| The German Poetry Page - 1 |
German Poetry Page - 1 The Silent Night by Hermann Löns (translated by Robert Kvinnesland) English Translation The sun rises today, bright and beautiful. For an hour it shines merrily and carefree upon the countryside. Then the grey Weatherwall, who lurked among the heavens the entire day before, appears again; she extinguishes the sunlight and shakes the snow from her cloak, at first coy and unassertive, then evermore bold and impetuous. Snowflakes flew until late afternoon, falling earthward in great clouds, swirling wildly through the town's side streets, lunging upon straw rooftops, hanging onto hedges, adhering to bakehouses, burying all paths and footbridges, filling up any and every ditch. This weather suits me just fine; the past few days, not so much. At first, there was rain and snowflurries that didn't stick, then a northeast wind and frost, the kind that drives all wildlife into cover. Moreover, all was not on the up and up in the district. An old red stag was shot to pieces on the royal reserve, on our hunting lands I discovered the remains of a buck, and three doe went missing from a neighboring sector. And there was no possibility of tracking the poachers. Nobody knew who these freebooters were. None of the locals hunted illegally, of that we were sure. The poachers must be from among the foreign laborers who were employed at the drilling rigs. One of them was found wandering through the royal reserve in a suspicious manner. The forest ranger apprehended the man, but found him unarmed. Today I'm going to relieve the game warden. He hasn't seen his bed for the past eight nights. And today, on Christmas Eve, he'd like to be with his wife and children. At first, he wanted to decline the offer; but when I told him: "Man, Thies, a bright moon and fresh snow covering… nothing would please me more! Better than hanging around the tavern, getting in everyone's way", he thanked me heartily, as his pretty wife's eyes brightened with joy. And so I was off on my own in the white, wide, trackless moor. It's so bright from the snow that I can see a long distance off, the more so from all the stars. I've donned my white overalls and heavily powered my face; cap and gloves also white, likewise backpack frame, rifle sling, and other outer gear. Thus, I'm completely camouflaged and practically inaudible, due to the snow treads I've attached to my shoes. A mail carrier passes twenty paces in front without detecting my presence. When his dog (who had picked up my scent but couldn't spot me) pulled at him anxiously, the man stood still and looked around, then shook his head and went onward at a somewhat brisker pace. I walk along in his wake until I reach the elevations. I stand there and survey my surroundings. Wondrous is the view of the half-snow- covered large junipers and dwarf pines, and the only thing recognizable in the high chaparral are several smaller birch trees sticking out of the snow like black darts. The heather, which stands knee-high here, is completely covered; a few unusually long shrubs stand out like little black specters amid the white, silver-shimmering open landscape, from which sallow yellow stalks arise here and there, bent over from their burden of snow. I proceed at a quicker pace. No tracks and not one single trail is to be seen, no wildlife in sight. Even here, the main boundary between the deep woods leading towards the feldmark, there are no tracks in the snow. But it appears that a man is lurking under the ruffled pines. I raise my field glasses to my eyes, then put them back in my pocket; I was fooled by a snow-covered juniper. I do the same again as I believe I spot some game, but it was likewise only some juniper schrub. Finally, as I am just about to the wold, I spot three roedeer heading that way. The unfamiliarity of this first heavy snowfall has made them skittish and confused. I pause, until they're deep afield, then cross over the bridge and go along the steep hunting path, which leads behind the stream by the meadows. The woods are solemnly quiet but festively bright. A brook natters under its breath, and when a guelder-rose falls from the treetops, it is audible over a great distance. I feel like I should tread very lightly and hold my breath, lest I awaken the sleeping woods, and nearly startle when a branch bangs against my gun barrel, as if I had just committed an impropriety. Then however I remain still and listen; in the furthest corner of the hunting lands, in front of the royal reserve, a roedeer bleats continuously. Perhaps it's warning about female boars; but it might also have caught wind of a person, perhaps a forest ranger or one of the gang causing mischief in these parts. In either case I have to check it out. I hurry towards the next path and go along it quickly. It's even more beautiful here than it is on the narrow hunting path. Mature pines to the right and left jut high and lofty, bearing guelder- roses upon their dark heads. But I have no time to tarry in my enjoyment of them, nor the proud firs, the defiant oaks, and the beech trees, which border the area where the large clearing of open land begins. My eyes focus only along the path, on the lookout for wildlife and the trail of men. Twice I come upon the tracks of hares, once a fox, several roebucks and lastly red deer, one elder animal with a calf. But I see nothing except a rabbit sitting past a nearby ditch; it startles and immediately heads back in the direction from which it came. I stop at the crossroads under a twin beech tree and fill myself a fresh pipe. I can see a great distance in all four directions from here, especially with the full moon. It breaks softly in the woods across from me; game is walking about in there. Far back from the main road a fox slinks along. I could easily mouse-call him towards the pulpit attached to the beech tree; but for today, in this still, white night, I have no desire to shoot. A strong roebuck emerges from the woods onto a diagonal path, looks around for a moment to be sure all is safe, then knocks the snow from a raspberry bush and takes a bite. He treks into the next sector, where I hear him trample about awhile longer, until a brittle limb breaks under its weight of snow and falls noisily into the alder bushes, startling him. I see him bolt over the paths. My solitude has likewise been disturbed by the rumbling, and I walk further down the main road, upon which the snow shimmers and sparkles in the moonlight, as if diamond dust were strewn thereover, striped in blue by the shadows of the pines. I stand on the bridge where the brook intersects the road and see the ford, where the waters murmur quietly and play in so many silver ringlets, as well as the powerful, four-fold legume shrub, whose shiny foliage overhangs both ford and the ultra-glistening corals. As I'm about to go onward, there's a loud noise to my right; three young deer tread in front of me, sniff the air for a moment, then go crashing off into the opposing dense forest; I notice that my pipe smoke wafts to the front. Once again, but from the left, a sound draws closer, then recedes… another animal has gotten wind of me. It's quite possible it was that stout, antlerless hart that I've been hunting lately; of course, today I'd rather he kept his distance. I proceed further without any caution. Now I'm on the border and look both up and down the road. Far uphill there's a shadow moving in the royal woods. At first I think it's an animal; then I discern that it's a man coming down the narrow hunting path and heading my way. A moment of distress touches my heart, for it seems unfitting to have to apprehend a poacher, tonight of all nights. But then I discover that it's the forest ranger, whose tall, gaunt form and true outdoorsman's stride are unmistakable. When he's within fifteen paces I let out a half-loud huntsman's whistle. At that same moment he disappears behind a trunk and halts. I call his name and mention mine, and he immediately appears again, but doesn't know in which direction to look, due to my white camouflage; but then he sees me and laughingly approaches to shake my hand. "On poacher patrol?" he asks. I nod. "Seen anything?" I shake my head and tell him that I heard a shot come from this area. "That was me; over in sector thirteen I shot a marten, a real old fellow. You want to see it? I have it in the lodge." I gladly agree, for now I have company, and good company at that; lanky Moeller is a man after my own heart, and we're well suited to each other, since he too has no family left on earth. We walk for an hour along the snowy path and reach the lodge. Soon the small pot- bellied stove is burning, and it becomes comfortable in the hunting den, particularly as red wine and sugar are not lacking, and there's fresh stream water for the hot punch. We eat and drink for a short hour, talking of wildlife and hunting. Then Moeller reckons that he should be off again, as do I, for the warmth and the punch are pressing on the eyelids. The fire is extinguished, the lodged locked up, and we depart once again into the moonlit, silent night. The Translator: Robert Kvinnesland is a past winner of the German Embassy Foreign Language Poetry Award. His translations have appeared in international, historical, and cultural journals. His translation of "The Warwolf" is available at Westholme Publishing and book outlets like Amazon. =========================================== Erlkoenig in German and English Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind? Who rides so late through the night and wind? Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind; It's the father with his child; Er hat den Knaben wohl in dem Arm, He has the boy safe in his arm, Er faßt ihn sicher, er hält ihn warm. He holds him secure, he holds him warm. «Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?» – “My son, what makes you hide your face in fear?” – Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkönig nicht? Father, don't you see the Erlking? Den Erlenkönig mit Kron und Schweif? – The Erlking with crown and flowing robe? – «Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.» – “My son, it's a wisp of fog.” – «Du liebes Kind, komm, geh mit mir! “You dear child, come along with me! Gar schöne Spiele spiel' ich mit dir; Such lovely games I'll play with you; Manch bunte Blumen sind an dem Strand, Many colorful flowers are at the shore, Meine Mutter hat manch gülden Gewand.» My mother has many a golden garment.” Mein Vater, mein Vater, und hörest du nicht, My father, my father, and do you not hear Was Erlenkönig mir leise verspricht? – What the Erlking promises me so softly? – «Sei ruhig, bleibe ruhig, mein Kind; “Be quiet, stay quiet, my child; In dürren Blättern säuselt der Wind.» – In the dry leaves the wind is rustling.” – «Willst, feiner Knabe, du mit mir gehn? “Won't you come along with me, my fine boy? Meine Töchter sollen dich warten schön; My daughters shall attend to you so nicely. Meine Töchter führen den nächtlichen Reihn, My daughters do their nightly dance, Und wiegen und tanzen und singen dich ein.» And they'll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep.” Mein Vater, mein Vater, und siehst du nicht dort My father, my father, and do you not see over there Erlkönigs Töchter am düstern Ort? – Erlking's daughters in that dark place? – «Mein Sohn, mein Sohn, ich seh es genau: “My son, my son, I see it most definitely: Es scheinen die alten Weiden so grau.» It's the willow trees looking so grey.” «Ich liebe dich, mich reizt deine schöne Gestalt; “I love you; I'm charmed by your beautiful form; Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt.» And if you're not willing, then I'll use force.” Mein Vater, mein Vater, jetzt faßt er mich an! My father, my father, now he's grabbing hold of me! Erlkönig hat mir ein Leids getan! – Erlking has done me harm! – Dem Vater grausets, er reitet geschwind, The father shudders, he rides swiftly, Er hält in Armen das ächzende Kind, He holds in (his) arms the moaning child. Erreicht den Hof mit Mühe und Not; He reaches the farmhouse with effort and urgency. In seinen Armen das Kind war tot. In his arms the child was dead. Copyright © 1994-2009 Yahoo! Inc. All rights reserved. Terms of Service Elizabethan Deutsch Strange as it may seem, the German Shakespeare Society (die Deutsche Shakespeare-Gesellschaft, DSG) is the world's oldest! Founded in 1864, on the occasion of the Bard's 300th birthday (zum 300. Geburtstag vom Barden), the Society's headquarters are in Weimar, a city also closely associated with the real "German Shakespeares," Friedrich Schiller and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Divided by the Cold War and the Berlin Wall for three decades, Germany's oldest literary society successfully managed its own reunification in 1993. Each year in April (the month of Shakespeare's birth and death) the DSG sponsors its "Shakespeare-Tage" (Shakespeare Days), an international event held in either Weimar or Bochum, the former western headquarters, in alternate years. The Society also promotes other meetings, seminars and research, and publishes a book-like annual journal, Das Shakespeare- Jahrbuch, in English and German. (See the DSG Web site link on our Shakespeare links page for more about the Deutsche Shakespeare- Gesellschaft.) »Sein oder Nichtsein—das ist die Frage!« “To be, or not to be, that is the question.” The German fascination with Shakespeare began in the early 1700s when English repertoire companies crossed the Ärmelkanal (English Channel) to perform the Bard's plays all across Germany and Europe. Translations of Shakespeare's words have become so much a part of the German language, that Germans can be forgiven if they sometimes seem to forget that William Shakespeare was not Wilhelm Shakespeare! In fact, the Germans take a back seat to no one when it comes to honoring the greatest English poet of all time. They do so by performing and attending his plays (more performances each year than in Britain!), using his words and phrases, and by joining Shakespeare clubs and associations. There's even a replica of the Globe Theatre in Neuss, Germany, not far from Düsseldorf. Each season in Neuss the German Globe offers a program of Shakespeare productions—in both German and English. (See our links for more about the "Globe.") As in the English-speaking world, Germans often fail to realize just how much of their vocabulary comes from Shakespeare. But was ist ein Name? (what's in a name?) They would no doubt consider such concerns viel Lärm um nichts (much ado about nothing). However, worrying about such things could be der Anfang vom Ende (the beginning of the end). Okay, I'll stop. Der Rest ist Schweigen (the rest is silence). A Brief Shakespeare (English-German) Glossary the Bard der Barde play das Schauspiel (the play's the thing) poet der Dichter / die Dichterin the Swan of Avon der Schwan vom Avon sonnet(s) das Sonett (-e) “The Taming of the Shrew” »Der Widerspenstigen Zähmung« More Shakespeare Vocabulary - Plays, theater terms, etc. Over the years, many German literary figures have translated Shakespeare into the language of Goethe and Schiller. (Among other works, Goethe's "Götz von Berlichingen" shows Shakespeare's influence.) For many of the Bard's plays and sonnets it is possible to find several German versions, translated at different times by different poets. Ironically, this means that it is usually easier to read Shakespeare in German (if you're German) than in English! The English of Shakespeare's time is often foreign to modern ears, but the German translations tend to be in more modern German than the Elizabethan English of the originals. __________________________________________________ Nico Bleutge Nico Bleutge was born in 1972 in Munich. Between 1993 and 1998 he studied German Literature, Rhetoric and Philosophy in Tübingen, where he still lives. He has been writing his Ph.D. thesis on Robert Musil since 1999 and has worked as a freelance literary critic since 2001 for the Süddeutsche Zeitung, the Neue Zürcher Zeitung and the Stuttgarter Zeitung, among other publications. Bleutge was awarded the Open Mike prize by Berlin’s literaturWERKstatt in 2001 and received the Wolfgang-Weyrauch-Förder prize from the Literarischer März in 2003. In 2004 he was awarded a scholarship by the Baden- Württemberg Arts Foundation and a fellowship by the Berlin Literary Colloquium. Bleutge’s poems are close studies of perception. Through their micrological viewpoint, his texts explore the correlation between the seen and seeing, the subject and object and the inner and outer world of landscapes, paintings and anatomical figures: “wandering particles, seeing// was this one movement, to give the landscape points to follow”. At the same time, they reveal the fragility and difficulty of naming forever elusive phenomena: “the ocean// slowly returned to the shore, at the fractures/ air seeped through the stones and lowered the pressure/ in the ears”. Bleutge’s poems come into being at these points of fracture – the tipping points – where, to use his term, a ‘reflexive perception’ turns, according to the jury of the Literarischer März, into the “spectacle of things”. Photographic terms often appear in Bleutge’s texts – at times technical attempts are made in the poem to arrest the process of the world coming into being through perception: “plate upon plate// i fill with images for the future”, as the poet says in ‘punctured sky’ in a quote from Karl Kraus. The first person singular generally only appears as a quotation: Bleutge’s poems look for connections between worlds and languages in which an apparently fixed ‘lyrical I’ is portrayed in its groping movement. The future and the past, memory and re-creation intertwine in the perception technique of these poems. Levels of time and language are mutually exposed in both the imagery of the texts and in a variety of quotations and associations: “the pressure// of tiny hairs against the napkin rings, the perspective/ of the memories stacked up on top of one another”. In unusual proximity, day-to-day details such as “the spatter of cleaning water” form sublime and disturbed views: “the crescent of the ocean broken out of the picture, the lime/ in the finger-grooves”. Landscapes, architecture – but also plant surfaces – and a body that hears, sees and understands them mirror one another. Through the poems’ comparative structure itself, the environment becomes the somatic figure that the subject uses to go in search of perceptions: “the hair is following the wind/ which goes back a long way, on the skin of the houses/ cartilage is protruding and the shutters/ are gasping for air”. Born out of a scepticism towards language in the age of modern media, a totally new and changing inspiration of thoughts and viewpoints is consequently created in Bleutge’s poems. Writing about his work, the critic Michael Braun says: “a poem’s highest achievement is to change the adventure of perception into a concept of lyrical images”. Alexander Gumz kühlere schläfen, die wolken liegen schwer By Nico Bleutge auf den kuppen der berge, vom wasser radiert ist die landschaft nichts als der sinkflug der vögel, ihr langsames gleiten hinab an die mündung, wo die luft etwas mitteilt, von ferne die häuser wachsen aus dem fels und die stromkabel hängen durch bis ins tal. alles scheint an der stimme zu haften sträucher und schritte, die weinrote körnung der schwingen ihre schleifen werden länger, der kopf senkt die temperatur wenn die tropfen den staub an den fußspitzen binden und der teer seine schuppen zeigt, das schilf seine trockenen blätter auf den steinen auslegt. die pupillen sind härter nun und die wolken saugen das meer an. fingerhut, kalmus, eine salpiglossis die kleinen pflanzen die zwischen den halmen sitzen die molche und nattern mit ihren grauen und weißen streifen und den züngelchen die den regen abtasten, sie ziehen nach was der puls ihnen vorgibt, der winzige puckernde fleck unterm gaumen des sperlings, sein rauher, aufgehellter bauch der kurz nachglimmt. dann macht auch er sich davon zu den vögeln am ufer, die schnäbel immer noch sichtbar wie die grasränder, der feine schlamm an den zehen die hand bleibt ruhig, das wasser löst sich von den hängen und setzt sich leise an den halmen, an den schläfen fest © 2003, Nico Bleutge From: Mouth to Mouth. Contemporary German Poetry in Translation. Ed. by Thomas Wohlfahrt and Tobias Lehmkuhl. Publisher: Giramondo Publishing Company: Newcastle, Australia 2004. ISBN: 1-920882-03-0 ____________________ cooler brows, the clouds are lying heavily on the round tops of the hills, the landscape’s etched from water nothing but the descent of the birds, their slow glide down to the estuary where the air communicates something, far off the houses are growing out of the cliff and the power cables sag right through into the valley. everything seems to adhere to the voice bushes and steps and the wine-red granulation of wings their loops become longer, the head reduces the temperature when the drops bind the dust on the tips of the feet and the tar shows its scales, the reed grass is laying out its dry leaves on the stones. the pupils are harder now and the clouds are sucking in the sea. foxglove, calamus, one salpiglossis the little plants sitting between the haulms the newts and vipers with their grey and whitish stripes and the darting tonguelets scanning the rain, they follow through what the pulse has preordained, the tiny throbbing spot beneath the sparrow’s palate, its rough, enlightened belly that carries on gleaming a while. before it too makes off to join the birds by the shore, their beaks still visible like the grass edges, the subtle ooze upon the toes the hand stays calm, the water detaches itself from the slopes and gently settles on the haulms and on the brows © Translation: Richard Dove From: Mouth to Mouth. Contemporary German Poetry in Translation. Ed. by Thomas Wohlfahrt and Tobias Lehmkuhl. Publisher: Giramondo Publishing Company: Newcastle, Australia 2004. ISBN: 1-920882-03-0 _________________________________________________________ Poems by Christian Morgenstern in German and in English translation by Max Knight Geburtsakt der Philosophie Erschrocken schaut der Heide Schaf mich an, als säh's in mir den ersten Menschenmann. Sein Blick steckt an; wir stehen wie im Schlaf; mir ist, ich säh zum ersten Mal ein Schaf. Birth of Philosophy The heath sheep glares at me with frightened awe as though I were the first of men it saw. Contagious glare! We stand as though asleep; it seems the first time that I see a sheep. --------------------------------------------------------------- Gruselett Der Flügelflagel gaustert durchs Wiruwaruwolz, die rote Fingur plaustert und grausig gutzt der Golz. Scariboo The Winglewangle phlutters through widowadowood, the crimson Fingoor splutters and scary screaks the Scrood. --------------------------------------------------- Der Lattenzaun Es war einmal ein Lattenzaun, mit Zwischenraum, hindurchzuschaun. Ein Architekt, der dieses sah, stand eines Abends plötzlich da - und nahm den Zwischenraum heraus und baute draus ein großes Haus. Der Zaun indessen stand ganz dumm, mit Latten ohne was herum. Ein Anblick gräßlich und gemein. Drum zog ihn der Senat auch ein. Der Architekt jedoch entfloh nach Afri- od- Ameriko. The Picket Fence One time there was a picket fence with space to gaze from hence to thence. An architect who saw this sight approached it suddenly one night, removed the spaces from the fence, and built of them a residence. The picket fence stood there dumbfounded with pickets wholly unsurrounded, a view so loathsome and obscene, the Senate had to intervene. The architect, however, flew to Afri- or Americoo. ------------------------------------------------ Auf dem Fliegenplaneten Auf dem Fliegenplaneten, da geht es dem Menschen nicht gut: Denn was er hier der Fliege, die Fliege dort ihm tut. An Bändern voll Honig kleben die Menschen dort allesamt und andre sind zum Verleben in süßlichem Bier verdammt. In einem nur scheinen die Fliegen dem Menschen vorauszustehn: Man bäckt uns nicht in Semmeln noch trinkt man uns aus Versehn. At the Housefly Planet Upon the housefly planet the fate of the human is grim: for what he does here to the housefly, the fly does there unto him. To paper with honey cover the humans there adhere, while others are doomed to hover near death in vapid beer. However, one practice of humans the flies will not undertake: they will not bake us in muffins nor swallow us by mistake. --------------------------------------------------------- Das Gebet Die Rehlein beten zur Nacht, hab acht! Halb neun! Halb zehn! Halb elf! Halb zwölf! Zwölf! Die Rehlein beten zur Nacht, hab acht! Sie falten die kleinen Zehlein, die Rehlein. The Does' Prayer The does, as the hour grows late, med-it-ate; med-it-nine; med-i-ten; med-eleven; med-twelve; mednight! The does, as the hour grows late, meditate. They fold their little toesies, the doesies. ----------------------------------------------------- Die unmögliche Tatsache Palmström, etwas schon an Jahren, wird an einer Straßenbeuge und von einem Kraftfahrzeuge überfahren. "Wie war" (spricht er, sich erhebend und entschlossen weiterlebend) "möglich, wie dies Unglück, ja- : daß es überhaupt geschah? "Ist die Staatskunst anzuklagen in Bezug auf Kraftfahrwagen? Gab die Polizeivorschrift hier dem Fahrer freie Trift? "Oder war vielmehr verboten, hier Lebendige zu Toten umzuwandeln, -kurz und schlicht: Durfte hier der Kutscher nicht-?" Eingehüllt in feuchte Tücher, prüft er die Gesetzesbücher und ist alsobald im Klaren: Wagen durften dort nicht fahren! Und er kommt zu dem Ergebnis: Nur ein Traum war das Erlebnis. Weil, so schliesst er messerscharf, nicht sein kann, was nicht sein darf. The Impossible Fact Palmstroem, old, an aimless rover, walking in the wrong direction at a busy intersection is run over. "How," he says, his life restoring and with pluck his death ignoring, "can an accident like this ever happen? What's amiss? "Did the state administration fail in motor transportation? Did police ignore the need for reducing driving speed? "Isn't there a prohibition, barring motorized transmission of the living to the dead? Was the driver right who sped . . . ?" Tightly swathed in dampened tissues he explores the legal issues, and it soon is clear as air: Cars were not permitted there! And he comes to the conclusion: His mishap was an illusion, for, he reasons pointedly, that which must not, can not be. --------------------------------------------------- Die Trichter Zwei Trichter wandeln durch die Nacht. Durch ihres Rumpfs verengten Schacht fließt weißes Mondlicht still und heiter auf ihren Waldweg u. s. w. The Funnels [two versions] Two funnels travel through the night; a sylvan moon's canescent light employs their bodies' narrow flue in flowing pale and cheerful thro ug h A funnel ambles through the night. Within its body, moonbeams white converge as they descend upon its forest pathway and so on ------------------------------------------------- Das aesthetische Wiesel Ein Wiesel sass auf einem Kiesel inmitten Bachgeriesel. Wißt ihr weshalb? Das Mondkalb verriet es mir im Stillen: Das raffinier- te Tier tat's um des Reimes willen. The Aesthetic Weasel A weasel perched on an easel within a patch of teasel. But why and how? The Moon Cow whispered her reply one time: The sopheest- icated beest did it just for the rhyme. ------------------------------------ Das Möwenlied Die Möwen sehen alle aus, als ob sie Emma hiessen. Sie tragen einen weissen Flaus und sind mit Schrot zu schießen. Ich schieße keine Möwe tot, ich laß sie lieber leben – und füttre sie mit Roggenbrot und rötlichen Zibeben. O Mensch, du wirst nie nebenbei der Möwe Flug erreichen. Wofern du Emma heißest, sei zufrieden, ihr zu gleichen. The Seagulls The seagulls by their looks suggest that Emma is their name; they wear a white and fluffy vest and are the hunter's game. I never shoot a seagull dead; their life I do not take. I like to feed them gingerbread and bits of raisin cake. O human, you will never fly the way the seagulls do; but if your name is Emma, why, be glad they look like you. (Translated by Karl F. Ross) ------------------------------------------------- These translations were originally published in: The Gallows Songs Christian Morgenstern's Galgenlieder A Selection Translated, with an Introduction, by Max Knight University of California Press 1964. © 1963 by Max E. Knight International Poetry in English Translation Poetry | Prose | Index | Forum |
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