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    AC Benus
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  • 152 Words
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  • 9 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. 

a Glass Floor Underfoot - 22. where the night’s light is cloaked

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Romantiker-Bildnisse

Herrn John Höxter gewidmet

 

4.

Ich aber las, wo keine Nacht mehr leuchtet,

Der schwarzen Blumen Schimmer und Verderb.

Ich fuhr auf breiten Winden, meer-gefeuchtet,

Auf zu den Sternen, einsam, fern und herb,

 

Griff der Gewitterwolken Feuerschwere,

Hielt schon den Raub. Da stürzt ich in die Not.

Gelähmt in öden Tagen ohne Ehre

Wart ich auf schales Alter, blöden Tod.

 

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Romantic Portraits

Mister John Höxter bestowed

 

4.

I have read, through where the night’s light is cloaked,

That black blossoms must glimmer with decay.

I’ve sailed upon the broad-shouldered winds, sea-soaked,

Up to stars, though distant and harsh were they.

 

I’ve held storm clouds’ fire, though dense and hoary,

Halting theft. Then pitifully plunged bereft.

Staid now by odious days without glory,

I await trite old age and dim-witted death.

 

 

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C.J.B. Way Zero (1917)

 

 

 

 

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Copyright © 2022 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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Chapter Comments

7 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

Here again, you give us Jentzsch’s vivid images in a marvelous translation. “Broad shouldered winds” and “dense and hoary” storm clouds were especially arresting. Thank you! 

Thanks for reading and commenting, Parker. I appreciate it. Expressionistic poetry is all about using big, dreamlike images in a stream of conscious flow. 

Thanks again ❤️ 

 

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Like Parker Owens I loved this poem and its vivid images.  I also decided to translate "Mister John Höxter bestowed" .  That led me to look up Jentzsch (from Parker's comment) and John Höxter.  The information was very interesting, and I was surprised that the Jentzsch information led back to you and The Thousandth Regiment. You impress me the more you write!  

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12 hours ago, raven1 said:

Like Parker Owens I loved this poem and its vivid images.  I also decided to translate "Mister John Höxter bestowed" .  That led me to look up Jentzsch (from Parker's comment) and John Höxter.  The information was very interesting, and I was surprised that the Jentzsch information led back to you and The Thousandth Regiment. You impress me the more you write!  

Thanks for your feedback, Terry! It's nice to know I'm "out there" somewhere :)

John Höxter strikes an interesting, ranconteur, figure in the Bohemian cafe society of Berlin before the start of WW1. I have a poem by him in my email drafts that I should get to translating.

Thanks again!    

Edited by AC Benus
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@Parker Owens@raven1

Here is my first translation of a John Höxter poem. It's from 1916, which was a pretty bleak year, considering how WW1 was dragging on.

 
Berlin Winter
 
An hereditary pea-soup sky, flumps down –
Splattering the earth.
Spree river-mist and smokestack ejections press
Against the naked backs of wet tarpaper buildings.
Scouring-pad patches of snow cling,
Soot-speckled, here and there;
A big-city winter beggaring ermine.
On windowless, close-set house walls,
Above crouching sheds, fenced in by garbage,
Freeze the creased ruts of those billboards
That were once glowing roses, fulgent cyclamen,
Saffron-gold primula, purple-sweet lilacs,
Lost in the sun of summer melodies,
But which now upset me through dissonance,
Mismatching these gray twilight choruses
Where, amongst, the leafless skeletons of trees
The river bends flash with death's pruning knife.
 
 

_

Edited by AC Benus
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4 hours ago, Parker Owens said:

Hoxter’s poem is bleak indeed, piling one grey and dreary image upon another. The image of soot flecked snow being compared to ermine was arresting. 

I agree! And the original has the beggar term in the same line, just like in the translation. The final image took my breath away. The scythe/bends in the river to cut the images of flowers on paper

Edited by AC Benus
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32 minutes ago, raven1 said:

I agree with Parker's comment.  Hoxter did paint a bleak portrait of winter in the city.  As an American growing up in the 50's and 60's, I was never exposed to the works of any non-English writers, except for a few Haiku poems.  Thanks for introducing me to Hoxter.

Thanks, Terry. Your earlier mentioning of Höxter made me focus on the Berlin Winter poem that's been in my email drafts for a little while. I'm happy I spent the time focusing on it, as it has some engaging images and turns of phrase in it. And I love to learn!

Thanks again!  

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