Out in front the bearer of the crescent.
Bum-bum, the giant bombardon,
The cymbals and the helicon,
The piccolo, the bugle player,
The Turkish drum and the flutist,
And then the Mr. Captain.
The captain’s approaching with feelings proud,
The chinstraps underneath his chin,
The sash straps ’round his slender waist.
By Jove, that is no idle pastime,
And then come the lieutenants.
Two lieutenants, rosy-red and brown,
The flag they’re guarding as a living fence;
The flag’s approaching, raise your hat,
We’ll stay faithful to it till our death!
And then the grenadiers.
The grenadiers in rigid step,
In step and stride, and stride and step,
That stamps, and thuds, and rattles, and flits,
The glass of lanterns, windows jingle,
And then the little girls.
Die Mädchen alle, Kopf an Kopf,
Das Auge blau und blond der Zopf,
Aus Tür und Tor und Hof und Haus
Schaut Mine, Trine, Stine aus,
Vorbei ist die Musike.
Klingkling, tschingtsching und Paukenkrach,
Noch aus der Ferne tönt es schwach,
Ganz leise bumbumbumbum tsching;
Zog da ein bunter Schmetterling,
Tschingtsching, bum, um die Ecke?
The little girls all, head to head,
Their eyes of blue and blond their pigtails,
From door and gate and yard and house
Minnie, Kitty, Chris look out,
Past now is the music.
Ding-dong, tshing-tshing, and kettle drums’ roar,
Still weakly from the distance sounds
So softly, bumbumbumbum, tshing,
Did just now a colored butterfly turn,
Tshing-tshing bum, ’round the corner?
WER WEISS WO
Schlacht bei Kolin, 18.Juni 1757
Auf Blut und Leichen, Schutt und Qualm,
Auf rosszerstampften Sommerhalm
Die Sonne schien.
Es sank die Nacht. Die Schlacht ist aus,
Und mancher kehrte nicht nach Haus
Einst von Kolin.
Ein Junker auch, ein Knabe noch,
Der heut das erste Pulver roch,
Er musste dahin.
Wie hoch er auch die Fahne schwang,
Der Tod in seinen Arm ihn zwang,
Er musste dahin.
Ihm nahe lag ein frommes Buch,
Das stets der Junker bei sich trug,
Am Degenknauf.
Ein Grenadier von Bevern fand
Den kleinen erdbeschmutzten Band
Und hob ihn auf.
Und brachte heim mit schnellem Fuss
Dem Vater diesen letzten Gruss,
der klang nicht froh.
Dann schrieb hinein die Zitterhand:
“Kolin. Mein Sohn verscharrt im Sand.
Wer weiss wo.”
Und der gesungen dieses Lied,
Und der es liest, im Leben zieht
Noch frisch und froh.
Doch einst bin ich, und bist auch du,
Verscharrt im Sand zur ewigen Ruh,
Wer weiss wo.
WHO KNOWS WHERE
Battle of Kolin, June 18, 1757
Upon blood and corpses, rubble, smoke,
Upon horse-betrampled summer stalks
The sun shone down.
Nightfall descended. The battle’s done,
And many did not homeward come
Then from Kolin.
A cadet too, still just a boy,
Who his first gunsmoke smelled today,
He had to go.
No matter how high he swung the flag,
Into his arms Death forced him,
He had to go.
A pious book lay close to him,
Which the cadet always bore with him
On his sword’s handle.
A grenadier from Bevern found
The small and earth-bespattered volume
And picked it up.
And carried home with quickened step
This final greeting to the father,
It did not sound gay.
Then wrote the trembling hand therein:
“Kolin. My son buried in the sand.
Who knows where.”
And he who has intoned this song,
And he who reads it, walks in life
Still brisk and happy.
But someday I, and also you, will be
Interred in sand to rest eternal
Who knows where.
Conrad Ferdinand Meyer
(1825-1898)
Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, a Swiss novelist and poet, produced his relatively small collection of creative works only by dint of the greatest effort. Rarely satisfied with the first version of his poems, he constantly revised and refined them. As a result of his methods, he created a work in his poem Der römische Brunnen which is well-nigh perfect in form. Practically every syllable has its specific function in the poem’s architecture. Thus the three-tier fountain has its parallel in three verse pairs (lines I to 6); the rising jet of water is reproduced in the first line by a spondee, that is by two accented “rising” syllables, which Meyer produces by boldly disregarding the rules of conventional German grammar (which would force the prefix auf to the end of the clause). Finally, as a comparison with an earlier version indicates, Meyer deliberately shortened the last line, in order to give added emphasis to the two accented words strömt and ruht, which are meant to convey the main thought of the poem. Meyer, by the form and content of his poem — and especially by these two words of the last line — tells us that the seeming antitheses in life — repose and motion, giving and taking, freedom and restraint, rise and fall — can be brought into harmony. By the form and imagery of his poem he demonstrates the feasibility of his convictions.
DER RÖMISCHE BRUNNEN
Aufsteigt der Strahl und fallend giesst
Er voll der Marmorschale Rund,
Die, sich verschleiernd, überfliesst
In einer zweiten Schale Grund;
Die zweite gibt, sie wird zu reich,
Der dritten wallend ihre Flut,
Und jede nimmt und gibt zugleich
Und strömt und ruht.
THE ROMAN FOUNTAIN
The jet ascends, and, falling, fills
Replete the marble basin’s sphere,
Which — enveiling itself — overflows
Into the bottom of a second bowl;
The second passes, grown too full,
Its flood, in waves, on to the third,
And each receives and gives, at the same time,
And flows and rests.
Friedrich Nietzsche
(1844-1900)
Nietzsche was not only a powerful philosopher but also an excellent lyric poet, a master stylist in prose and verse. Indeed, some of his philosophic treatises, such as Thus Spake Zarathustra, read more like poetry than prose.
The poem Vereinsamt has been described as “perhaps the loneliest poem ever written.” It is a deeply touching expression of the inner turmoil and tragic life of a man whose philosophic message was the vigorous and exuberant affirmation of life under all conditions; a man who regarded tragedy as the source of new life and power. After a brillant start in an academic career — on the basis of his prior achievements he was appointed professor of classical philology at the University of Basel at the age of twenty-three — Nietzsche soon resigned his post because of poor health. For the next ten years he lived a lonely wanderer’s life, mostly in the Swiss Alps and Italy, in continual search of a favorable climate, tormented by excruciating headaches, stomach pains and insomnia which he could overcome only with ever increasing doses of barbiturates. Then, in 1889, he suffered a complete mental breakdown from which he did not recover in the
eleven years left to him.
VEREINSAMT
Die Krähen schrein
Und ziehen schwirren Flugs zur Stadt:
Bald wird es schnein —
Wohl dem, der jetzt noch eine4 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 Winterwanderschaft verflucht,
Dem Rauche gleich,
Der stets nach kältern Himmetn sucht.
Flieg, Vogel, schnarr’
Dein Lied im Wustenvogelton! —
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!
ISOLATED
The crows caw
And are city-bound in whirring flight:
Soon it will snow —
Lucky he who now still has a home!
Here you stand petrified,
Gazing backward, alas! for oh, how long!
Why have you, fool,
At winter’s gate fled forth into the world?
The world — a gate
To a thousand wastelands, mute and cold!
Whoever lost
What you have lost, finds nowhere rest.
Now you stand pale,
Condemned to wintry wandering,
Like smoke,
Which always seeks the colder climes.
Fly, bird, burr
Your song in strains of wasteland-birds! —
Hide, you fool,
Your bleeding heart in ice and scorn!
The crows caw
And are city-bound in whirring flight:
Soon it will snow —
Woe to him who has no home!
Christian Morgenstern
(1871-1914)
Morgenstern’s verses of almost untranslatable “superior nonsense” rise considerably above the usual level of humorous lyrics because his absurdities often hide a serious indictment of our bourgeois mores and taboos. His whimsical satire is perhaps best illustrated by the following “mute” poem:
Songs of Fishes Under Water
Morgenstern’s special gift lies in revealing the grotesque irrationality of language (if there is an Elefant why should there not also be a Zwölfant? he asks, tongue-in-cheek) and in using words and sounds with an unexpected, freakish originality, such as in Die Behörde (The Government Office) in which Morgenstern derides German gobbledygook. In Der Werwolf he pokes fun at the declension of the German interrogative wer (who) by inventing a Weswolf “whosewolf”), a Wemwolf (“to-whom-wolf”), etc. Morgenstern would surely have agreed with Mark Twain — and countless students of German — that he would “rather decline a drink than decline a German noun.”
DER WERWOLF
Ein Werwolf eines Nachts entwich
von Weib und Kind und sich begab
an eines Dorfschullehrers Grab
und bat ihn: Bitte, beuge mich!
Der Dorfschulmeister stieg hinauf
auf seines Blechschilds Messingknauf
und sprach zum Wolf, der seine Pfoten
geduldig kreuzte vor dem Toten:
“Der Werwolf” — sprach der gute Mann,
“des Weswolfs, Genitiv sodann,
dem Wemwolf, Dativ, wie man’s nennt,
den Wenwolf, — damit hat’s ein End.”
Dem Werwolf schmeichelten die Fälle,
er rollte seine Augenbälle.
“Indessen, bat er, füge doch
zur Einzahl auch die Mehrzahl noch!”
Der Dorfschulmeister aber musste
gestehn, dass er von ihr nichts wusste.
Zwar Wölfe gab’s in grosser Schar,
doch “Wer” gab’s nur im Singular.
Der Wolf erhob sich tranenblind —
er hatte ja doch Weib und Kind!!
Doch da er kein Gelehrter eben,
so schied er dankbar und ergeben.
THE WEREWOLF
A werewolf one night got away
from his wife and child and ventured to
the grave of a village schoolteacher
and asked him: Please, decline me!
The village schoolmaster ascended
upon the brass knob of his tin gravemarker
and said to the wolf, who crossed his paws
patiently before the dead man:
“Der Werwolf” — said the good man,
“des Weswolfs, genitive is next,
dem Wemwolf, dative, as it’s called,
den Wenwolf, — and with that it’s finished.”
The werewolf was flattered by the cases,
he rolled his eyeballs.
“However,” he begged, “Please add
to the singular also the plural!”
The village schoolmaster, however, had to
confess that he knew nothing of the plural.
Wolves, to be sure, existed in large numbers,
but “Who” occurs only in the singular.
The wolf arose, blinded by tears —
he had, recall, both wife and child!
But since he was not exactly a scholar,
he departed, grateful and resigned.
Richard Dehmel
(1863-1920)
Richard Dehmel’s powerful poems strike many themes: he shows the struggle between the generations, extols the healthy life in the country as opposed to the degeneration of life in the cities, advocates a dionysiac life, and all but sanctifies sex as a “cosmic urge.” But Dehmel is best known in Germany as a poet of social protest. Few poets appealed so directly to the German workers of his time, who affectionately called him “Vater Dehmel” and sang his Erntelied (Harvest Song) at innumerable workers’ meetings. This wide-spread popularity prevailed despite the fact — or perhaps because of it — that Dehmel was not doctrinaire in his views. His sympathies went out to all forms of suffering and he writes movingly of an altruistic love for the whole of humanity: “Ich steh und prüfe die bestandne Fahrt: / nur Eine Inbrunst lässt sich treu ertragen: / zur ganzen Welt.” (I stop and re-examine the past course of life: / only one passion can faithfully be borne: / that to the whole world.)
Although Dehmel came to reject Naturalism — his poems foreshadow both Symbolism and Expressionism — Der Arbeitsmann is symptomatic of the literature of Naturalism at the turn of the century. As so many poems of this literary movement, which often exposed the seamy side of human existence, Der Arbeitsmann focussed its attention on the social problems created by the rapid expansion of industrialism. Typical of the Armeleutepoesie, or “Poor people’s poetry,”. of the time, it expresses pity for the exploited, weary working man. Dehmel, the son of a forest-warden, was in love with the open spaces of his native Spreewald (north-eastern Germany) and envisioned a society in which the worker’s most precious possession, time, is restored to him so that he can spend it in communing with nature.
Der Arbeitsmann was awarded first prize in a contest for the best poem of the “German working people,” a contest organized in 1896 by the famous political-satiric weekly Simplizissimus.
DER ARBEITSMANN
Wir haben ein Bett, wir haben ein Kind,
mein Weib!
Wir haben auch Arbeit, und gar zu zweit,
und haben die Sonne und Regen und Wind,
und uns fehlt nur eine Kleinigkeit,
um so frei zu sein, wie die Vögel sind:
Nur Zeit.
Wenn wir Sonntags durch die Felder gehn,
mein Kind,
und über den Ahren weit und breit
das blaue Schwalbenvolk blitzen sehn,
o
h, dann fehlt uns nicht5 das bisschen Kleid,
um so schön zu sein, wie die Vögel sind:
Nur Zeit.
Nur Zeit! wir wittern Gewitterwind,
wir Volk.
Nur eine kleine Ewigkeit;
uns fehlt ja nichts, mein Weib, mein Kind,
als all das, was durch uns gedeiht,
um so kühn zu sein, wie die Vögel sind:
Nur Zeit!
THE WORKINGMAN
We have a bed, we have a child,
my wife!
We also have work, both of us too,
and we have the sun and the rain and the wind.
And we lack just a trifle
to be as free as the birds:
Only time.
When we walk on Sundays over the fields,
my child,
and over the ears of grain far and wide
we see the blue swallows like lightning streak forth,
oh then we do not lack a bit of clothing
Introduction to German Poetry Page 7