwelle sich befrein,
hebst du ganz langsam einen schwarzen Baum
und stellst ihn vor den Himmel: schlank, allein.
Und hast die Welt gemacht. Und sie ist groß
und wie ein Wort, das noch im Schweigen reift.
Und wie dein Wille ihren Sinn begreift,
lassen sie deine Augen zärtlich los . . .

-
Thank you so much!

Natalie

[quasimodo1]

from "Entrance" ...source book is THE BOOK OF IMAGES translated by Edward Snow (ISBN#PT2635 165B813) 1991 Mr. Snow translates those lines as "With your eyes, which in their weariness / barely free themselves from the worn-out threshold, " Hope this answers your question. q1

[anahatalie]

thank you so much!
it did help a lot!!!

;)

[Sebas. Melmoth]

Has anyone considered the poetry of Georg Trakl whose verses Paul Hindemith set to music?

[quasimodo1]

Music in Mirabell

A fountain sings. Clouds stand

In clear blueness, white, delicate.

Silent people wander thoughtfully

Through the old garden in the evening.

The ancestors' marble has turned grey.

A line of birds streaks into the distance.

A faun with dead eyes looks

On shadows that glide into darkness.

Leaves fall red from the old tree

And rotate inside through the open window.

Firelight glows in the room

And paints dim specters of anxiety.

A white stranger enters the house.

A dog leaps through decayed lanes.

The maid extinguishes a lamp.

At night the ear hears the sounds of sonatas.

[stlukesguild]

Trakl is certainly an interesting poet. It's too bad he died so young. It would have been fascinating to where his poems... building on the darker and sensual side of Symbolism (especially Baudelaire) might have headed with the coming of Modernism.

[Madame X]

I have Rilke's collected poetry. I'm enjoying it. Any suggestions of must read Rilke poems?

Leichen-Wäsche has always attracted my romantic side. ;) I once heard or read that it might have been inspired by Baudelaire’s Une Charogne, but whether there’s any factual basis for that (aside from the fact that they’re both about corpses :brow:), I know not. And yes, I know my translation sucks eggs so consider it a mercy for us all that I don’t do this sort of thing for a living.

Leichen-Wäsche

Sie hatten sich an ihn gewöhnt. Doch als
die Küchenlampe kam und unruhig brannte
im dunkeln Luftzug, war der Unbekannte
ganz unbekannt. Sie wuschen seinen Hals,

und da sie nichts von seinem Schicksal wußten,
so logen sie ein anderes zusamm,
fortwährend waschend. Eine mußte husten
und ließ solang den schweren Essigschwamm

auf dem Gesicht. Da gab es eine Pause
auch für die zweite. Aus der harten Bürste
klopften die Tropfen; während seine grause
gekrampfte Hand dem ganzen Hause
beweisen wollte, daß ihn nicht mehr dürste.

Und er bewies. Sie nahmen wie betreten
eiliger jetzt mit einem kurzen Huster
die Arbeit auf, so daß an den Tapeten
ihr krummer Schatten in dem stummen Muster

sich wand und wälzte wie in einem Netze,
bis daß die Waschenden zu Ende kamen.
Die Nacht im vorhanglosen Fensterrahmen
war rücksichtslos. Und einer ohne Namen
lag bar und reinlich da und gab Gesetze.


Corpse Washing

They had grown used to him. Yet when
the kitchen lamp was lit and burning unsteadily
in the dark draft, the stranger was
quite strange. They washed his neck,

and because they knew nothing of his fate,
they fabricated another,
washing all the while. One of them had to cough
and left the soaked vinegar sponge

lying on his face. The other one also
rested. A few drops fell from the
stiff brush while his horrible
clenched hand wanted to make known to
them all that he thirsted no more.

And he succeeded. With a quick, embarrassed cough
they took more quickly to their work,
so that across the wall their
bent and silent shadows formed a

winding, rolling pattern, as in a net,
until the washing came to an end.
The night, in the curtain-less window-frame,
was ruthless. And one without a name
lay there naked and clean, and gave commands.

[stlukesguild]

Has anyone considered the poetry of Georg Trakl whose verses Paul Hindemith set to music?

I must check into these. I quite like both the poet and composer.

[quasimodo1]

To Virgil: re: posting#48... your book of Rilke translated by Mitchell has many if not most of Rilke's delights. His prose work, THE NOTEBOOKS OF MALTE LOURIDS BRIGGE, is another classic but somehow light years away from his poetry. q1

[stlukesguild]

Rilke is probably the single Modern poet who has resonated most with me. I have 15 volumes devoted to his work... in spite of the fact that I am dependent upon translations (I can no longer read enough German to fudge my way through). I might turn to Eliot's Wasteland or Four Quartets... as well as certain poems of Stevens, Yeats, and Frost above any single work by Rilke, but I personally find him unmatched as a whole (although Neruda might be a close second). (Which reminds me... I must read some more Rilke and Neruda this summer).

[Melanie W.]

Hermann Hesse (1877-1962) is a remarkable German poet as well. Some of my favorite poems and books are written by him. One of which is the following:

Stufen

Wie jede Blüte welkt
und jede Jugend dem Alter weicht,
blüht jede Lebensstufe,
blüht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend
zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauern.
Es muss das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe
bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,
um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern
in and're, neue Bindungen zu geben.
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,
der uns beschützt und der uns hilft zu leben.
Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten,
an keinem wie an einer Heimat hängen,
der Weltgeist will nicht fesseln uns und engen,
er will uns Stuf' um Stufe heben, weiten!
Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise
und traulich eingewohnt,
so droht Erschlaffen!
Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise,
mag lähmender Gewöhnung sich entraffen.
Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde
uns neuen Räumen jung entgegen senden:
des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden.
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde!


Stages

As every flower fades and as all youth
Departs, so life at every stage,
So every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.
Since life may summon us at every age
Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,
Be ready bravely and without remorse
To find new light that old ties cannot give.
In all beginnings dwells a magic force
For guarding us and helping us to live.
Serenely let us move to distant places
And let no sentiments of home detain us.
The Cosmic Spirit seeks not to restrain us
But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.
If we accept a home of our own making,
Familiar habit makes for indolence.
We must prepare for parting and leave-taking
Or else remain the slaves of permanence.
Even the hour of our death may send
Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,
And life may summon us to newer races.
So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.

My absolute favorite of his poems is actually "In Sand geschrieben". But i am unable to find an english translation of it. If you know one, please let me know.

[stlukesguild]

I stupidly passed up the chance to purchase a volume of the collected poems of Hesse some 15 or 20 years ago... but I let it get away worried that I would not be able to read the works well enough in German (which I was far more fluent at then). I have a few thin volumes of his poetry (translated) and a few poems here or there that showed up in anthologies. I remember them as being quite good... and considering Thomas Mann's comments upon Hesse... who he saw as the far more poetic writer... and a great poet... where he was the writer of ideas... I certainly keep my eye out for further poems by Hesse.

[quasimodo1]

Banquet Speech
As the Laureate was unable to be present at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1946, the speech was read by Henry Vallotton, Swiss Minister


http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1946/hesse-speech.html

[quasimodo1]

The blue night has softly risen on our foreheads.

Quietly our putrid hands touch

Sweet bride!

Our countenance became pale, moony pearls

Melted in green pond-ground.

Petrified ones, we contemplate our stars.

O painful! Culprits wander in the garden

The shadows in wild embrace,

So that tree and animal sank about them in immense anger.

Soft harmonies, when we ride

through the still night in crystalline waves

A rosy angel steps from the graves of the lovers.

[stlukesguild]

Hans Magnus Enzensburger


Last Supper, Venetian, Sixteenth Century

I.

As soon as I had finished my Last Supper
thirteen yards by five and a half,
a monstrous job, but rather well paid,
the usual questions came up:
What exactly are these foreigners doing here
with their halbherds? They are dressed
like Germans, or like heretics.
Do you think it is normal
to depict Saint Luke
with a toothpick in his hand?
Who put the idea into your head
to sit Moors, drunkards, and clowns
at Our Lord's table?
Do we have to put up with a dog
sniffing around, a dwarf, a parrot
and a Mameluke bleeding from his nose?
My Lords, I said, all this
I have invented for my own pleasure.
But the seven judges of The Holy Inquisition
in a flutter of red silk robes,
muttered, That's as may be.

II.

Oh, I have done better than that
in other paintings,
but nobody else can do a sky
the color of this one;
and I am pleased by these cooks
with their long butcher's knives,
by these men clad in slashed hood
trimmed with fur, in aigrets
adorned with heron feathers, in diadems
and pearl-studded turbans;
not to mention the muffled people
who have mounted the most distant rooftops
of my alabaster-faced palaces,
leaning over the parapets at a dizzy height.
What they are looking for
I cannot tell. But they do not even glance
at you, or at the saints.

III.

I have told you again and again:
There is no art without pleasure.
This is true even of the endless Crucifixions,
Deluges and Massacres of the Innocent
which you ask me to execute-
I cannot imagine why.
So when the sighs of the critics
and the subtleties of the inquisitors
and the probings of the scribes
became too much for me,
I rechristened my Last Supper
and decided to call it
A Dinner at Mr. Levi's

excerpted from The Sinking of the Titanic
translated by the author, Hans Magnus Enzensberger (1929-)


This poem reminds me somewhat of the narrative poems of Richard Howard. The artist in question was the great Venetian painter Paolo Veronese who was notorious for having painted several versions of the Last Supper in which the artist added all sorts of additional characters: clowns, drunkards, women flirting, Germans (unacceptable as Protestant enemies of the good Italian Catholics), strutting aristocrats, musicians, etc... One such painting he retitled Feast in the House of Levi to avoid further scrutiny of the Inquisition, while another became his masterpiece, Wedding at Cana:

http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5018/5398043741_e62c1516be_b.jpg

http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5134/5398043885_b1e90a6a20_b.jpg

[quasimodo1]

Die Verschwundenen/The Vanished -- by Hans Magnus Enzensberger

For Nelly Sachs

It wasn't the earth that swallowed them. Was it the air?
Numerous as the sand, they did not become
sand, but came to naught instead. They've been forgotten
in droves. Often, and hand in hand,

like minutes. More than us,
but without memorials. Not registered,
not cipherable from dust, but vanished—
their names, spoons, and footsoles.

They don't make us sorry. Nobody
can remember them: Were they born,
did they flee, have they died? They were
not missed. The world is airtight
yet held together
by what it does not house,
by the vanished. They are everywhere. ...{excerpt}


Translated by Rita Dove and Fred Viebahn

[Themis]

Among my personal favourites are such poets as Nikolaus Lenau and Annette Droste-Hülshoff.

I particularly enjoy this poem by Nikolaus Lenau because a (boy)friend of mine once sent it to me.

"Diese Rose pflück' ich hier,
In der fremden Ferne;
Liebes Mädchen, dir, ach dir
Brächt' ich sie so gerne!

Doch bis ich zu dir mag ziebn
Viele weite Meilen,
Ist die Rose längst dahin,
Denn die Rosen eilen.

Nie soll weiter sich in's Land
Lieb' von Liede wagen,
Als sich blühend in der Hand
Läßt die Rose tragen;

Oder als die Nachtigall
Halme bringt zum Neste,
Oder als ihr süßer Schall
Wandert mit dem Weste."

Translated:
"His sweet rose here oversea
I must gather sadly;
Which, beloved, unto thee
I would bring how gladly!

But alas! if o'er the foam
I this flower should carry,
It would fade ere I could come;
Roses may not tarry.

Farther let no mortal fare
Who would be a wooer,
Than unwithered he may bear
Blushing roses to her,

Or than nightingale may fly
For her nesting grasses,
Or than with the west wind's sigh
Her soft warbling passes."

My favourite lay by Annette Droste-Hülshoff is "Der Knabe im Moor"/"The little lad in the fen", the first verse goes like this:

"O schaurig ist's übers Moor zu gehn,
Wenn es wimmelt vom Heiderauche,
Sich wie Phantome die Dünste drehn
Und die Ranke häkelt am Strauche,
Unter jedem Tritte ein Quellchen springt,
Wenn aus der Spalte es zischt und singt,
O schaurig ist's übers Moor zu gehn,
Wenn das Röhricht knistert im Hauche!"

Translated (Though personally, I don't think it's as good in English as in German.)
"How creepy it is to cross through the fen
When it’s billowing with haze,
Mists writhing like phantoms,
Bine weaving through bushes;
Up squirts a springlet beneath every step
When hissing and singing come from the gap.
How eerie it is to cross through the fen
When the reed bank rustles in the breeze."