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Poems
This volume, the first edition in English of Hermann Hesse's poetry, begins to correct an unexplainable oversight. For if the author of Narcissus and Goldmund and The Journey to the East had never written a single novel, his poems alone would have established him as a distinctly eloquent voice.
James Wright, himself increasingly recognized as one of the finest poets writing today, has selected and translated thirty-one poems from Die Gedichte (Collected Poems). The results make it plain that the burden of Hesse's songs, and his songfulness, is genuinely congenial to Wright.
"Poetry is what is lost in translation." Here is one collaboration that transcends that maxim.
James Wright, himself increasingly recognized as one of the finest poets writing today, has selected and translated thirty-one poems from Die Gedichte (Collected Poems). The results make it plain that the burden of Hesse's songs, and his songfulness, is genuinely congenial to Wright.
"Poetry is what is lost in translation." Here is one collaboration that transcends that maxim.
96 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1971
About the author
Hermann Hesse
1,785 books17.3k followersMany works, including
Siddhartha
(1922) and
Steppenwolf
(1927), of German-born Swiss writer Hermann Hesse concern the struggle of the individual to find wholeness and meaning in life; he won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1946.
Other best-known works of this poet, novelist, and painter include The Glass Bead Game , which, also known as Magister Ludi, explore a search of an individual for spirituality outside society.
In his time, Hesse was a popular and influential author in the German-speaking world; worldwide fame only came later. Young Germans desiring a different and more "natural" way of life at the time of great economic and technological progress in the country, received enthusiastically Peter Camenzind , first great novel of Hesse.
Throughout Germany, people named many schools. In 1964, people founded the Calwer Hermann-Hesse-Preis, awarded biennially, alternately to a German-language literary journal or to the translator of work of Hesse to a foreign language. The city of Karlsruhe, Germany, also associates a Hermann Hesse prize.
Other best-known works of this poet, novelist, and painter include The Glass Bead Game , which, also known as Magister Ludi, explore a search of an individual for spirituality outside society.
In his time, Hesse was a popular and influential author in the German-speaking world; worldwide fame only came later. Young Germans desiring a different and more "natural" way of life at the time of great economic and technological progress in the country, received enthusiastically Peter Camenzind , first great novel of Hesse.
Throughout Germany, people named many schools. In 1964, people founded the Calwer Hermann-Hesse-Preis, awarded biennially, alternately to a German-language literary journal or to the translator of work of Hesse to a foreign language. The city of Karlsruhe, Germany, also associates a Hermann Hesse prize.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 73 reviews
October 17, 2022
Hesse's collection of poems. Oscillate between splendid and average. Not that enrapturing experience as his novels produce. Still a nice concoction emanating life-affirming vibes. But with occasional swerve to lamentation. Solitary time in wilderness extolled as mirror to the soul. Affinity for peaceful seclusion in the lap of nature. Penchant for spiritual oneness with nature in its multifarious manifestations. You may like it if you found his other works engrossing.
August 23, 2019
"Don’t be downcast, soon the night will
come,
When we can see the cool moon
laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.
Don’t be downcast, the time will soon
come
When we can have rest. Our small
crosses will stand
On the bright edge of the road
together,
And rain fall, and snow fall,
And the winds come and go."
- On a Journey
I've never read anything by Hermann Hesse in my life until I found this little poetry collection of poems that reached me in very homely, beautiful and nostalgic ways.
I was comfortably dejected whilst reading his poetry and I felt it resulted in a giving me strong case of homesickness in existentialist terms.
I don't think that the longing he portrayed in his poetry was for a certain place, or a person or even an object. I think his longing was for something more obscure, something you cannot really address directly, something only an art can divulge.
And what his art told me is that he was an exile in this world, and it reminded me that I too am an exile who luckily got to float upon his linguistic river of familiar feelings that flew from him in a way far more beautiful than I will ever wrote and I truly loved it.
To be short, I felt he and I were nostalgic for the far away, the unanswerable and the unknown and it was so beautiful to get to read his words and feel them resonate within my current world.
come,
When we can see the cool moon
laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.
Don’t be downcast, the time will soon
come
When we can have rest. Our small
crosses will stand
On the bright edge of the road
together,
And rain fall, and snow fall,
And the winds come and go."
- On a Journey
I've never read anything by Hermann Hesse in my life until I found this little poetry collection of poems that reached me in very homely, beautiful and nostalgic ways.
I was comfortably dejected whilst reading his poetry and I felt it resulted in a giving me strong case of homesickness in existentialist terms.
I don't think that the longing he portrayed in his poetry was for a certain place, or a person or even an object. I think his longing was for something more obscure, something you cannot really address directly, something only an art can divulge.
And what his art told me is that he was an exile in this world, and it reminded me that I too am an exile who luckily got to float upon his linguistic river of familiar feelings that flew from him in a way far more beautiful than I will ever wrote and I truly loved it.
To be short, I felt he and I were nostalgic for the far away, the unanswerable and the unknown and it was so beautiful to get to read his words and feel them resonate within my current world.
May 29, 2019
Here are a few samples that I liked:
Elizabeth
by Hermann Hesse (Translated by James Wright)
I should tell you a story,
The night is already so late -
Do you want to torment me,
Lovely Elizabeth?
I write poems about that,
Just as you do;
And the entire history of my love
Is you and this evening.
You mustn't be troublesome,
And blow these poems away.
Soon you will listen to them,
Listen, and not understand.
Destiny
by Hermann Hesse (Translated by James Wright)
In our fury and muddle
We act like children, cut off,
Fled from ourselves,
Bound by silly shame.
The years clump past
In their agony, waiting.
Not a single path leads back
To the garden of our youth.
The First Flowers
by Hermann Hesse (Translated by James Wright)
Beside the brook
Toward the willows,
During these days
So many yellow flowers have opened
Their eyes into gold.
I have long since lost my innocence, yet a memory
Touches my depth, the golden hours of morning, and gazes
Brilliantly upon me out of the eyes of flowers.
I was going to pick flowers;
Now I leave them all standing
And walk home, an old man.
Elizabeth
by Hermann Hesse (Translated by James Wright)
I should tell you a story,
The night is already so late -
Do you want to torment me,
Lovely Elizabeth?
I write poems about that,
Just as you do;
And the entire history of my love
Is you and this evening.
You mustn't be troublesome,
And blow these poems away.
Soon you will listen to them,
Listen, and not understand.
Destiny
by Hermann Hesse (Translated by James Wright)
In our fury and muddle
We act like children, cut off,
Fled from ourselves,
Bound by silly shame.
The years clump past
In their agony, waiting.
Not a single path leads back
To the garden of our youth.
The First Flowers
by Hermann Hesse (Translated by James Wright)
Beside the brook
Toward the willows,
During these days
So many yellow flowers have opened
Their eyes into gold.
I have long since lost my innocence, yet a memory
Touches my depth, the golden hours of morning, and gazes
Brilliantly upon me out of the eyes of flowers.
I was going to pick flowers;
Now I leave them all standing
And walk home, an old man.
May 12, 2022
En lo personal, Hesse me fascina porque parece tener una conciencia plena de las emociones, y una soltura increíble para escribir sobre cada una sin encasillarse en una en particular. Sin embargo, noto que hay un tema en común que es la descripción de paisajes naturales (así como en Peter Camenzind).
Los poemas seleccionados me parecieron melancólicos, algunos devastadores y otros que buscan esperanza y la luz del sol en un nuevo día. Mis favoritos fueron aquellos relacionados con la Gran Guerra (escritos en 1914).
Los poemas seleccionados me parecieron melancólicos, algunos devastadores y otros que buscan esperanza y la luz del sol en un nuevo día. Mis favoritos fueron aquellos relacionados con la Gran Guerra (escritos en 1914).
July 14, 2021
but we, your younger brothers,
stagger godless through a confusing life,
our trembling souls stand eagerly, opened
to all sufferings of passion,
to every burning desire.
our goal is death,
our belief a belief in what perishes,
no great distance of time defies
our fleeting faces.
stagger godless through a confusing life,
our trembling souls stand eagerly, opened
to all sufferings of passion,
to every burning desire.
our goal is death,
our belief a belief in what perishes,
no great distance of time defies
our fleeting faces.
April 26, 2022
It's always rather surprising to come across a poetry book I like, whether or not it was recommended to me (and it was). Can't wait to go around telling people how my sleep has turned into a frightened bird, "difficult to catch, to hold, yet easy to kill"
🐦....🏃♀️
🐦....🏃♀️
May 30, 2022
bu adam ne yazdıysa okuyacağım. hayat amaçlarımdan biri bu.
July 7, 2010
Over the years, I've gotten into the habit of collecting used, hardbound copies of Hermann Hesse's books. This one in particular is quite a gem. It was once owned by the John C. Hart Memorial Library in Yorktown, New York, so it still has the awesome pocket with the stamped due date card. Unfortunately, I enjoyed the aesthetic of the book much more than its contents. I suppose I was expecting a lot as I'm a huge fan of Hesse's Siddhartha and Steppenwolf. I was expecting to be inspired and moved, but instead I felt adrift and a bit agitated by Hesse's lack of precision and momentum in these poems. I find him to be much more confident and in control of image and rhythm in his prose. "Ravenna (1)" and "Childhood" are somewhat memorable, but I don't feel the desire to read them again and again. Perhaps I'll come across this book at a later date and discover something more worthwhile, but for now, I'm tempted to tear out the pages and use the beautiful binding and nostalgic library details as a new journal. I'm sorry, Hermann!
February 12, 2019
The world and my self, everything
Within and without me, grows into one
Clouds drift through my heart,
Woods dream my dream
House and pear tree tell me
The forgotten story of common childhood
Streams resound and gorges cast shadows in me
The moon, and the faint star, my close friends
But the mild night
That bows with its gentle clouds above me
Has my mother's face
Kisses me smiling with inexhaustible love
Shakes her head dreamily
As she used to do and her hair
Waves through the world and within it
The thousand stars, shuddering, turn pale
Within and without me, grows into one
Clouds drift through my heart,
Woods dream my dream
House and pear tree tell me
The forgotten story of common childhood
Streams resound and gorges cast shadows in me
The moon, and the faint star, my close friends
But the mild night
That bows with its gentle clouds above me
Has my mother's face
Kisses me smiling with inexhaustible love
Shakes her head dreamily
As she used to do and her hair
Waves through the world and within it
The thousand stars, shuddering, turn pale
July 12, 2009
"To Cheryl - On The Happiest Of Days, Love Michael" - that is what is handwritten inside the cover of my copy of this book, which I purchased at a used bookstore. I always wondered what the "happiest of days" was - a wedding? Birthday? Anniversary? Well, Michael's pretty cool for having gifted Cheryl this book of poetry - it is a wonderful collection of verses.
August 25, 2019
I didn't even know that he also wrote poetry, this was OK.
August 24, 2022
4.5 stars. I love James Wright as a translator as much as a poet in his own right. He was the right fit to translate Trakl into English, and he shows here that the same can be said of Hesse. Wright explains in the Introduction that he chose these poems for the theme of “homesickness,” which reminds me of one of my favorite lines from Novalis: “Philosophy is really homesickness: the urge to be at home everywhere.” And Hesse’s verse is both philosophic and searching, truly seeking to find a “home” on earth among his fellow man, but also more precisely within himself. Despite my ambivalence toward Hesse’s fiction, I am convinced he was born to be a poet rather than a novelist. I only wish more of his verse would be translated into English, as Wright points out that this slim volume was selected from hundreds of pages of poetry in Hesse’s collected works in German.
November 27, 2017
"I know many countries and cities are still waiting,
But never again will the night of the forests,
The wild fermenting garden of the earliest world
Lure me in, and horrify me with its magnificence.
Here in this endless and gleaming wilderness
I was removed father than ever from the world of men--
And i never saw so close or so clearly
The image in the mirror of my own soul."
"Now I drink pain in every delight
And poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Alone, without you."
But never again will the night of the forests,
The wild fermenting garden of the earliest world
Lure me in, and horrify me with its magnificence.
Here in this endless and gleaming wilderness
I was removed father than ever from the world of men--
And i never saw so close or so clearly
The image in the mirror of my own soul."
"Now I drink pain in every delight
And poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Alone, without you."
February 13, 2024
Hesse’s poems are very much micro short stories.
They almost read like poems in the vein Borges short fiction.
By this I mean Borge’s short stories feel like condensed novels and Hesse’s poems, at least in this collection, feel like condensed short stories.
I’ve yet to read anything of Hesse’s I dislike and the poems while not always novel, unique or new, continue to depict the interests and insights of a man concerned with both the concepts of a life well lived and a life well explored.
Well worth a read
They almost read like poems in the vein Borges short fiction.
By this I mean Borge’s short stories feel like condensed novels and Hesse’s poems, at least in this collection, feel like condensed short stories.
I’ve yet to read anything of Hesse’s I dislike and the poems while not always novel, unique or new, continue to depict the interests and insights of a man concerned with both the concepts of a life well lived and a life well explored.
Well worth a read
August 27, 2022
Hesse in his best. These poems are like compressed Hesse novels. It's sad that so few of them were translated.
...
We hate nothing that exists, not even death,
Suffering and dying
Does not horrify our souls,
As long as we learn more deeply to love.
...
Only concerning thing is, I think, the lack of poetic beauty in translated poems.
...
We hate nothing that exists, not even death,
Suffering and dying
Does not horrify our souls,
As long as we learn more deeply to love.
...
Only concerning thing is, I think, the lack of poetic beauty in translated poems.
December 31, 2017
Loved it.
January 19, 2022
A slim volume of Hesse's poems (31 poems to be exact), selected and translated by the poet James Wright.
The 31 poems are "I Know, You Walk", "Across the Field", "Elizabeth", "Ravenna (1)", "Ravenna (2)", "Lonesome Night", "A Swarm of Gnats", "The Poet", "Mountains at Night", "At Night on the High Seas", "To a Chinese Girl Singing", "Departure from the Jungle", "Evil Time", "On a Journey", "Night", "Destiny", "Ode to Hölderlin", "Childhood", "Lying in Grass", "How Heavy the Days...", "In a Collection of Egyptian Sculpture", "Without You", "The First Flowers", "Spring Day", "Holiday Music in the Evening", "Thinking of a Friend at Night", "Autumn Day", "To Children", "Flowers, Too", "Uneasiness in the Night", and "All Deaths".
Hesse's Wanderings are well documented. The theme is frequently explored by Hesse in his fiction and poetry...
There is a poem dedicated to the memory of Knulp. I can't find any information to provide a basis for Knulp, whether he was a friend of Hesse's or a historical figures. What I do know is that Knulp also formed the basis of Hesse's novel of the same name...
Many of the poems limit themselves to basic descriptions of nature. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, many readers prefer this kind of poetry. I'm not one of these readers. In spite of my bias, I found the nature poems to be agreeable...
My favourite poem in the collection...
The 31 poems are "I Know, You Walk", "Across the Field", "Elizabeth", "Ravenna (1)", "Ravenna (2)", "Lonesome Night", "A Swarm of Gnats", "The Poet", "Mountains at Night", "At Night on the High Seas", "To a Chinese Girl Singing", "Departure from the Jungle", "Evil Time", "On a Journey", "Night", "Destiny", "Ode to Hölderlin", "Childhood", "Lying in Grass", "How Heavy the Days...", "In a Collection of Egyptian Sculpture", "Without You", "The First Flowers", "Spring Day", "Holiday Music in the Evening", "Thinking of a Friend at Night", "Autumn Day", "To Children", "Flowers, Too", "Uneasiness in the Night", and "All Deaths".
Hesse's Wanderings are well documented. The theme is frequently explored by Hesse in his fiction and poetry...
At night, when the sea cradles me
And the pale star gleam
Lies down on its broad waves,
Then I free myself wholly
From all activity and all the love
And stand silent and breathe purely,
Alone, alone cradled by the sea
That lies there, cold and silent, with a thousand lights.
Then I have to think of my friends
And my gaze sinks into their gazes
And I ask each one, silent, alone:
"Are you still mine?
Is my sorrow a sorrow to you, my death a death?
Do you feel from my love, my grief,
Just a breath, just an echo?"
And the sea peacefully gazes back, silent,
And smiles: no.
And no greeting and no answer comes from any where.
- At Night on the High Seas (pg. 23)
There is a poem dedicated to the memory of Knulp. I can't find any information to provide a basis for Knulp, whether he was a friend of Hesse's or a historical figures. What I do know is that Knulp also formed the basis of Hesse's novel of the same name...
Don't be downcast, soon the night will come,
When we can see the cool moon laughing in secret
Over the faint countryside,
And we rest, hand in hand.
Don't be downcast, the time will soon come
When we can have rest. Our small crosses will stand
On the bright edge of the road together,
And rain fall, and snow fall,
And the winds come and go.
- On a Journey in memory of Knulp (pg. 31)
Many of the poems limit themselves to basic descriptions of nature. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, many readers prefer this kind of poetry. I'm not one of these readers. In spite of my bias, I found the nature poems to be agreeable...
Across the sky, the clouds move,
Across the fields, the wind,
Across the fields the lost child
Of my mother wanders.
Across the street, leaves blow,
Across the trees, birds cry -
Across the mountains, far away,
My home must be.
- Across the Field . . . (pg. 5)
The lake has died down,
The reed, black in its sleep,
Whispers in a dream.
Expanding immensely into the countryside,
The mountains loom, outspread.
They are not resting.
They breathe deeply, and hold themselves,
Pressed tightly, to one another.
Deeply breathing,
Laden with mute forces,
Caught in a wasting passion.
- Mountains at Night (pg. 21)
Beside the brook
Toward the willows,
During these days
So many yellow flowers have opened
Their eyes into gold.
I have long since lost my innocence, yet a memory
Touches my depth, the golden hours of morning, and gazes
Brilliantly upon me out of the eyes of flowers.
I was going too pick flowers;
Now I leave them all standing
And walk home, an old man.
- The First Flowers (pg. 51)
My favourite poem in the collection...
I should tell you a story,
The night is already so late -
Do you want to torment me,
Lovely Elizabeth?
I write poems about that,
Just as you do;
And the entire history of my love
Is you and this evening.
You mustn't be troublesome,
And blow these poems away.
Soon you will listen to them,
Listen, and not understand.
- Elizabeth (pg. 7)
June 21, 2011
"He is homesick. But what is home? I do not know the answer, but I cherish Hesse because he at least knew how to ask the question." (James Wright in the Translator's Introduction)
Wright selected and translated these poems which, yes, could be said to center around the theme of homesickness. It is a short book but the poems are well chosen and cohere superbly. Few are truly dark but some menace and they all question (in the larger sense).
I will need to revisit this volume from time to time, no doubt.
This edition is a bilingual one with the German on the left and the English on the right so may be of help to those trying to learn or better their German/English.
Wright selected and translated these poems which, yes, could be said to center around the theme of homesickness. It is a short book but the poems are well chosen and cohere superbly. Few are truly dark but some menace and they all question (in the larger sense).
I will need to revisit this volume from time to time, no doubt.
This edition is a bilingual one with the German on the left and the English on the right so may be of help to those trying to learn or better their German/English.
July 26, 2014
I bought this book in my early 20s, and I am now 59. I have read these poems over and over, and every year they get more meaningful and more beautiful. Some are very sentimental, but hey we are talking about Hesse. The poems will make more of an impact if you have read at least a couple of his novels.
March 5, 2011
This is the only good Hesse I've ever read, and that's mostly because James Wright is a superb poet.
December 11, 2015
My absolutely favorite book of poems ever. Hesse speaks to my soul. <3
April 3, 2016
His poetry is as esoteric and beautiful as his writings!
Some of the best poems I've ever read!
Some of the best poems I've ever read!
June 5, 2022
Maybe his poems are so important to me because of the people from my life that are in one way or another connected to them, maybe they're just that good, maybe it's both, who knows?
May 26, 2024
"In this evil year, autumn comes early...
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back."
I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,
The wind on my hat...And you? And you, my friend?
You are standing--maybe--and seeing the sickle moon
Move in a small arc over the forests
And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.
You are lying--maybe--in a straw field and sleeping
And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.
It's possible tonight you're on horseback,
The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,
Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.
Maybe--I keep imagining--you are spending the night
As a guest in a strange castle with a park
And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping
On the piano keys by the window,
Groping for a sound...
--And maybe
You are already silent, already dead, and the day
Will shine no longer into your beloved
Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,
And your white forehead split open--Oh, if only,
If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you
Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!
But you know me, you know...and, smiling, you nod
Tonight in front of your strange castle,
And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,
And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,
And think about me, and smile.
And maybe,
Maybe some day you will come back from the war,
and take a walk with me some evening,
And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,
And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,
And no one will speak a word of his worry,
Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,
Of his love. And with a single joke
You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,
The summer lightning of shy human friendship,
Into the cool past that will never come back."
May 12, 2022
It always feels good to come back to Herman Hesse every once in a while. This book contains a small collection of his poems mainly revolving around themes such as solitude and homesickness. As usual, Hesse's words flow along like a dancing rivulet, leaving a trail of lucid imagery as it makes its way through the pages.
Here's one of my favorites from this collection,
Uneasiness in the Night
The clock speaks uneasily with the spider web on the wall,
The wind tears at the shutters,
My flickering candles are
Utterly dripped away and burned down,
No more wine in the glass,
Shadows in every corner
Whose long fingers stretch out toward me.
Just as in childhood
I close my eyes and breathe heavily,
Uneasiness clutches me cowering in my chair,
But no mother comes anymore,
No kindly, scolding maid comes to me anymore
So friendly, she charmed the horrifying world
Away from me and brightened me new with comfort.
I stay a long time, cowering in the darkness,
Hear the wind in the roof and crackling death in the walls,
Hear sand running behind the wallpaper,
Hear death spinning with his cold fingers;
I force my eyes open, I want to look and to grasp,
Look into the emptiness and hear him far off
Whistling lightly out of his mocking lips,
I edge into bed—I wish I could sleep I
But sleep has turned into a frightened bird,
Difficult to catch, to hold, yet easy to kill;
Whistling he flies off, his voice full of bitter disdain,
The rustling of a wing, away in the straining wind.
Here's one of my favorites from this collection,
Uneasiness in the Night
The clock speaks uneasily with the spider web on the wall,
The wind tears at the shutters,
My flickering candles are
Utterly dripped away and burned down,
No more wine in the glass,
Shadows in every corner
Whose long fingers stretch out toward me.
Just as in childhood
I close my eyes and breathe heavily,
Uneasiness clutches me cowering in my chair,
But no mother comes anymore,
No kindly, scolding maid comes to me anymore
So friendly, she charmed the horrifying world
Away from me and brightened me new with comfort.
I stay a long time, cowering in the darkness,
Hear the wind in the roof and crackling death in the walls,
Hear sand running behind the wallpaper,
Hear death spinning with his cold fingers;
I force my eyes open, I want to look and to grasp,
Look into the emptiness and hear him far off
Whistling lightly out of his mocking lips,
I edge into bed—I wish I could sleep I
But sleep has turned into a frightened bird,
Difficult to catch, to hold, yet easy to kill;
Whistling he flies off, his voice full of bitter disdain,
The rustling of a wing, away in the straining wind.
July 26, 2017
Amazing poetry volume. Being abroad on Paris, missing my country but at the same time missing Germany and missing all the places I've been to and all the places I've never seen, this anthology of poems about Homesickness, Heimweg, has been a perfect reading for me.
I love his rhythms, his simpleness, his profoundness, his metaphors. I love German.
I loved them all excepto, maybe, for Elisabeth. My favourites, if I had to choose: Mückenschwarm, Der Dichter, Bei Nacht, Schicksal, and the masterpiece Die ersten Blumen.
I will stop writing long reviews. The time has finally come to read what I love the most and to write.
I love his rhythms, his simpleness, his profoundness, his metaphors. I love German.
I loved them all excepto, maybe, for Elisabeth. My favourites, if I had to choose: Mückenschwarm, Der Dichter, Bei Nacht, Schicksal, and the masterpiece Die ersten Blumen.
I will stop writing long reviews. The time has finally come to read what I love the most and to write.
September 8, 2021
My Pillow gazes upon me at night
Empty as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Not to lie down asleep in your hair.
I lie alone in a silent house,
The hanging lamp darkened,
And gently stretch out my hands
To gather in yours,
And softly press my warm mouth
Toward you, and kiss myself, exhausted and weak
Then suddenly I'm awake
And all around me the cold night grows still.
The star in the window shines clearly
Where is your blond hair,
Where your sweet mouth?
Now I drink pain in every delight
And poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Alone, without you.
— Without You
Empty as a gravestone;
I never thought it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Not to lie down asleep in your hair.
I lie alone in a silent house,
The hanging lamp darkened,
And gently stretch out my hands
To gather in yours,
And softly press my warm mouth
Toward you, and kiss myself, exhausted and weak
Then suddenly I'm awake
And all around me the cold night grows still.
The star in the window shines clearly
Where is your blond hair,
Where your sweet mouth?
Now I drink pain in every delight
And poison in every wine;
I never knew it would be so bitter
To be alone,
Alone, without you.
— Without You
March 13, 2018
To Children
(...)
Nevertheless, you will be soldiers one day
And one day you will know
That the sweet breath of this life,
The precious possession of a heartbeat,
Is only a loan, and that whatever was lost
In the past, and the heir you long for,
And the farthest future,
Rolls through your blood,
And that for every hair on you head
Somebody endured one struggle, one pain, one death.
(...)
Nevertheless, you will be soldiers one day
And one day you will know
That the sweet breath of this life,
The precious possession of a heartbeat,
Is only a loan, and that whatever was lost
In the past, and the heir you long for,
And the farthest future,
Rolls through your blood,
And that for every hair on you head
Somebody endured one struggle, one pain, one death.
January 7, 2022
Ehhhh.... I really only liked one poem
Destiny
In our fury and muddle
We act like children, cut off,
Fled from ourselves,
Bound by silly shame.
The years clump past
In their agony, waiting.
Not a single path leads back
To the garden of our youth.
I don't know if it was just poor translation or what, but it just felt.... off.
Destiny
In our fury and muddle
We act like children, cut off,
Fled from ourselves,
Bound by silly shame.
The years clump past
In their agony, waiting.
Not a single path leads back
To the garden of our youth.
I don't know if it was just poor translation or what, but it just felt.... off.
October 8, 2020
Σαράντα ποιήματα που έγραψε ο Έρμαν Έσσε. Τα περισσότερα εξ αυτών έχουν γραφτεί στα νεανικά του χρόνια, από το 1897 έως τις αρχές του 20ου αιώνα. Παρότι έχω διαβάσει σχεδόν τα άπαντά του, μέσα από αυτό το βιβλίο ανακάλυψα το ποιητικό του ταλέντο.
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