German Poetry

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?

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.

http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2565/...c4e2bd08_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

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.

'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.

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.

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. ...

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:

lesson plans... what a nightmare.

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:

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.

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.

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.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by 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.

---

This is beautiful!

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.