Former Member

Are you still looking for a beta reader? I'm new to this community but I'm always open to new stories. If you are still open to accepting readers we could pair up to critique each other's work.

7 minutes ago, Lyssa said:

In  this case it is a question of pure logic, you can`t be more dead than dead, therefore it could not be "gesteigert" in German. There are some adjectives in German which have no comparsion like dead or only, if the logic will tell you it is impossible.

deader is a perfectly sound construct in English, despite "logic" LOL. See?

https://www.deepl.com/en/translator#en/de/a dead star a deader star

But thanks for taking the time to reply 

I'm starting to work on a Peter Baum poem titled "Ein toter Stern."

My question is on how to know in this case if toter is a straightforward adjective ("dead"; "deceased"; and so forth), or a comparative adjective ("deader"; "more decayed"; and so forth). 

It seems to me I often encounter comparative adjectives in German-language poetics in places where an English-speaking poet would default to a superlative instead. Like "Eine längere Reise" in German might best be rendered in English as "The Longest Journey" instead of a longer journey. 

Any help with toter in the context of Baum's title would be greatly appreciated

. 

Regen

Feiner Regen lag vor dem Fenster. Es war wie

das Rauschen ferner Meere.

So tief träumt es sich in dunklen Zimmern, vor

denen Regen niederfällt.

All die erleucheten Fenster, die einsamen Augen

von Häusern, die in das Dunkel sehnen.

Weit hinter den hohen Wäldern, die sich beschatten,

hinter den Augen der Häuser – hockt ein Weib – mein Gram.

Ich liebte diesen bleichen, zusammengekauerten Gram

mit den großen Abgründen im Auge – seiner mütterlichen

Grausamkeit. Ich hatte Heimweh nach ihm.

Vor Zeiten verließ er mich.

Nun war ich lange einsam.

Der Pfiff einer Lokomotive entfernte sich – weithin.

Immer ferner das Rauschen.

Ich strich mit der Hand durch die Luft. Ich wollte

streicheln – meine Hände suchten schwarze Haare.

Leere lag um mich.

Da war ich Regen, der niederweinte – nur großes

Weinen.

Und es war wie ferne Rauschen fremder Meere.

 --Peter Baum, 1902

Precipitation

A slender rain lies behind the glass. It's like the

murmur of secluded seas. 

So deep it is to dream in darkened rooms, when

the rain begins to descend.

All the illuminated windows, the forlorn sockets

of house-eyes, now yearn into the darkness.

Far beyond the towering forests, which shade themselves,

beyond the gazes of housetops – sits a mate – my grief.

I once loved the cause of this bleached out, ever-crouched grieving

with the fathomless abyss in his eye – his mothering type of

cruelty. But I'm homesick yet for him.

Though he left me long ago,

Now I feel lonelier still.

The shriek of a locomotive moved in the distance – away.

The murmur grew quieter.

I skimmed with my hand through the air. I sought to

caress – my hands searched in vain for his raven hair.

All lay desolate.

Thus I became mere precipitation – only tears

crying.

And like the distant murmur of stranger seas.

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 

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.

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.

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 

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 . . . ?"

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

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?”

_

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 

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 

"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?  

One of my favorite performances of Kuhlau

Chopin on the marimba 

https://youtu.be/v1st0-F3F2s?si=R1obtgMRGL52IfEE

The Azahar Ensemble perform Danzi's d minor quintet. Very compelling, so unlike the studio recordings of Danzi where subtleties are bulldozed in favor of "brilliance." Here 5 people actually bring this music alive because they love it 

Galuppi's most oft recorded piano sonata. Remind you of Mozart any? LOL!!!!!!!!!

21 minutes ago, Parker Owens said:

Yesterday morning, I awoke to this. Quite a wake-up call. 
 

 

 

Tallyho!