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    AC Benus
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Stories 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 - 36. "I still envision flares rising steeply"

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35. Noch sah ich steil die Leuchtraketen steigen,

Schwarz lag das Land, im Pulverrauch verdorrt.

Da riß mich wie ein Überschwall von Geigen

Die große Sehnsucht in die Heimat fort.

 

Fort von der Nebellast von Qual und Grauen,

Die faulig an der Schädelstätte hing,

Zu Blumen, Frühling, zu verklärten Frauen –

Um die ein Glanz aus meinen Träumen ging.

 

Süß war mein Blut und heiß wie junger Wein,

Durch den des Sommers wilde Fieber stürmen,

Saß er in Drang und Wonne überschäumt.

 

Still aber lag, in Frieden tief verträumt,

Die Heimat da mit Feldern, Brücken, Türmen

Und wiegte ihre Frucht im Sonnenschein.

 

                              ---

 

35. I still envision flares rising steeply,

While the land lays black, arid in gun smoke.

Then, like a flood of violins, great longing

To return to my home tears me away.

 

Away from the loaded fog of pain and grief

That hangs be-fouled on the Place of the Skull.

To flowers, springtime, to idealized women –

These one time formed the luster of my dreams.

 

Sweet was my blood and hot as new-laid wine,

Through which the summer's wild fevers could storm,

Overwhelming it in urge and delight.

 

But still, deeply dreamed of in peace, she lays,

Home with its meadows, bridges, its spires,

And her fruit, cradled and swayed in sunshine.

 

                              ---

 

 

 

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Copyright © 2019 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories 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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This sings, like a symphony .. it is music, the  kind that can reach inside and holds your beating heart.

 

these collected poems have touched me, saddened me, they sit inside me and sometimes they are very heavy.  But i feel as if i owe Hans whatever it costs to read his words.

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The flood of violins - a whole string section - is needed to sweep away the horrific visions of war and replace them with the swelling tide of home. So much has changed for each and every soldier, but the constant beacon shining in each of their darknesses is the light of their once-lived, fully-fleshed lives. It’s telling that Hans admits some of his images are of the idealized, and not the real. The pain and heartache must have been brutal for him. 

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This sonnet brings a vision of Hans dreams and longing. It is much more tranquil and a bit brighter than the ones before.

I am still brooding over a letter from Murnau to Kippenberg from the 8th of January of 1917 to the publishing of "das tausendste Regiment". Murnau describes in the letter who Hans had changed during the war. I try again and again to bring it in connection with the different sonnets.

Murnau wrote:"Als ich ihn das letzte mal sah, bei seinem Urlaub Anfang Juni 15, fand ich ihn heiter, in sich selbst ruhend, greift und gewandelt, wie ich es in so kurzer Zeit nicht für möglich gehalten hätte. Das hatte der Krieg an ihm getan und einen Monat später hat er ihn genommen."

"The last time I saw him, during his home visit at the beginning of June (19)15, I found him serene, resting in himself, matured and transformed as I would not have thought possible in such a short time. The war had done that to him and a month later he (the war) took him.

Maybe this sonnet is an example, that Hans became more calm, I am not sure. I wonder how much of this transformation was because of the visit at home, his experiences, or his realization of having to die soon, if he goes back. The next lines of Murnau are even more difficult to understand, as he writes about the comfort he tries to get of the thought, that Hans died while he fought for something he thought worthy. Does he mean the subversive thoughts and believes Hans places so well masked into his sonnets about a new democratic country? I personally feel the pain, horror and fear are overwhelming in those sonnets and the universal plea for this to end.

Obvisiously I need to brood a bit more, befor I will understand this letter.

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