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    AC Benus
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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 - 34. "It's now our eyes glaze over like bright water"

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33. Nun trocknen unsrer Augen helle Wasser

Wie Sommerteiche müde in uns ein.

Durchs Fenster nebelt Tag, ein grauer Schein,

Und macht das Sterben stiller noch und blasser.

 

O unser Blut war heiß wie Feuerwein

Und raste wild durch Sturm und Kugelregen.

Wir können uns vor Schwäche nicht mehr regen

Und müssen in uns selbst begraben sein.

 

So leise sind die weißen Pflegerinnen.

Wir merken kaum, wie sie sich zu uns neigen,

Kühl durch die Glut, in der die Seele dorrt.

 

Und eh wir uns auf unsern Gott besinnen,

Fühlen wir die Verwesung faulig steigen

Und treiben trostlos auf den Fluten fort.

 

                              ---

 

33. It's now our eyes glaze over like bright water

From bleary summer ponds drying within.

Day fogs through windows, a colorless sheen,

To make dying still more pallid and quiet.

 

O once our blood was hot as scalded wine

Coursing amid storms and the hail of bullets.

But we can no longer stir through lack of strength

And in ourselves must lay us down in tomb.

 

So quiet are the nurses in their whites,

We scarcely feel their leaning in to tend us,

Cool in the glare, in which the soul desiccates.

 

But 'fore turning to reconcile with our God,

We feel our putrefying corruption come

And swell desolate on the floating tides.

 

                              ---

 

 

 

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Copyright © 2019 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
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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. 
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I don’t know of other poetry written from the point of view a wounded soldier. This sonnet lets us see the lingering pain and plain, formless anguish of those left to rot or recover in hospital. It isn’t the heroic battlefield death of propaganda; this is the truth we are given. How vividly I see the ward in which Hans lies. Everyone ought to read these poems...

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Everyone should read these ... perhaps, but it is like watching a loved one die before you. Yet you cannot look away. 

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What a heartbreaking sonnet. For me it is always impressive, which sound Hans created in my inner ear, describing the scenes. In this case they change from stanza one to stanza two from piano to forte and change back to piano in three and four and you translation creates the same, which is fascinating and amazing.

 

 

 

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On 10/14/2019 at 2:54 PM, Parker Owens said:

I don’t know of other poetry written from the point of view a wounded soldier. This sonnet lets us see the lingering pain and plain, formless anguish of those left to rot or recover in hospital. It isn’t the heroic battlefield death of propaganda; this is the truth we are given. How vividly I see the ward in which Hans lies. Everyone ought to read these poems...

Yes, I'm with you on that one; not knowing of any wartime poem(s) told by a wounded soldier from a wounded soldier's point of view. Even if it turns out not to be utterly unique, it will always stay astoundingly accomplished. The pace, flow, images -- all of them are so finely tuned -- and even through the aesthetics of an Expressionistic artist, come through with remarkable clarity. As I often ask myself, how could verse of this quality have been "asleep" all these years. Encountering these Regiment sonnets has been like finding another world, to borrow an apt cliche :)

Thanks again, Parker, for your comments and support  

Edited by AC Benus
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On 10/15/2019 at 7:21 PM, Mikiesboy said:

I cannot speak of the sadness and pain these poems awaken.

Thank you, Tim. Yes, they are part of the "bleeding bricks" at the base of the new world order emerged in the wake of the war. This is how Hans himself put it, and it applies to all the soldier-poets of the war, most of whom only saw their work printed posthumously by their friends and partners.  

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On 10/15/2019 at 7:43 PM, MichaelS36 said:

Everyone should read these ... perhaps, but it is like watching a loved one die before you. Yet you cannot look away. 

Thank you, Mike. I have come to the same conclusion; part of the artistry Hans instilled in the order of the poems is this great rise in caring for the "we" in the plight of an individual. Most WW1 poets strive to speak for the many, but few that I know about (in the English language) seek to do it in a personal way. With H.E-D, it is devastating. 

I have been researching the ways in which Wilhelm, and Hans' mother and father took his loss. It is heartbreaking too...Murnau for example didn't speak for months and months to anyone other than what was needed for his pilot duties...and he could no longer bear anyone calling him "Wilhelm". From then on, he was only F.W., even to his closest friends. 

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On 10/19/2019 at 3:36 AM, Lyssa said:

What a heartbreaking sonnet. For me it is always impressive, which sound Hans created in my inner ear, describing the scenes. In this case they change from stanza one to stanza two from piano to forte and change back to piano in three and four and you translation creates the same, which is fascinating and amazing.

 

Thank you, Lyssa. Hans is a master of the Sonnet form. Sometimes the pivot point starting with stanza three is so breathtaking, I find it inspiring. This happens in Regiment No. 1, and I can see the master selecting this poem to start the collection very carefully. No. 34 here is another brilliant example, this time by taking the reading through the poet's mind back to the physical -- the white of the nurses, the quality of the light, the touch as they tend to the wounded. All of this set up a brilliant statement in the end concerning a soul's ultimate freedom from a body only meant to experience things and enrich its eternity 

Thanks again for all your support of my efforts 

Edited by AC Benus
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24 minutes ago, AC Benus said:

he could no longer bear anyone calling him "Wilhelm". From then on, he was only F.W., even to his closest friends. 

Aw, that is so, so sad. Obviously, there was a huge deep love there. Thanks for sharing that, AC. 

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