Showing posts with label German poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label German poetry. Show all posts

"dust"


once the door is shut, even the dogs in their
kennels are hushed. air traffic ceases, no
mower, no ticking alarm clock, no intrusion. just

the curtain seam that drags along the floor. a shaft of light
that strikes my eye. a sense of fever. timber creaking softly.
just a wasp that bounces off the window. the sway of firs

outside, and in my room, where someone
lurks with blunted blade, motes are trembling. dust.
dust. i hear the wasp that is above me. a clatter of

plates from the kitchen, a clink of glasses, now cutlery:
who, if i cried out, would hear me, once the animal film
on channel three and all that talk are underway

and none of it addressed to me, trapped in boundless
afternoon light. dust. dust. am i the insect, weary beyond
measure; this is the bed my mother lay in as a child.

"staub" (dust)--Nadja Küchenmeister
Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock

At first glance, Nadja Küchenmeister's poems seem to follow a template used by many poets today: domestic scenes are described in close detail, implying emotions rather than expressing them directly. But, as her poems continue, the ear picks out intricate patterns of rhyme and assonance, creating a level of formal beauty unusual in verse now. Yet there's nothing self-conscious about them; her poems, however melodic, are rooted in the mundane scenes they spring from.  Roman Bucheli, arts editor for a leading Swiss newspaper, has called her "a virtuoso of the unspectacular."

Indeed, Küchenmeister has been widely praised as a refreshing new voice in German-language poetry. Die Zeit named her second collection, Unter dem Wacholder (Under the Juniper Tree), one of the best books of 2014. When the collection won the Bremen Literature Prize, Mareike Bannasch described it as inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke, Tom Waits and the Bible.

In a 2014 segment on SWR2 Radio,  presenter Gabi Schlag said, "Her first book of poems, Alle Lichter (All Lights) [published in 2010], is a reflection of the angry Nadja Küchenmeister: the undefeated person who asserts the right to create new meanings: her own value system. In Unter dem Wacholder, the melancholy, death-hungry poet is just as unconditional: hard and precise. Her ability to portray the process of remembrance in all its mystery and magic is unbroken." 

Two excellent and experienced translators, Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock, have published English and Gaelic versions of Küchenmeister's work, which were issued by the Irish publisher Litriocht. To be fully appreciated, however, her poems must be heard in German (see the first link below).


Küchenmeister's third collection, Im Glasberg (In a Glass Mountain) was published in March 2020. One of the poems in that collection has been chosen for the Frankfurter Anthologie (see last link below):



Photograph of Nadja Kuchenmeister by Franziska Buddrus

"Spring has come back again"



Spring has come back again. The Earth is
like a child that’s got poems by heart;
so many poems, so many verses,
patient toil winning her prizes at last.

Strict, the old teacher. We loved the whiteness
in the old gentleman’s beard, its bright snow.
Now when we ask what the green, what the blue is,
Earth knows the answer, has learned it. She knows.

Earth, you’re on holiday, lucky one: play now!
Play with us children! We’ll try to catch you.
Glad, joyous Earth! The gladdest must win.

Every lesson the old teacher taught her,
all that is printed in roots and laborious
stems: now she sings it! Listen, Earth sings!

Rainer Maria Rilke; translated by Stephen Cohn

"The Earth is like a child who knows poems by heart" is one of the Rilke lines you'll see most often quoted on the web, but there's seldom any attribution, and I wonder how many English speakers have seen the whole poem. The line comes from Sonnets to Orpheus (Part One, XXI), which Rilke wrote in February 1922, completing all 55 poems of the cycle in about three weeks.

The inspiration for this sonnet came from a visit to Ronda, in southern Spain, in the winter of 1912-13. Rilke had overheard a group of schoolchildren singing in the Convent of Santo Domingo, accompanied only by a triangle and tambourine. He didn't know what their song meant, but the light-hearted animation of their singing is reflected in the cadences of the second and third stanzas.

There are many translations of the cycle, but the one I like best--and which seems to me closest to Rilke's German--is Stephen Cohn's. Readers who know some German can see how faithfully he has caught the spirit of Rilke's celebration of springtime and childhood:

Frühling ist wiedergekommen. Die Erde 
ist wie ein Kind, das Gedichte weiß; 
viele, o viele . . . Für die Beschwerde 
langen Lernens bekommt sie den Preis. 

Streng war ihr Lehrer. Wir mochten das Weiße 
an dem Barte des alten Manns. 
Nun, wie das Grüne, das Blaue heiße, 
dürfen wir fragen: sie kanns, sie kanns! 

Erde, die frei hat, du glückliche, spiele 
nun mit den Kindern. Wir wollen dich fangen, 
fröhliche Erde. Dem Frohsten gelingts. 

O, was der Lehrer sie lehrte, das Viele, 
und was gedruckt steht in Wurzeln und langen
schwierigen Stammen: sie singts, sie singts!

Photo above courtesy of www.4kphoto.net.

El Convento de Santo Domingo, where Rilke heard the children sing
Julius Feldmeier plays Rilke in a new film

"What is the moon to us?"



What is the moon to us, and what do stars mean,
to us, or to brows so dark and glowing bright!
At the downfall of the most beautiful lands,
we are the ones who absorb it like a dream at night.

Where is there law, where order? Where do we see
the wholly comprehensible leaf or tree or stone?
They are only present in language's beauty,
in Being's pure tone . . .

Ingeborg Bachmann/translation by Peter Filkins

Excerpt from "Von einem Land, einem Fluss und den Seen"
("Of a land, a river and lakes") from the collection, Darkness Spoken: The Collected Poems (Zephyr Press), 2006

Ingeborg Bachmann (1926-1973) is one of Europe's finest postwar writers, but she is just being discovered by many North American readers. Peter Filkins' masterful translations of her poetry offer an excellent introduction to her work. Here are the excerpted lines in German:

Was kümmern uns der Mond und was die Sterne,
uns, deren Stirnen dunkeln und erglühn!
Beim Untergang des schönsten aller Länder
sind wir’s, die es als Traum nach innen ziehn.

Wo ist Gesetz, wo Ordnung? Wo erscheinen
uns ganz begreiflich Blatt und Baum und Stein?
Zugegen sind sie in der schönen Sprache,

"Bread and Wine"

Portrait of Hölderlin in 1792 by his friend, Franz Karl Heimer

Town rests now, all around, the lit streets quietening;
  Carriages leave in a flare of lamps with a rush.

Full of a whole day's happiness, people go home to their rest;
  Shrewd men weigh profit and losses,

Pleased at home; empty the bustling market stands
  Of grapes and flowers, and rests from works of the hand.

Distantly though, there is music from gardens; perhaps
  Someone in love is playing or a lonely man

Thinking of distant friends or his young days; the unfailing
  Fountains come with a rush through greenery, sweet.

Softly the rung bells ring on the dusky air and the watchman,
  Mindful of time, calls out the counted hours.

Now comes a stir through the air and troubles the treetops,
  And see, our earth's shadower, the moon

Comes too now, stealing in; the night comes, passionate night
  Full of stars and not much concerned about us:

The astonishing night, the foreigner among humans, lifts
  Over mountains, sadly, in glory, shining.

"Brot und Wein," Friedrich Hölderlin, 1800-01

Translation by David Constantine
(Bloodaxe Books, 1996)


When I first read Rilke, I thought his poetic voice was totally original. That was because I didn't know Hölderlin. Now I see that Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843) is one of the great European poets, as thrilling for the depth of his feeling as for the beauty of his imagery--and a visionary on whose work Rilke and other writers have built.

Because he trained for the clergy, Hölderlin learned Classical Greek, the language of the New Testament. He soon came to see Greek culture as the remedy for everything life-denying in the society of his day and developed that idea in a novel entitled Hyperion. Set against the backdrop of Greece's modern struggle for independence, it appeared in two volumes--one in 1797, the other two years later. Then, in poems like "Bread and Wine," Hölderlin used the flowing meters of Classical Greek verse to create a voice of aspiration that he hoped would awaken and enlighten his readers.


But Hölderlin's time for the work he envisioned for himself was tragically brief.  At 35 he suffered a mental breakdown and was hospitalized for six months the following year. Believing he had just a short time to live, the hospital released him into the care of Ernst Zimmer, a carpenter who lived in Tübingen.

Zimmer and his family gave the poet lodgings in a tower-shaped structure that adjoined their home along the River Neckar. Hölderlin lived there for 36 years, receiving guests, as his writing slowly became better known; playing the piano an admirer had given him; and even writing occasionally, during brief periods of lucidity. 


During his own day, Hölderlin was best known for
Hyperion, not for his poems. 
The lines above are the only portion of "Bread and Wine" published during his lifetime; the other eight strophes did not appear until 1894. 


Twenty years later, Rilke's friend Norbert Hellingrath published a collection of Hölderlin's verse that the poet read with great interest, and I believe Rilke must have had the long, sonorous lines of "Bread and Wine" and other Hölderlin elegies in mind as he worked on the Duino Elegies from 1912 to 1922.

The elegies are difficult to translate into English; their meters are unfamiliar to us and Hölderlin deploys them with virtuosic skill. The best English translations I know are by British poet David Constantine, and I recommend them for anyone who wants to explore this unique and life-affirming poet.


The tower in Tübingen where Hölderlin spent the last decades of his life


"Stay"

Ingeborg Bachmann, Hans Magnus Enzensberger and Gunter Grass in Rome

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.

"Bleib" ("Stay")
Ingeborg Bachmann; translation by Peter Filkins
(from Darkness Spoken, Zephyr Press, 2006)

Austria's Ingeborg Bachmann (1926-1973) is widely regarded as one of the best European writers of the postwar period. As a poet, Bachmann had the gift of evoking a complex situation, rich in emotional undertones, with a handful of words.

The first stanza of this poem is a prime example: notice how magically its last word, "kartenhaus" ("house of cards" in English) serves as a springboard for the conceit that follows. Some of the surprise of the last two lines is that a "house of cards" generally has negative connotations; here that final "Blatt" ("card") becomes something numinous and full of promise.


In his superb translation, Peter Filkins wisely uses rhyme, and it works well, but, in the original German, the rhyme scheme (A/B/A/B) is tighter, creating an even more compelling verbal "tune". The poem comes from Bachmann's 1956 collection, Anrufung des Großen Bären, (Invocation of the Great Bear):

Die Fahrten gehn zu Ende,
der Fahrtenwind bleibt aus.
Es fällt in die Hände
ein leichtes Kartenhaus.

Die Karten sind bebildert
und zeigen jeden Ort.
Du hast die Welt geschildert
und mischst sie mit dem Wort.

Profundum der Partient,
die dann im Gange sind!
Bleib, um das Blatt zu ziehen,
mit dem man sie gewinnt.

In February 2023, Margarethe von Trotta's film, Ingeborg Bachmann: Journey into the Desert, opened at the Berlin Film Festival, with Vicky Krieps as the author. See the link below for a review.

"Every day"

Ingeborg Bachmann

War is no longer declared,
but rather continued. The outrageous
has become the everyday. The hero
is absent from the battle. The weak
are moved into the firing zone.
The uniform of the day is patience;
the order of merit is the wretched star
of hope over the heart.

It is awarded
when nothing more happens,
when the bombardment is silenced,
when the enemy has become invisible
and the shadow of eternal armament
covers the sky.

It is awarded
for deserting the flag,
for bravery before a friend,
for the betrayal of shameful secrets
and the disregard of every command.

"Alle Tage"
Ingeborg Bachmann; translation by Peter Filkins
(from Darkness Spoken, Zephyr Press, 2006)

If you saw this poem in a magazine, you might take it for a defense of Edward Snowden or a warning about the coming of Donald Trump. Actually, it was written in 1953.

Austria's Ingeborg Bachmann is widely considered to be one of the best European poets of the postwar period. The first full-scale biography of her appeared in German in 2013; a second was published in November 2017. Bachmann is just now being discovered by many readers in North America.



Top photograph by I.B. Spiegelbild