German Poetry

[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:









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.

[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
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...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.



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:

[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.

[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.