Alan Olee Book Report

Here is a wonderful, transcendental  poem by the German Annette von Droste-Hulshoff (1797-1848), Im Grase. 

Poem in the original German and my translation (I couldn’t stand the provided translation…) follows.

Im Grase

Susse Ruh, susser Taumel im Gras,
von des Krautes Arom umhaucht,
tiefe Flut, tief tief trunkne Flut,
wenn die Wolk’ am Azure verraucht,
wenn aufs mude, schwimmende Haupt
susses Lachen gaukelt herab,
liebe Stimme sauselt und trauft
wie die Lindenblut auf ein Grab.

Wenn im Busen die Toten dann,
jede Leiche sich streckt und regt,
leise, leise den Odem zieht,
die geschlossne Wimper bewegt,
tote Lieb’, tote Lust, tote, Zeit,
all die Schatze, im Schutt verwuhlt,
sich beruhren mit schuchternem Klang
gleich den Glockchen, vom Winde umspielt.

Stunden, fluchtger ihr als der Kuss
eines Strahls, auf den trauernden See,
als des ziehenden Vogels Lied,
das mir niederperlt aus der Hoh’,
als des schillernden Kafers Blitz,
wenn den Sonnenpfand er durcheilt,
als der heisse Druck einer Hand,
die zum letzten Male verweilt.

Dennoch, Himmel, immer mir nur
Dieses eine: nur fur das Lied
jedes freien Vogels im Blau
eine Seele, die mit ihm ziet,
nur fur jeden karglichen Strahl
meinen farbifschillernden Saum,
jeder warmen Hand meinen Druck,
und fur jedes Gluck einen Traum.

English Translation:

Sweet peace, sweeter peace in grass,
The breath of nature’s scents surround you,
A deep stream, deep, deep, ecstatic stream,
As clouds vanish into an azure sky,
As sweet laughter dances down
On your weary swimming head.

A dear voice murmurs and
Drifts like a lime-blossom on to a grave.
Then with the dead in your breast,
Every corpse stretches and stirs,
Gently, gently draws breath,
Flutters closed eyelashes,
Dead love, dead pleasure, dead time,
All these treasures buried deep in rubble,
Touch one another with a hesitant note,
Like little bells in the playful wind.

Hours, more fleeting you are,
Than the kiss of a sunbeam on the morning lake;
Than the migrating bird’s call
Which comes down to me like pearls from the sky,
Than the brilliant flash of the beetle
When he hurries across the sunlit path,
Than the warm pressure of a hand
That lingers for the last time.

Even though, Heaven grant me always
Just this one thing for myself:
For the song of every free bird in the blue
A soul to travel with it;
Only for every single ray of light,
My hem of shining color;
For every warm hand the pressure of my hand,
And for every happiness, a dream.

OK.   You can breath again.  Wow.  Comment welcome.  I’ll go first.

Clearly, we are in a dream-state – but a dream rich in life, living right now, lying in the grass, surrounded by nature’s aroma – then the dead, in your breast…

The next stanza “Hours, more fleeting you are ...” This stanza is beyond beautiful!  When I read this I feel like my heart is being ripped out through the top of my skull.  I just can’t get over it.

Followed by “Even though, Heaven grant me always”

This is what I call the “slide backwards” aesthetic – here used powerfully with the penultimate line ” For every warm hand the pressure of my hand, alliterating to the previous line “Than the warm pressure of a hand, That lingers for the last time.”

We will talk more about the “slide backwards” aesthetic but here’s a musical hint:  George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun“.  It is actually more common in literature, especially poetry; musicians need to get hip.

From “The Penguin Book of German Verse”
Introduced and Edited by Leonard Forster