Jump to content
  • Join Gay Authors

    Join us for free and follow your favorite authors and stories.

    AC Benus
  • Author
  • 231 Words
  • 1,282 Views
  • 8 Comments
Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

The Thousandth Regiment - 28. "The sharp pings muffle from the springing shrapnel"

**warning, even for this series, this poem is particularly intense**

.

27. Der helle Klang der springenden Schrapnelle

Ist im Gewölk und Abendrot verweht.

Aussteigt die Nacht wie eine graue Welle,

In der die laute Schlacht nun untergeht.

 

Nur selten ziehen noch in schrillen Strichen

Verirrte Kugeln her; man weiß nicht wie,

Als käm der Tod nun heimlich angeschlichen,

Der tags blutwild nach Hekatomben schrie.

 

Und was noch blieb, paar Dutzend Mann vielleicht,

Kriecht dicht an dicht, daß Herz am Herzschlag klopft

Und uns das bißchen Wärme alle tränkt.

 

Bis einer plötzlich still die Schläfe senkt

Und auf das Land, das weiß im Monde bleicht,

Sein rotes Leben schweigend niedertropft.

 

                              ---

 

27. The sharp pings muffle from the springing shrapnel

To get windswept by the clouds and sunset.

The night rises then like a cresting gray wave,

Causing the loud fighting to sink down too.

 

Yet sometimes, still trekked in high-pitched arching strokes,

Aberrant bullets strike; and you won't know

It's as if Death is creeping up secretly,

Whose daytime screams for blood off’ring’s not enough.

 

And they who remain, a few dozen men,

Huddle tight, so heart to heartbeat may throb,

And just a little warmth need soothe us all.

 

Until one jerks, mutely felling his head,

And onto a land bleached white by the moon,

Drips his red life-force away noiselessly.

 

                              ---

 

 

 

_

Copyright © 2019 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
  • Love 4
  • Sad 3
Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
You are not currently following this author. Be sure to follow to keep up to date with new stories they post.

Recommended Comments

Chapter Comments

The image of this poem - of soldiers left behind on the battlefield to watch, to reconnoiter, or to hold on in desperation - is stark and appalling. You translate this vivid scene well enough to wrench my heart. Hans’ final lines broke my heart, as I’m sure so many spirits were broken by the losses they experienced. 

  • Like 1
  • Love 3

I have read all those sonnets so often in the last month, so one would think, that the horrible pictures must be somehow muffled now, but no, they are not. Reading the last stanza is like watching someone dieing slowly. And since you are reading and the image manifest before your inner eye, you can't even close your eyes to get distance. That you can create a translation, which brings this effect into English and reads like it was written in English, is artistry. Getting involved with those poems to do so, must be so hard for a strongly emphatic person like you. Many hugs for you. :hug:

Edited by Lyssa
  • Love 1
On 10/1/2019 at 2:04 PM, Parker Owens said:

The image of this poem - of soldiers left behind on the battlefield to watch, to reconnoiter, or to hold on in desperation - is stark and appalling. You translate this vivid scene well enough to wrench my heart. Hans’ final lines broke my heart, as I’m sure so many spirits were broken by the losses they experienced. 

Thank you for this, Parker. I suppose I should be embarrassed to say this, but when I read your comment the first time, it made a spark light ignite in my head. Even though I am translating these poems, being able to recognize the exact action described is sometimes difficult. So I stick to the text as closely as I can.

In this Sonnet, I had always seen the bullets more or less coming in a low line across the no-mans-land to strike them. But now I understand Hans' "arching strokes" literally mean arc created in the sky. I have a whole new level of horror to see in the poem. He means the soldiers on the other side, who have "won" over an enemy unable to fire back, are pointing their rifles in the air. They know bullets travel back to earth from an apogee just as fast as they were fired. 

These bullets are raining down on the few dozen survivors from above. They have no way to protect themselves; they have to shelter; they don't who among them will be struck and killed.
 

Edited by AC Benus
On 10/1/2019 at 5:01 PM, Mikiesboy said:

i don't know how he continued to write these as he's done ... or over what period of time.  i hope to god not daily, because i can't bear to read them.

Thank you, Tim. You ask a good question, and I am pleased to let you know Hans worked on other poems too during the war. As we all might write, some of them deal with memories of better times, and some of them are about his love for Wilhelm. He also created a large an important poem called Rhapsodie. It was published in the 1917 posthumous collection along with many of the others he wrote while in uniform. 

Thanks again for reading these and encouraging me. Muah

On 10/2/2019 at 9:46 AM, Lyssa said:

I have read all those sonnets so often in the last month, so one would think, that the horrible pictures must be somehow muffled now, but no, they are not. Reading the last stanza is like watching someone dieing slowly. And since you are reading and the image manifest before your inner eye, you can't even close your eyes to get distance. That you can create a translation, which brings this effect into English and reads like it was written in English, is artistry. Getting involved with those poems to do so, must be so hard for a strongly emphatic person like you. Many hugs for you. :hug:

Yes, I know what you mean. Some of them I have worked on so many times, but still... Each time encountering them is like the first, especially No. 30, the Christmas poem.

But it is a hallmark of great poetry that each time a work is encountered, it seems new and different. Of course, it's not the poem that has changed, but the reader. We are ever bringing deeper understanding to what we absorb. Poems like these are meant to change people, and they do.

Thank you as always, Lyssa, for supporting me both technically and emotionally. Muah

  • Love 1
View Guidelines

Create an account or sign in to comment

You need to be a member in order to leave a comment

Create an account

Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!

Register a new account

Sign in

Already have an account? Sign in here.

Sign In Now


  • Newsletter

    Sign Up and get an occasional Newsletter.  Fill out your profile with favorite genres and say yes to genre news to get the monthly update for your favorite genres.

    Sign Up
×
×
  • Create New...