Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry

Über die Bezeichnung Emigranten-Brecht (1937)

Über die Bezeichnung Emigranten

Maurycy Minkowski "The Family"1927
Maurycy Minkowski “The Family”1927

Immer fand ich den Namen falsch, den man uns gab:
Emigranten.
Das heißt doch Auswandrer. Aber wir
Wanderten doch nicht aus, nach freiem Entschluss
Wählend ein andres Land. Wanderten wir doch auch nicht
Ein in ein Land, dort zu bleiben, womöglich für immer
Sondern wir flohen. Vertriebene sind wir, Verbannte.
Und kein Heim, ein Exil soll das Land sein, das uns da
aufnahm

Unruhig sitzen wir so, möglichst nahe den Grenzen
Wartend des Tags der Rückkehr, jede kleinste Veränderung
Jenseits der Grenze beobachtend, jeden Ankömmling
Eifrig befragend, nichts vergessend und nichts aufgebend
Und auch verzeihend nichts, was geschah, nichts verzeihend.
Ach, die Stille der Sunde täuscht uns nicht! Wir hören die
Schreie
Aus ihren Lagern bis hierher. Sind wir doch selber
Fast wie Gerüchte von Untaten, die da entkamen
Über die Grenzen. Jeder von uns
Der mit zerrissenen Schuhn durch die Menge geht
Zeugt von der Schande, die jetzt unser Land befleckt.
Aber keiner von uns
Wird hier bleiben. Das letzte Wort
Ist noch nicht gesprochen.

By Marlene Dumas
By Marlene Dumas

At present there is much discussion over emigration/immigration and this rather beautiful poem was written by Brecht upon his partial escape from the Nazis in 1937 into Denmark. He states that, he always finds the name emigrant a false term as it is not through free will that he is forced to escape but for survival. This might remind us too that many journeys are made out of necessity; choice does not come into the matter. “Vertriebene sind wir”- we are in fact expelled! In such a state, people are innocent and eager to ask each new arrival across the border and question each new arrival coming across the border. The overbearing silence of an authoritarian regime does not hide, “Wir hören die Schreie” the cries of pain from the lost homeland. As we pass dressed in rags and  tatters through the crowds, testifies to the disgrace that stains our land right now. However, it appears that the poem ends with hope- “Das letzte Wort
Ist noch nicht gesprochen.” -the last word is yet to be spoken. Tyranny will be defeated.

The poem is thoroughly and clearly analysed  in German –

Weitere Informationen, Links und Buchtipps findet Ihr auf unserem Blog:
http://deutschstundeonline.blogspot.com/

 

Categories
Art and Photographic History German Matters

Sehnsucht nach Wien und Egon Schiele

Nearly 125 years from the birth of Egon Schiele whose work I was recently perusing when I came across this evocative and soulful painting of a captured Russian Officer. The expression and demeanour clearly express his sense of resignation and the general apathy induced by the futility of war. In Vienna 1916 there were clearly many Russian prisoners and they appear to have been painted with the same compassion. The drawing of the girl also seems to convey this a similar human quality.ES2

Russian prisoner of war 1916
Russian prisoner of war 1916

ES3ES5

Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry

Crossing the Water by Sylvia Plath (Übers Wasser)

SylviaBlack lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

Now available in German see http://www.welt.de/print/die_welt/literatur/article123763734/Fuehrt-kein-Weg-aus-dem-Kopf-heraus.htmlsylvia-plath

Übers Wasser

Schwarzer See, schwarzes Boot, zwei schwarze

Scherenschnitt-Menschen.

Wohin führen die schwarzen Bäume, die hier trinken?

Ihre Schatten müssen ganz Kanada bedecken.

Ein wenig Licht filtert sich aus den Wasserpflanzen.

Ihre Blätter fordern uns nicht zur Eile auf.

Sie sind rund und flach und voll dunklen Rats.

Kalte Welten zittern vom Ruder.

Der Geist der Schwärze ist in uns, er ist in den Fischen.

Ein Baumstumpf hebt Abschied nehmend die blasse Hand.

Sterne öffnen sich zwischen den Seerosen.

Bist du nicht geblendet von solch tonlosen Sirenen?

Dies ist die Stille erstaunter Seelen.

Les Champignons” [“Mushrooms” (1959) – nouvelle traduction en français]

Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry

Wetter -Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

WetterTH

                              1
Dies ist das Wetter, das der Kuckuck liebt,
      und Ich auch;
wenn Schauer herabfallen auf die Kastanienstacheln
      und Nestlinge flügge werden:
und die kleine braune Nachtigall schnäbelt aufs beste,
und man sitzt draußen beim Gasthof Wanderers Ruh,
und Mädchen kommen heraus in Zweigmuster-Musselin,
und Bürger träumen von Süden und Westen,
      und ich auch.
                               2
Dies ist das Wetter, das der Schärfer meidet,
       und ich auch;
wenn Buchen in braunen und bräunlichen Tönen tröpfeln
       und dreschen und arbeiten;
und Fluten, von Bergen verdeckt, heftig klopfen, Wehe auf
                                                       Wehe,
und Wiesenbäche überfließen,
und Tropfen auf Torstangen in einer Reihe hängen,
und Saatkrähen in Familien heimwärts gehen,
       und ich auch.
From the translation of http://www.amazon.de/Englische-Lyrik-50-Gedichte-Zweisprachig/dp/3150188431/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1427988992&sr=1-1&keywords=englische+lyrik
TH2
Weathers

          (I)

 This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
     And so do I;
 When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
     And nestlings fly;
 And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
 And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,'
 And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
 And citizens dream of the south and west,
     And so do I.

          (II)

 This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
     And so do I;
 When beeches drip in browns and duns,
     And thresh and ply;
 And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
 And meadow rivulets overflow,
 And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
 And rooks in families homeward go,
     And so do I.

There is a commentry at http://englishwithasmile.org/2013/07/20/poetry-time-easy-line-by-line-explanation-of-thomas-hardys-weathers/
TH1
Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry

Wo sind die Clowne?

Ist es nicht reich?
Sind wir ein Paar?
Ich hier endlich auf der Erde,
Und du mitten in der Luft.
Wo sind die Clowne?

Ist es nicht eine Wonne?
Stimmst du mir nicht zu?
Eine, die nicht aufhört, herumzuflitzen,
Eine, die sich nicht bewegen kann…
Schicke die Clowne herein.

Gerade als ich aufgehört habe, Tür zu öffnen,
Endlich wissend dass, der, den ich haben wollte, Dein war.
Ich trete mit meinem gewöhnlichen Flair wieder auf.
Meiner Zeilen sicher…
Niemand ist da.

Magst du nicht Farce?
Meine Schuld, ich fürchte.
Ich dachte, du wolltest wie ich das Gleiche…
Tut mir leid, mein Lieber!
Wo sind nun die Clowne
Schicke die Clowne herein
Mache dir keine Umstände mehr, sie sind hier.

Ist es nicht reich?
Ist es nicht komisch?
So spät verliere ich mein Timing in meiner Karriere.
Wo sind nun die Clowne?
Es sollte Clowne geben…
Wohl vielleicht das nächste Jahr.

von http://www.songtexte.com/uebersetzung/judy-collins/send-in-the-clowns-deutsch-6bd6d6ca.html

http://www.jeanne-mammen.de/html/english/contents/artist.html

Metropolis Berlin by Jeanne Mammen (1890-1976)
Metropolis Berlin by Jeanne Mammen (1890-1976)
Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry Uncategorized

Frühlingslied

Unsre Wiesen grünen wieder,
Blumen duften überall;
Fröhlich tönen Finkenlieder,
Zärtlich schlägt die Nachtigall.
Alle Wipfel dämmern grüner,
Liebe girrt und lockt darin;
Jeder Schäfer wird nun kühner,
Sanfter jede Schäferin.

Blüten, die die Knosp’ entwickeln,
Hüllt der Lenz in zartes Laub;
Färbt den Sammet der Aurikeln,
Pudert sie mit Silberstaub.
Sieh! das holde Maienreischen
Dringt aus breitem Blatt hervor,
Beut sich zum bescheidnen Sträußchen
An der Unschuld Busenflor.

Auf den zarten Stengeln wanken
Tulpenkelche, rot und gelb,
Und das Geißblatt flicht aus Ranken
Liebenden ein Laubgewölb’.
Alle Lüfte säuseln lauer
Mit der Liebe Hauch uns an;
Frühlingslust und Wonneschauer
Fühlet, was noch fühlen kann.

salis_seewis

aus: Gedichte von Joh. Gaudenz von Salis-Seewis
Neueste vermehrte Auflage
Zürich bei Orell, Füßli und Compagnie 1829 (S. 5-6)

Categories
Art and Photographic History German Matters Literature Poetry

Ein Frühlingsgedicht, geschrieben Im kältesten Februar- Joachim Ringelnatz

ringelnatz1Die Bäume im Ofen lodern.

Die Vögel locken am Grill.

Die Sonnenschirme vermodern.

Im übrigen ist es still.

 

Es stecken die Spargel aus Dosen

Die zarten Köpfchen hervor.

Bunt ranken sich köstliche Rosen

In Faschingsgirlanden empor.

Ein Etwas, wie Glockenklingen,

Den Oberkellner bewegt,

Mir tausend Eier zu bringen,

Von Osterstören gelegt.

 

Ein süßer Duft von Havanna

Verweht in ringelnder Spur.

Ich fühle an meiner Susanna

Erwachende neue Natur.

 

Es lohnt sich manchmal, zu lieben,

Was kommt, nicht ist oder war.

Ein Frühlingsgedicht, geschrieben

Im kältesten Februar.

Heimweg im Nebel -Ringelnatz
Heimweg im Nebel
-Ringelnatz

 

 

 

 

 

 

Es interessiert mich, das dieser Link befindet sich in Cuxhaven. http://www.ringelnatzstiftung.de/

Categories
German Matters Poetry Uncategorized

Gecko’s “Institute”; Dance and theatre at the Hall for Cornwall

The curtain rises and we are immediately impelled into a Kafkaesque world. The imposing set comprises of a ceiling height of office drawers on either side; a dull grey-brownish limbo-land that looks like the headquarters of the Stasi. The denizens of this sub-topia, Martin and Daniel, dressed like waist-coated bureaucrats from the start of the last century creep around the stage with elaborate gestures and mincing steps. This appears to be a world where cheer must be maintained and institutional routines kept to, deadlines met and clients re-assured. In short a world where anxiety must be kept at bay.

Geck1

Music and wine and romance are introduced at suitable intervals. The dancing now conveys in sudden changes possible ways in which spirits can be raised or perhaps just maintained. The adaptability of the set is revealed as a drawer is pulled out, a spot-lit crimson rose waivered and a waiter emerges to supply the wants of his nervous guest. Nervous, because the lady he awaits is just a pair of surreal hands. His imagination may be playing tricks. Perhaps he has been overworking at the office where a slight mistake can be punished by extreme changes in the environment; a spotlight, loud klaxon and flashing red lights. Here is an eerie world of lost love, heartache and miscommunication where fog prevails and anyone might suddenly need a prosthetic attachment just to keep on going. Indeed, we all realise that any support mechanism keeps you dependent and, as the expressive movements so eloquently show, subject to a new fear-being manipulated by others. Gecko’s theatre shows us just how old-age, illness and impediment bring in their wake, the burdens of dependency; powerlessness against the perilous incursions of the “system”.

Geck

Although the production concerns itself with confusion and conflict, it is not possible to overlook the quality of the dance. The splendid and remarkable co-ordination, involving thoroughgoing trust between the four male dancers, is the result of intensive training. This performance quality is clearly due to hours of training. Conversations with care givers and their clients have paid dividends. The research has resulted in a work which is not only innovative but stirringly original.

The authenticity of The Institute is evidenced by the manner in which scenes are retained in the memory. These may well be different for each member of the audience. It will deeply resonate with personal emotional experience. Lyricism is evoked when hand held lights are carried floating across a darkened stage and poetry again, at the end, when a silhouetted trio of Masai warriors stand against a setting sun. The articulated pole-linked movements of the dancers rendering support to a frightened and shattered client, in search of his distant and unavailable beloved appear, uncannily like Gregor Samsa transformed into a giant spider from the pages of Franz Kafka’s Der Verwandalung. The sub-text in many parts is the how the actions of an institution results in a control mechanism colliding with flesh, like a sharp catheter being inserted into a collapsed vein. However, moments of comedy lighten and vary the pace, as when one performer has a lampshade suspended above him like an angler-fish. This is less a mechanism for predation than an ironic re-emphasis of the isolation of the individual.Geck2

Verbal communication has a particularly interesting role in Gecko’s production. Initially starting with a restrained, cramped discourse where one half-expected Ricky Gervais to make an entrance. It finished with closed-microphone expressive panting. However, it was the use of both French and German to reassure, as it were ‘the patient’ that was particularly engaging. This multilingual exchange managed to convey that words which seem to re-assure can actually disturb and distance. If this was French it was the sort of unsettling French that would be used by Ionesco. In psychiatric distress or dementia or such similar states, there is a reawakening of a child who initially is grasping to express feelings in words. Here the double-bind was clearly illustrated and gesture conveyed frustration at being manipulated. In a thought-provoking and moving production cleverly using props and Francis Bacon-like enclosures, time and life pass onward in the background. The highest accolade is that it invigorates the problematic debate about caring and manipulation which makes Gecko’s Institute both effective and relevant to contemporary social and political concerns.

Here is a video sample from Gecko entitled “Missiing Trailer”

 

 

 

 

Categories
German Matters Literature Poetry

Sachliche Romanze -Erich Kaestner

Als sie einander acht Jahre kannten
(Und man darf sagen: sie kannten sich gut),
Kam ihre Liebe plötzlich abhanden.
Wie andern Leuten ein Stock oder Hut.

Sie waren traurig, betrugen sich heiter,
Versuchten Küsse, als ob nichts sei,
Und sahen sich an und wußten nicht weiter.
Da weinte sie schließlich. Und er stand dabei.

Vom Fenster aus konnte man Schiffen winken.
Er sagte, es wäre schon Viertel nach vier
Und Zeit, irgendwo Kaffee zu trinken.
Nebenan übte ein Mensch Klavier.

Sie gingen ins kleinste Cafe am Ort
Und rührten in ihren Tassen.
Am Abend saßen sie immer noch dort.
Sie saßen allein, und sie sprachen kein Wort
Und konnten es einfach nicht fassen.

Categories
Book Reviews German Matters Literature Uncategorized

Review of Jonathan Lethem’s “Dissident Gardens”

Rose Zimmer, a feisty American communist radical, takes on many good and great causes. These include everything from feminism and racism to the changing course of Stalinism in the American C.P. but most of all; her biggest causes are the people around her. The effects upon them are diverse and devastating. She often propels them to success but at the same time they feel battered and must escape in order according to their own needs. Her affections are real but invasive. Rose keeps a shrine to Abraham Lincoln. Rose’s self-assertion within the perimeters of the German-designed 20th Century New York suburb of Queens, a multi-cultural suburb and a planned housing development similar to Hampstead Garden City provide the setting for Jonathan Lethem’s Tour de Force.JL

Reading Dissident Gardens is rather like taking a plane to New York and perhaps linked into a time-machine to peruse 80 years of political tensions that stress three generations. Lethem, who trained as an artist, is quite superb at visually rendering the city brown brick tenements, elevated railways, grand bridges and squares and together with their uses. Some of the latter, for instance, under the influence of socially concerned denizens like Rose, have been commandeered into communal gardens. Additionally, you even get a taste of the food from iced bear-claws, milkshakes and salt-beef sandwiches. His ear is at least as strong as his eye and the salty, saucy language carries the vigorous impact of Italian, Irish, Hispanic and Yiddish all gemischt. The reader will benefit from access to a good dictionary of urban slang to navigate this environment as much as his or her GPS so as not to lose your way in this city jungle.

As with a city break, the most interesting aspect of any visit is meeting the locals. Here Lethem provides panoply of fabulous characters. His technique is such that you he reveals not just the stream of consciousness but also the fractured and sometimes damaged nature of their sudden preoccupations. There is Cicero Lookins, the brilliant, angry, black, gay and overweight college lecturer. He has the dubious privilege of becoming Ross’s protégé and carries the burden of growing up the son of a nurse who is suffering from chronic lupus and a conventional heroic policeman from the NYPD who has become Rose’s lover. Cicero is a volatile mixture of intelligence, cynicism and compulsive sexuality. His lecturing style challenges the young and indolent yawning student audience that attend his social philosophy lectures. He is reading Robert Musil’s grand scarcely completed novel, The Man Without Qualities. He has become imprisoned by his own psychological defences and just how this developed is lucidly, believably and eloquently explained with a certain ironic sympathy.JL1

Each chapter can almost be taken as a story within itself. This is a satisfying approach as there is little in the way of a page-turning narrative to speed the story forward. Indeed, this is a novel that casts light upon what has happened in previous chapters as well as links with other persons. It jumps around and resonates in time. This backward linking is intriguing in itself and gradually makes the relationships between the characters memorable. Dissident Gardens is not always easy to read but the detail, texture and breadth of the writing weaves a brisk believable magic as the story progresses. Idealism is often exposed in its naivety in this novel. The characters, as in real life, are often deeply wounded by losses but remain authentic in their striving.

This is a novel which spreads itself over the globe whilst embracing wide belief systems. Nicaraguan armed resistance, passive resistance, the Occupy movement, East German authoritarian Marxism are but a few of the topics encompassed. However, this is not in the usual sense a novel of ideas. It is critical of grand narratives in a manner that the renowned American pragmatic philosopher, Richard Rorty might have approved. It is the individual enclosed within the fascinating psycho-geography of New York that keeps the reader interested. For instance, there is Rose’s daughter who cannot possibly meet her mother’s expectations. Miriam Zimmer survives her mother’s physical attack and seeks an alternative belief within Hippie Greenwich Village of the 1960s. She is pursued by her hustler cousin Lenny whose interests also include chess and numismatics. She falls for an Irish protest singer who is attracted by prospects of living in a commune and attending meetings with the Society of Friends. However, in certain ways Miriam cannot easily escape her mother or her authoritarian distant father.

Reading about Lethem’s writing methods- said to be on an exercise machine using a voice operated word processor- accounts for the energy of the writing. The style is sometimes abrasive but also beguiling. This novel can be described as both tragic and comic. Tragic in the sense that the characters often seem isolated and comic because the reader will recognise some of his own impulses and be encouraged to laugh at them. I am left reminded by the words of a song from the musical Hair: – “Do you only care about the bleeding crowd? How about a needing friend? I need a friend” If there is a message from this novel, it is about our need for human closeness and how the grand systems we erect prevent us getting in touch with each other.