Poems in different languages

[Former Member]

I only ran into this poet yesterday, thanks to a Poesie schmeckt gut Facebook posting. Robert Jentzsch was a contemporary of Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele but less Expressionistic than neo-Stefan-George in a painterly way. That being said, the following poem follows the Expressionist's primacy of exploring the importance of dreams on our waking consciousness. 

Robert Jentzsch may be unique in his brilliance as a mathematician and his serious interest in poetry. Sadly, both flames were extinguished on the battlefields of WW1, where he was killed at age 26.

Thoughts on my first attempt at translating his work...?

 

Widmung

von Robert Jentzsch

 

Die ihr im flüsternden Walde nächtens schweift,
Vorm falben Frühlicht in die Häuser kehrt,
Nach Schmetterlingen langt, nach Faltern greift,
Ihr licht- und frohen Kinder unversehrt

 

Von Qual, die sinnlos uns am Boden schleift,
Die uns der Tage Munterkeit verwehrt,
Und, wenn die stumpf Entschlafnen Morgen streift,
Heiß gegen Wollen und Traum aufbegehrt:

 

Ich will erinnern, wie ich eure Kreise,
Die Spiele der begeisterten Natur
Verlassen musste, Hügel, Fluss und Flur,

 

Wie ich die tief in Lehm geschnittnen Gleise,
Hinwandernd zu den großen Städten kam:
Nun kenn ich Jugend krank und Alter gram

 

Und die Zertrümmerung der Menschen-Seele.

 

 

 -------------------------------------

 

Convocation

by Robert Jentzsch

 

You who drift in some rustling forest at night,

Going home ‘fore dull morning’s glow is spied,

Grasping at butterflies, grasping moths in flight,

Bright and joyful children unscathed inside

 

From torment, which drags us to the ground with might,

To whom day’s lithe cheerfulness is denied,

And which lackluster morn comes as sleeping’s blight

To hot rebel against both dreams and pride:

 

I’ll recall I was forced to leave your confines,

Where the games of nature delight and thrill,

Parting with field and river, stream and hill,

 

For just as deep-cut track and clay intwines

Wandering towards the great cities still,

Age finds itself sorrowful, and youth ill

 

To know how shattered is a human soul.      

 

_

Edited March 22, 2022 by AC Benus

[Lyssa]

On 3/22/2022 at 3:40 PM, AC Benus said:

I only ran into this poet yesterday, thanks to a Poesie schmeckt gut Facebook posting. Robert Jentzsch was a contemporary of Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele but less Expressionistic than neo-Stefan-George in a painterly way. That being said, the following poem follows the Expressionist's primacy of exploring the importance of dreams on our waking consciousness. 

Robert Jentzsch may be unique in his brilliance as a mathematician and his serious interest in poetry. Sadly, both flames were extinguished on the battlefields of WW1, where he was killed at age 26.

Thoughts on my first attempt at translating his work...?

 

Widmung

von Robert Jentzsch

 

Die ihr im flüsternden Walde nächtens schweift,
Vorm falben Frühlicht in die Häuser kehrt,
Nach Schmetterlingen langt, nach Faltern greift,
Ihr licht- und frohen Kinder unversehrt

 

Von Qual, die sinnlos uns am Boden schleift,
Die uns der Tage Munterkeit verwehrt,
Und, wenn die stumpf Entschlafnen Morgen streift,
Heiß gegen Wollen und Traum aufbegehrt:

 

Ich will erinnern, wie ich eure Kreise,
Die Spiele der begeisterten Natur
Verlassen musste, Hügel, Fluss und Flur,

 

Wie ich die tief in Lehm geschnittnen Gleise,
Hinwandernd zu den großen Städten kam:
Nun kenn ich Jugend krank und Alter gram

 

Und die Zertrümmerung der Menschen-Seele.

 

 

 -------------------------------------

 

Convocation

by Robert Jentzsch

 

You who drift in some rustling forest at night,

Going home ‘fore dull morning’s glow is spied,

Grasping at butterflies, grasping moths in flight,

Bright and joyful children unscathed inside

 

From torment, which drags us to the ground with might,

To whom day’s lithe cheerfulness is denied,

And which lackluster morn comes as sleeping’s blight

To hot rebel against both dreams and pride:

 

I’ll recall I was forced to leave your confines,

Where the games of nature delight and thrill,

Parting with field and river, stream and hill,

 

For just as deep-cut track and clay intwines

Wandering towards the great cities still,

Age finds itself sorrowful, and youth ill

 

To know how shattered is a human soul.      

 

_

I can feel him. Such an impressiv poem, such a good translation. Muha

[Former Member]

3 minutes ago, Lyssa said:

I can feel him. Such an impressive poem, such a good translation. Muha

Thank you, Lyssa

[Former Member]

Attention any German speakers!

I've encountered a remarkable poem by one of Germany's leading poets of the past. The word is "After". 

Oddly, the online translation sites translate the word as if it means the same thing in English, that is, as "after."

However, through all my separate, independent research I find only one (and only one!) meaning for the German noun "After" -- and that is anus. 

Interestingly, in the context of the poem, it makes total sense. But are there indeed different meanings for the German noun "After"? 

Thanks in advance

 

[JACC]

On 4/14/2017 at 8:24 PM, Former Member said:

I recognized, that poems in different languages have a different emotional connection to me. So I have a question: Does anyone of you read or write poems in different languages? And  if so what impact have poems in foreign languages on you?

I do, and it is sometimes a struggle which language has the upper hand at the time of creation, the time of birth. I usually move among four languages and it is not easy to balance one source from the next. My poems are born obviously in a language, versions in the others come… but they are different, it’s never a 100% equivalence… not easy. In fact, I’m sampling data for a research…

[Lyssa]

In memory of my father, who loved Rilke as much as I do. As my mum is in coma still for nearly 3 years, he died a few month ago probably waiting for her to follow this peacful path.

The death of the beloved

He only knew about death what everyone knows:

It takes us and pushes us into the silence.

But when she was not torn away from him,

no, rather softly released from his eyes,

slipping away to unknown shadows,

and once he felt her moonlike gentle smile

and her way of kindness bright up this dark realm:

The dead became familiar to him,

as if related close to each of them

because of her; he let the others talk

and did not believe, he called that land

the pleasant one, the ever-sweet -

and probed it carefully for her feet.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Der Tod der Geliebten

Er wußte nur vom Tod, was alle wissen:
daß er uns nimmt und in das Stumme stößt.
Als aber sie, nicht von ihm fortgerissen,
nein, leis aus seinen Augen ausgelöst,
hinüberglitt zu unbekannten Schatten,
und als er fühlte, daß sie drüben nun
wie einen Mond ihr Mädchenlächeln hatten
und ihre Weise wohlzutun:
Da wurde ihm die Toten so bekannt,
als wäre er durch sie mit einem jeden
ganz nah verwandt; er ließ die andern reden
und glaube nicht und nannte jenes Land
das gutgelegene, das immersüße -
und tastete es ab für ihre Füße.

Rainer Maria Rilke

[Aditus]

Die perfekte Wahl. It's the perfect poem for their situation.

[Former Member]

"Von neun Uhr dreizehn hab’ ich die ganze Nacht,

Auf meinem knarrenden Reisekorb sitzend, durchdämmert halb, halb durchwacht,

Auch manchmal die guten Bröte von Tante Marta gegessen.

Jetzt erschienen im Zwielicht Parzellen, Schilder, Fabrikessen."

 

I know Konrad Weichberger was going for a rhyme on "gegessen," but Fabrikessen? What the heck is one supposed to see with this noun? 

The context would seem to place whatever it is amidst market plots (produce fields to supply the greengrocers and florists of the nearby city) and not-very-well defined "signage" (which could be billboards or large-lettered names of companies on buildings).

Thoughts on Fabrikessen?  

 

 

[Lyssa]

Different meanings are possible, depending on the overall context.

[Former Member]

It's possible for essen to be a noun in English too, and to mean the same thing in German. So, a literal translation of Fabrikessen can be factory-eats, meaning a factory cafe, canteen, cafeteria. But contextually, how would the person narrating this poem, sitting in a rail car traveling in the early morning and looking out the window, see a canteen? An eats? 

Are we to imagine we're seeing lunchtime pushcarts? (Oh, there were early 20th century horse-drawn "lunch wagons" in the U.S. -- the forerunners of "food trucks," which are so popular today.)  

I'd logically like to think Kondrad (we're on a first name basis by now  ) means something in the context of market plots, but "canning factory," or "food processing plant" lol seems a little far afield.

I may be as sneaky as Konrad was and just go with a context-free Factory-eats in my translation 

Edited June 21, 2024 by AC Benus

[Lyssa]

My first association was with workers marching into the factory with a man with a "Henkelmann" in his hand. The workers came to the factory in the morning with such a container. The food they brought with them in the container was heated up in the factory canteen.

 

[Former Member]

1 hour ago, Lyssa said:

My first association was with workers marching into the factory with a man with a "Henkelmann" in his hand. The workers came to the factory in the morning with such a container. The food they brought with them in the container was heated up in the factory canteen.

 

Interesting, as these containers are the literal meaning of the word "canteen" in English 

[Former Member]

This is such a dirty little poem, it's making my day! lol. Maybe my week. And Konrad Weichberger had this put in print in 1928! wow

 

In der Konditorei

 

Dein Stimmchen, wenn du am Nebentisch die Preise

Den gehenwollenden Gästen aufzählst,

Klingt immer wie in eine Frage aus;

Fest sagst du nur die Zahl;

Aber im Wort der Ware hüpft der musikalische

Akzent auf der Endung,

Während der dynamische

Akzent auf dem Stamm bleibt:

 

„Vierzig Pfennje, der Kaffee . . . ?

Dreißig Pfennje, die Torte . . . ?

Zwanzig Pfennje, die Sahne . . . ?

Zehn Pfennje, Bedienung . . . ?”

 

Erwartest du denn, daß man gegen des Preises

Sicher berechtigte Höhe Einspruch erhebt?

Oder, kleine Weise, weißt du ohne viel Wissen,

Daß fest nur die Zahl ist?

Heißt in deiner Betonung dieses Schwebende

Bebende, Strebende, Lebende, Sich Hebende,

Daß du die Existenz deiner Süßigkeiten in Frage stellst

Und läßt mir nur die platonische Idee – die Zahl, zum Bezahlen:

 

„Vierzig Pfennje, der Kaffee?

Dreißig Pfennje, die Torte?

Zwanzig Pfennje, die Sahne?

Zehn Pfennje, Bedienung?”

 

 

_

[Former Member]

 

I've been working on translating poems by Konrad Weichberger. I made the plunge and bought his collected poems and biography from Germany. 

Anyway, I thought I'd share one translation in which I think I managed to captured the beauty of the original. This poem is also in the style for which Weichberger is best-remembered; emotional moments captured in vignettes. 

 

    Vollmond

 

Wir assen Pfannekuchen

Mit Zwetschenmus gefüllt,

Ich und du,

Und machten Unsinn dazu.

Im Walde, über den Buchen

Sah’n wir den Vollmond sich heben,

Gross, rot und dunstumhüllt,

Halb rollen und halb schweben.

Ach, und das hat dir Spass gemacht!

Du schnitt’st ihm eine Fratze,

Und hast ihn so betracht’t und hast gelacht,

Und gemeint, von dem lustigen Leben bei Nacht

Hätt‘ er schon ‘ne gehörige Glatze;

Und säh‘ doch sonst so rot und frisch –

Ich fühlte gleich moralisches Plus,

Und fuhr mir durch meine dicken Haare

Dreimal

Mit einem wahren Hochgenuss –

Und du, du setztest dich auf den Tisch

Und sahst hinab in das wunderbare

Waldgeränderte Wiesental

Mit dem gewundenen Fluss

In dem der Mond sich zitternd widerstrahlte.

Du sagtest, das hätte keinen Zweck;

Er wär‘ ein rechter alter Geck –

Aber während ich die Zeche bezahlte,

Blicktest du immer noch still hinaus in die Wälder –

Ach, und das was damals.

(1902)

 

 

 

    Bald-Faced Moon

 

Out and about, we ate crêpes

Filled with blue damson jam,

You and me,

Laughed a lot, and horsed around.

Over the woods, above the beech,

We watched a full moon rising slow,

Large, red and veiled by clouds,

Half-wheeling; only half-poised.

Tickled, oh, that did it for you!

You scowled in his direction,

Leered, pulled a face and laughed at old-man moon,

Stating you thought from his heady, active nightlife,

He should indeed be a bald-headed coot

But looked ruddy and fresh instead –

Given instant moral advantage,

You watched as I ran fingers through thick hair

Three times

With a matchless, lofty pleasure –

After, you sat atop the table

To gaze, drawn-kneed, across the enchanting

Forest-edged vale of meadowlands

Above which the clearing moon trembled

In the waters of the aimless river below.

You said you thought it was no use now;

He was a right old playboy after all –

Yet, while I went to settle our tab,

You still gazed into the woods that way –

And oh, that did it for me.

 

 

(apparently in German culture, "full moon" is a slang synonym for bald-headed) 

 

[Former Member]

On 6/22/2024 at 10:53 AM, AC Benus said:

This is such a dirty little poem, it's making my day! lol. Maybe my week. And Konrad Weichberger had this put in print in 1928! wow

 

 

In der Konditorei

 

Dein Stimmchen, wenn du am Nebentisch die Preise

Den gehenwollenden Gästen aufzählst,

Klingt immer wie in eine Frage aus;

Fest sagst du nur die Zahl;

Aber im Wort der Ware hüpft der musikalische

Akzent auf der Endung,

Während der dynamische

Akzent auf dem Stamm bleibt:

 

„Vierzig Pfennje, der Kaffee . . . ?

Dreißig Pfennje, die Torte . . . ?

Zwanzig Pfennje, die Sahne . . . ?

Zehn Pfennje, Bedienung . . . ?”

 

Erwartest du denn, daß man gegen des Preises

Sicher berechtigte Höhe Einspruch erhebt?

Oder, kleine Weise, weißt du ohne viel Wissen,

Daß fest nur die Zahl ist?

Heißt in deiner Betonung dieses Schwebende

Bebende, Strebende, Lebende, Sich Hebende,

Daß du die Existenz deiner Süßigkeiten in Frage stellst

Und läßt mir nur die platonische Idee – die Zahl, zum Bezahlen:

 

„Vierzig Pfennje, der Kaffee?

Dreißig Pfennje, die Torte?

Zwanzig Pfennje, die Sahne?

Zehn Pfennje, Bedienung?”

 

 

_

In the Bakery Café

 

When your fine tenor lists costs at the table next,

For those diners who are in a hurry,

It's usually phrased just like a question;

You state only the amount

Confidently; but then when listing the goods on offer,

The lilt rises at the end,

While the central emphasis

Lingers on from the strain:

 

"Forty cents, for the coffee . . . ?

Thirty cents, for the cake . . . ?

Twenty cents, for the whipped cream . . . ?

Ten cents, for the service . . . ?"

 

Do you expect objections at the cost of things,

For those prices that are reasonable?

Or, O wise little man, do you know without thinking

That only the amount's set?

In your central emphasis,

Perhaps this quaking, searching, breathing, rising lilt means

You question which existential sweets you'll willing to offer up,

Leaving me a broken platonic thought – the amount, to fork over:

 

"Forty cents for the coffee?

Thirty cents the cake?

Twenty cents the whipped cream?

Ten cents, for the server . . . ?"

 

 

[Parker Owens]

Oh indeed it is a dirty little poem. Thirty cents for service and whipped cream - what is to be offered up to the fine tenor on the other side of the counter? 

[Former Member]

2 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

Oh indeed it is a dirty little poem. Thirty cents for service and whipped cream - what is to be offered up to the fine tenor on the other side of the counter? 

Thanks, Parker. This poem hinges on that fact that Bedienung is able to stand for both "service" and "server"  

And as for inflation . . . well, things have changed a lot since 1928 when this gem was first published, lol 

[Former Member]

I've been working with verse penned by another early German Expressionist poet, Peter Baum. His life was cut short by WW1, and his posthumously published "Trench Verses" (Berlin 1916) contain some of the best soldier-poems of the war. Here is an earlier work of his:

 

     Zugvogel

 

Flüchtig,

Einem Wandervogel gleich,

Aber unstäter,

Nirgends heimisch,

Schweift meine Seele

Von Gestad zu Gestade.

 

Keine Blume,

Deren Duft sie berauschte,

Kennt sie mit Namen.

Nichts weiß sie,

Als ein Märchen aus der Kindheit,

Ein paar Lieder,

Wenige Worte der Denker

Und albdrückende Sagen

Von Sünde und ewiger Vergeltung;

Halb wissend,

Sehnsüchtig,

Voll von Träumen und süßen Klängen!

 

O wäre sie dem Schwan gleich

Gesegelt

Auf dem Teich ihrer Heimat,

Dann klänge ihr vertraut das Lied der Nachtigall ihres Busches; 

Dann kennte sie auch die Tiefen ihres Teiches,

Dann heiße sie nicht die Unwissende.

 

Flüchtig,

Einem Wandervogel gleich

Schweift meine Seele

Von Gestad zu Gestade.

--Peter Baum,

1902

 

https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_iGouAAAAYAAJ/page/n83/mode/2up

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

     Bird on the Wing

 

Nomad,

My soul's not unlike a bird

Of passage, yet one

Lost, unstatic,

Native to nowhere,

Flitting from shore to shoreline.

 

Poor feathered thing,

She has no name for the wild flowers

Making her drunk.

She knows naught

But a nursery rhyme for kids,

Various tunes,

A few words from mankind's great minds,

And the damn-fool, sickening

Myth of sin and deathless retribution;

But half-awake,

She's full of longing,

Stuffed with daydreams and harmless music.

 

O would she'd been born a swan,

There to swim

In a pool of home waters,

Where she'd the melody of her frontiers' nightingale recognize;

Where she'd be familiar with the depths of her pond

And could not rightly be called ignorant.

 

Nomad,

My soul's not unlike a bird

Of passage, yet one

Flitting from shore to shoreline.

 

 

 

[chris191070]

1 hour ago, AC Benus said:

I've been working with verse penned by another early German Expressionist poet, Peter Baum. His life was cut short by WW1, and his posthumously published "Trench Verses" (Berlin 1916) contain some of the best soldier-poems of the war. Here is an earlier work of his:

 

     Zugvogel

 

Flüchtig,

Einem Wandervogel gleich,

Aber unstäter,

Nirgends heimisch,

Schweift meine Seele

Von Gestad zu Gestade.

 

Keine Blume,

Deren Duft sie berauschte,

Kennt sie mit Namen.

Nichts weiß sie,

Als ein Märchen aus der Kindheit,

Ein paar Lieder,

Wenige Worte der Denker

Und albdrückende Sagen

Von Sünde und ewiger Vergeltung;

Halb wissend,

Sehnsüchtig,

Voll von Träumen und süßen Klängen!

 

O wäre sie dem Schwan gleich

Gesegelt

Auf dem Teich ihrer Heimat,

Dann klänge ihr vertraut das Lied der Nachtigall ihres Busches; 

Dann kennte sie auch die Tiefen ihres Teiches,

Dann heiße sie nicht die Unwissende.

 

Flüchtig,

Einem Wandervogel gleich

Schweift meine Seele

Von Gestad zu Gestade.

--Peter Baum,

1902

 

https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_iGouAAAAYAAJ/page/n83/mode/2up

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

     Bird on the Wing

 

Nomad,

My soul's not unlike a bird

Of passage, yet one

Lost, unstatic,

Native to nowhere,

Flitting from shore to shoreline.

 

Poor feathered thing,

She has no name for the wild flowers

Making her drunk.

She knows naught

But a nursery rhyme for kids,

Various tunes,

A few words from mankind's great minds,

And the damn-fool, sickening

Myth of sin and deathless retribution;

But half-awake,

She's full of longing,

Stuffed with daydreams and harmless music.

 

O would she'd been born a swan,

There to swim

In a pool of home waters,

Where she'd the melody of her frontiers' nightingale recognize;

Where she'd be familiar with the depths of her pond

And could not rightly be called ignorant.

 

Nomad,

My soul's not unlike a bird

Of passage, yet one

Flitting from shore to shoreline.

 

 

 

Beautiful 

[Parker Owens]

Often it is that I feel just this way. I fly from tree to tree, forest to forest, and yet know so little. 

[JACC]

Dear AC,

I’m making a wild guess thinking we work with similar languages, translation and whatsoever linguistics…

The way you “fish out” audio hits and beautiful poems and try to turn them into an understandable language is just masterful, so, as Germans would  say “Hut ab”. I admire your consistent work. 
All the best, and a really huge “Thank you”

J. A. 
 

[Thirdly]

On 8/1/2024 at 7:12 AM, AC Benus said:

I've been working with verse penned by another early German Expressionist poet, Peter Baum. His life was cut short by WW1, and his posthumously published "Trench Verses" (Berlin 1916) contain some of the best soldier-poems of the war. Here is an earlier work of his:

 

     Zugvogel

 

Flüchtig,

Einem Wandervogel gleich,

Aber unstäter,

Nirgends heimisch,

Schweift meine Seele

Von Gestad zu Gestade.

 

Keine Blume,

Deren Duft sie berauschte,

Kennt sie mit Namen.

Nichts weiß sie,

Als ein Märchen aus der Kindheit,

Ein paar Lieder,

Wenige Worte der Denker

Und albdrückende Sagen

Von Sünde und ewiger Vergeltung;

Halb wissend,

Sehnsüchtig,

Voll von Träumen und süßen Klängen!

 

O wäre sie dem Schwan gleich

Gesegelt

Auf dem Teich ihrer Heimat,

Dann klänge ihr vertraut das Lied der Nachtigall ihres Busches; 

Dann kennte sie auch die Tiefen ihres Teiches,

Dann heiße sie nicht die Unwissende.

 

Flüchtig,

Einem Wandervogel gleich

Schweift meine Seele

Von Gestad zu Gestade.

--Peter Baum,

1902

 

https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_iGouAAAAYAAJ/page/n83/mode/2up

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

     Bird on the Wing

 

Nomad,

My soul's not unlike a bird

Of passage, yet one

Lost, unstatic,

Native to nowhere,

Flitting from shore to shoreline.

 

Poor feathered thing,

She has no name for the wild flowers

Making her drunk.

She knows naught

But a nursery rhyme for kids,

Various tunes,

A few words from mankind's great minds,

And the damn-fool, sickening

Myth of sin and deathless retribution;

But half-awake,

She's full of longing,

Stuffed with daydreams and harmless music.

 

O would she'd been born a swan,

There to swim

In a pool of home waters,

Where she'd the melody of her frontiers' nightingale recognize;

Where she'd be familiar with the depths of her pond

And could not rightly be called ignorant.

 

Nomad,

My soul's not unlike a bird

Of passage, yet one

Flitting from shore to shoreline.

 

 

 

I imagine it's hard translating from German to English. Germans have such a rich vocabulary that surely much of it can't even be translated. What you managed to get out of it was amazing, nonetheless.

[Former Member]

Was working on this Peter Baum poem this morning.

 

Ich wandre und kenne nicht Zeit noch Raum

Und lächle ins Leben, als sei es ein Traum,

In wehende Gärten, die Dämmerung umflicht –

Ich staun‘ wie ein Kind in das zitternde Licht –

Sie sagen, ich altere Jahr um Jahr,

Mir welke die Wange, mir bleiche das Haar,

Am Ende des Weges, da harre der Tod,

Weiß nicht, ob er lächelt, weiß nicht, ob er droht.

So wandre ich, wandre ich Nacht und Tag

Wolken, Sternen und Shcatten nach.

 

 

https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_iGouAAAAYAAJ/page/n75/mode/2up

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I drift, aware neither of space nor time,

Smiling into life's visage as but a dream,

Into billowing gardens where twilight enfolds –

Wonder-struck like a kid in the braiding light –

I'm told I grow older year after year,

While my bloom dwindles and hair turns silver pale,

And at the end of the line, they say Death waits,

But I'm unaware if he smiles on me, or hates.

So, I drift, drifting both through night and day

In wakes of clouds, stars and shadow.

 

 

 

 

[Parker Owens]

The notion that Death may hate or smile is arresting. I know I travel the same road Baum was observing, and I truly hope for a smile. 

[Former Member]

3 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

The notion that Death may hate or smile is arresting. I know I travel the same road Baum was observing, and I truly hope for a smile. 

Thanks for your comments and support, dear friend