I have Rilke's collected poetry. I'm enjoying it. Any suggestions of must read Rilke poems?
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I have Rilke's collected poetry. I'm enjoying it. Any suggestions of must read Rilke poems?
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:Quote:
Originally Posted by stlukesguild
http://img.infibeam.com/img/735fc656...0679601616.jpg
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.
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.
'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....
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
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
thank you so much!
it did help a lot!!!
;)
Has anyone considered the poetry of Georg Trakl whose verses Paul Hindemith set to music?
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.
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.
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.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
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.
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.
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