Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn,
Im dunkeln Laub die Gold-Orangen glühn,
Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn.
Kennst du das Haus? Auf Säulen ruht sein Dach.
Es glänzt der Saal, es schimmert das Gemach,
Und Marmorbilder stehn und sehn mich an:
Was hat man dir, du armes Kind, getan?
Kennst du es wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Möcht ich mit dir, o mein Beschützer, ziehn.
Kennst du den Berg und seinen Wolkensteg?
Das Maultier sucht im Nebel seinen Weg;
In Höhlen wohnt der Drachen alte Brut;
Es stürzt der Fels und über ihn die Flut!
Kennst du ihn wohl?
Dahin! dahin
Geht unser Weg! O Vater, laß uns ziehn!
und langsam
zu vergessen beginnen
wie es mit dir war
ganz mit dir
und dann halb
halb mit und halb ohne
und ganz zuletzt
ganz ohne
Erich Fried
Dich
dich sein lassen
ganz dich
Sehen
dass du nur du bist
wenn du alles bist
was du bist
das Zarte
und das Wilde
das was sich losreißen
und das was sich anschmiegen will
Wer nur die Hälfte liebt
der liebt dich nicht halb
sondern gar nicht
der will dich zurechtschneiden
amputieren
verstümmeln
Dich dich sein lassen
ob das schwer oder leicht ist?
Es kommt nicht darauf an mit wieviel
Vorbedacht und Verstand
sondern mit wieviel Liebe und mit wieviel
offener Sehnsucht nach allem –
nach allem
was du ist
Nach der Wärme
und nach der Kälte
nach der Güte
und nach dem Starrsinn
nach deinem Willen
und deinem Unwillen
nach jeder deiner Gebärden
nach deiner Ungebärdigkeit
Unstetigkeit
Stetigkeit
Dann
ist dieses
dich dich sein lassen
vielleicht
gar nicht so schwer.
Bei dir sein wollen
Mitten aus dem was man tut
weg sein wollen
bei dir verschwunden sein
Nichts als bei dir
näher als Hand an Hand
enger als Mund an Mund
bei dir sein wollen
In dir zärtlich zu dir sein
dich küssen von außen
und dich streicheln von innen
so und so und auch anders
Und dich einatmen wollen
immer nur einatmen wollen
tiefer tiefer
und ohne Ausatmen trinken
Aber zwischendurch Abstand suchen
um dich sehen zu können
aus ein zwei Handbreit Entfernung
und dann dich weiterküssen
Erich Fried
Wanting
Wanting to be with you
in the middle of what I’m doing
wanting to be gone
lost within you
Nothing but with you
closer than hand to hand
more intimate than lips to lips
wanting to be with you
Being tender within you
kissing you from the outside
and caressing you from within
this and that way and also differently
And wanting to inhale you
nothing but inhaling
deeper deeper
and to drink without exhaling
And while doing so searching the distance
to see you
just two hands away
and then kiss you again
Translation by Günter Ehweiner
Erich Fried was born on 6 May 1921 in Vienna. He began writing early until the German Anschluss in March 1938 transformed him “from an Austrian high school pupil into a persecuted Jew.” His father was murdered by the Gestapo, and Fried fled to London, where he helped his mother and 70 other people escape.
After the war Fried became a co-worker for numerous newly founded journals, later a commentator in German-language programs at the BBC. He gave up this position in 1968 because of the Cold War posture adopted by the BBC.
He made a name for himself with various poems and his only novel (“A soldier and a girl” 1960) and also making translations (including, among other things, the translation of almost the entire works of Shakespeare) – but also his work conflicted with public opinion on political issues, which was reflected in many of his poems. It was not until the end of his life that he received the recognition he deserved in the form of awards such as the Bremen Literary Prize, the Austrian State Prize and the Georg Büchner Prize.
Erich Fried died after a long and serious illness on 22 November 1988 and was buried at the Kensal Green Cemetery in London.
“My last boyfriend was a lawyer. I am since that time against lawyers. Lawyers are all false, heartless and wicked, I can not hear this word, it makes me nervous. Therefore I want for myself another admirer For example, an elementary school teacher. “
Elegie bei einer Tasse Mokka (Auszug)
“Mein letzter Freund war ein Jurist. Ich bin seit dieser Zeit gegen Juristen. Juristen sind alle falsch, herzlos und bös, Ich kann dieses Wort gar nicht hören, es macht mich nervös. Darum wünsch` ich mir zum nächsten Verehrer Beispielsweise einen Volksschullehrer.“
To Wine
Leksa Manush
Translated by A.Z. Foreman A cup of wine does anything you will: It gives a manly courage to shy men, And to the weakest man a strength of will. Wine knocks strong men out cold beyond their ken. And wine bonds strangers unknown to each other. They sit as friends, and each one drinks his fill. With song, wine calls them up to dance together. A good life, lived with wine, is better still. Sons and daughters of the sun and earth! The grape born of the vine has given birth To wine, to make us happy and at home. May vineyards never empty of the vine And may the jug forever fill with wine To the happiness and health of every Rom.
Or in Latvian-
Моляке
Лекса МанушТахтай моляса, со камэс, кэрэл:
Ладжякунэскэ дэл о муршипэн,
Конэскэ зор нанэ, зоралипэн,
Кон зорало сас — мол лэс пэравэл.
Пхандэл ёй кхэтанэ бипинджярдэн,
Бэштэ, сар амала, тэ сако пьел.
Мол тэ кхэлэн гилэнца лэн кхарэл.
Бахталэдыр моляса джиипэн.
Кхамэски и пхувьяки чяёри,
Дракхэндар бияндёл ёй, молори,
Пэ бахт тэ лош дыны ёй си амэнгэ.
A friend has just handed me a copy of this poet’s collection which is entitled “The Still Unborn About the Dead” published by Anvil Press Poetry. Here is a short example:-
Afternoon of a Song
I was propping the striped air
between your eyes and mine
I was propping the stripped air
of that yellow-green afternoon.
Between the sweet tympana
I was propping a long sound.
Diaphanous fingers
touching it and seem to snatch,
from the second’s
heard being of then,
our bodies so long.
How beautiful and how gentle,
lightening struck in the heights
with their long mantles of cloud,
and stars under their arms!
A happy vicar I might have been
Two hundred years ago
To preach upon eternal doom
And watch my walnuts grow;
But born, alas, in an evil time,
I missed that pleasant haven,
For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven.
And later still the times were good,
We were so easy to please,
We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep
On the bosoms of the trees.
All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble;
The greenfinch on the apple bough
Could make my enemies tremble.
But girl’s bellies and apricots,
Roach in a shaded stream,
Horses, ducks in flight at dawn,
All these are a dream.
It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them:
Horses are made of chromium steel
And little fat men shall ride them.
I am the worm who never turned,
The eunuch without a harem;
Between the priest and the commissar
I walk like Eugene Aram;
And the commissar is telling my fortune
While the radio plays,
But the priest has promised an Austin Seven,
For Duggie always pays.
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn’t born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?
Commentary
This appears in a new collection and their is a witty comment at https://www.theguardian.com/books/shortcuts/2015/nov/04/love-george-orwell-never-read-poems-poetry
It somehow reminds me of a favourite poem by Louis Mac Neice in its energetic and upbeat tempo- Bagpipe Music. Perhaps it is not surprising that Mac Neice sounds so much like Auden-but it certainly surprised me!
