Its less noisy than the underground and gives you some idea of the layout of North London. Especially from South Tottenham to Hampstead. It also seems quite quick and one could easily imagine Betjeman getting lyrical and informative about it. Only the bookshops might prove expensive -I found a nice anthology by Grigson -“The Cherry Tree” and a biography of Byron by Frederick Raphael-quite a combination. Excellent Oxfam bookshop and Louis coffeehouse-now Polish instead of Hungarian.
I wish, I wish, I wish in vain
I wish I was a youth again
But a youth again I can never be
Till apples grow on an ivy tree
I left me father, I left me mother
I left all my sisters and brothers too
I left all my friends and me own religion
I left them all for to follow you
But the sweetest apple is the soonest rotten
And the hottest love is the soonest cold
And what can’t be cured love has to be endured love
And now I am bound for America
Oh love is pleasin’ and love is teasin’
And love is a pleasure when first it’s new
But as it grows older sure the love grows colder
And it fades away like the morning dew
And love and porter makes a young man older
And love and whiskey makes him old and grey
And what can’t be cured love has to be endured love
And now I am bound for America
I found this poem which in a collection from a local charity shop in a battered old hardback for just £6. I rather like Browning for his lyrical accessibility. I know that he was greatly loved by the blind Cornish poet, Jack Clemo, for his love of Italy. I remember from school days being very moved by “How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix”. Indeed it is now said that it his dramatic monologues which are his greatest contribution. Oscar Wilde writes;”Yes, Browning was great. And as what will he be remembered? As a poet? Ah, not as a poet! He will be remembered as a writer of fiction, as the most supreme writer of fiction, it may be, that we have ever had. His sense of dramatic situation was unrivalled, and, if he could not answer his own problems, he could at least put problems forth, and what more should an artist do? Considered from the point of view of a creator of character he ranks next to him who made Hamlet.”
Returning to the poem above there are certain lines that are both moving and puzzling. “The leaf buds on the vine are wooly” to me suggests that they are both ready to open but some how covered with a kind of moss which is suggestive of some plant that is about to flower and at the same time about to decline. Thus suggestive of the situation the poet finds himself in relation to his would-be mistress. The vine is, of course biblical (John 15.1 and also John 15.4) and brings in another note about time and decay. The colour red turning to gray might I suppose refer to the colour of the grape and the bloom or mould upon it-but clearly signifies passion, like Paradise lost. The seasonal confusions within the poem I find suggestive of the inner turmoil related to the loss of the beloved.
Buried in woods we lay, you recollect;
Swift ran the searching tempest overhead;
And ever and anon some bright white shaft
Burnt through the pine-tree roof,—here burnt and there,
As if God’s messenger through the close wood screen
Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture,
Feeling for guilty thee and me.
I find that reading verses in German somehow memorable:-
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.
