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Turfan Fragment
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« Reply #690 on: 16:10:26, 09-08-2008 » |
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Corydon, lovesick swain, went into the forest of beeches,
And there to the mountains and woods--the one relief of his passion--
With useless effort outpoured the following artless complainings:-- Hör ich das Liedchen klingen,
Das einst die Liebste sang,
So will mir die Brust zerspringen,
Von wildem Herzens Drang.
Es treibt mich ein dunkles Sehnen,
Hinauf zur Waldeshöh.
Da löst sich auf in Thränen,
Mein übergrosses Weh.-Hienrich Heine |
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« Last Edit: 18:01:03, 09-08-2008 by Turfan Fragment »
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time_is_now
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« Reply #691 on: 17:59:28, 09-08-2008 » |
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1 Poetry is one of the Fine Arts.
2 A precondition of Fine Art is that it should be beautiful.
3 The gruesome can never be beautiful. Has Mr Grew dispensed with the sublime and terrible in art, then? I'm not very keen on the Dugan, incidentally - especially not on 'incandesced' and 'obsolesced' - but I expect Mr Grew dislikes it no more than other things I like very much, such as the A.R. Ammons I think I posted an excerpt from somewhere in this thread. here are the first five lines of a translation of the same Second Eclogue by Abraham Fraunce (1591) which is interesting not only on account of its felicity of phrase but also because, as in the case of some other Elizabethan hexameters, the metre is ruled by quantity, i.e. length of syllables, instead of by accent:
"SILLY shepherd Corydon lov'd hartyly fayre lad Alexis,
His master's dearling, but saw noe matter of hoping;
Only amydst darck groves thickset with broade-shadoe beech-trees
Dayly resort did he make, thus alone to the woods, to the mountayns,
With broken speeches fond thoughts there vaynly revealing."
This on the other hand is so precious I almost am tempted to echo the Grevian judgment, 'This is not poetry.' |
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« Last Edit: 18:20:25, 09-08-2008 by time_is_now »
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
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time_is_now
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« Reply #692 on: 18:00:21, 09-08-2008 » |
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Hör ich das Liedchen klingen,
Das einst die Liebste sang,
So will mir die Brust zerspringen,
Von wildem Herzens Drang.
Es treibt mich ein dunkles Sehnen,
Hinauf zur Waldeshöh.
Da löst sich auf in Thrðnen,
Mein übergrosses Weh.-Hienrich Heine Don't you mean Heinrich Hiene? |
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
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richard barrett
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« Reply #694 on: 18:09:13, 09-08-2008 » |
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Heine wrote what for me is almost the perfect embodiment of German Romanticism (also set memorably to music by Henze):
Am alten grauen Turme
Ein Schilderhäuschen steht;
Ein rotgeröckter Bursche
Dort auf und nieder geht.
Er spielt mit seiner Flinte,
Die funkelt im Sonnenrot,
Er präsentiert und schultert -
Ich wollt, er schösse mich tot.
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Stanley Stewart
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« Reply #695 on: 18:12:41, 09-08-2008 » |
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And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river,
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me
Pablo Neruda
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Don Basilio
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« Reply #696 on: 20:46:56, 09-08-2008 » |
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I do wish the Teutophones among you would give us a gloss de temps en temps.
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
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richard barrett
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« Reply #697 on: 21:12:19, 09-08-2008 » |
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Here is a rough and ready rendering:
On the old grey tower
a sentry house stands;
a red-coated fellow
goes up and down there.
He toys with his musket,
which gleams in the sunlight;
he presents and shoulders arms -
I wish he would shoot me dead.
(This isn't a complete poem, but the last eight lines of the third poem in a long sequence, Die Heimkehr (The Homecoming)).
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Don Basilio
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« Reply #698 on: 21:14:21, 09-08-2008 » |
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Danke
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
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Turfan Fragment
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« Reply #699 on: 21:15:48, 09-08-2008 » |
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Hör ich das Liedchen klingen,
Das einst die Liebste sang,
So will mir die Brust zerspringen,
Von wildem Herzens Drang.
Es treibt mich ein dunkles Sehnen,
Hinauf zur Waldeshöh.
Da löst sich auf in Thränen,
Mein übergrosses Weh.-Hienrich Heine Hear I the songlet clanging what once the belovedest sang so will me the breast disleap from wild heart's pressure. It tribes me a dark yearning hinup to forest's heights there looses itself up in tears my overbig woe. |
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richard barrett
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« Reply #700 on: 21:25:28, 09-08-2008 » |
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hinup English is that not. |
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Don Basilio
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« Reply #701 on: 21:32:13, 09-08-2008 » |
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TF, I really am trying to keep my latent Teutophobia in control, but that translation confirms my worst prejudices about the German language. (Set to music, German can be exquisite, but that heavy clump on the penultimate syllable of the sentence in conversational German is so depressing.)
I take it as a useful crib and I can see that übergrosses Weh works perfectly well in a way that overbig woe just doesn't.
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
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time_is_now
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« Reply #702 on: 21:47:08, 09-08-2008 » |
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Hear I the songlet clanging
what once the belovedest sang
so will me the breast disleap
from wild heart's pressure.
It tribes me a dark yearning
hinup to forest's heights
there looses itself up in tears
my overbig woe.
That's poetry as I need it! |
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
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time_is_now
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« Reply #703 on: 21:52:54, 09-08-2008 » |
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Hör ich das Liedchen klingen,
Das einst die Liebste sang,
So will mir die Brust zerspringen,
Von wildem Herzens Drang.
Es treibt mich ein dunkles Sehnen,
Hinauf zur Waldeshöh.
Da löst sich auf in Thränen,
Mein übergrosses Weh.-Heinrich Heine More prosaically: The sound of the little song, which once my dearest sang, will burst open my breast with the pressure of a wild heart. I am driven by a dark yearning to the heights of the forest, where my tears dissolve the pain which is too much for me. |
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« Last Edit: 22:54:08, 09-08-2008 by time_is_now »
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The city is a process which always veers away from the form envisaged and desired, ... whose revenge upon its architects and planners undoes every dream of mastery. It is [also] one of the sites where Dasein is assigned the impossible task of putting right what can never be put right. - Rob Lapsley
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martle
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« Reply #704 on: 21:55:19, 09-08-2008 » |
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Here is a rough and ready rendering:
On the old grey tower
a sentry house stands;
a red-coated fellow
goes up and down there.
He toys with his musket,
which gleams in the sunlight;
he presents and shoulders arms -
I wish he would shoot me dead.
(This isn't a complete poem, but the last eight lines of the third poem in a long sequence, Die Heimkehr (The Homecoming)).
Richard, is that (one of)? the Heine poems Henze uses in Voices? If so, I remember it being utterly beautiful. |
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Green. Always green.
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