Poetry

We worship love because it's more useful than anything else in the world. As money becomes increasingly necessary and hard to get, it too seems more attractive, more awe-inspiring, like love. — I could say the opposite with as much sincerity. — My poverty is easier to bear when I remember the wealthy, and that's…

trans. German Bruce Berlind I've sold off everything. The people climbed four flights, rang twice, out of breath, and paid me off on the floor, since the table too had been sold. While I was selling everything, five or six blocks away they expropriated the possessive pronouns and sawed off the shadows, the private ones,…

Don't torment your heart with the joys of earth, Don't cling to your wife or your home, Take the bread from your child To give to a stranger. And be the humblest servant of the one Who was your bitterest foe, And call the beast of the forest brother, And don't ask God for anything,…

Its fury undiminished, the syllogism yesterday struck down thirty-seven new victims in Paris alone. Shortsightedness at the Hôtel de Ville may plunge our nighttime streets into total darkness. The noise of the new electric-light generators has been aggravating the insomnia of the trees that line the boulevards, and last night enraged plane trees fell on…

trans. German Thomas Frick A field of stubble. A black wind thunders. Violet sadness unfolds, The same thoughts come back, mud surrounds the brain; Asters die, leaning on fences, And sunflowers, black and dishevelled. The dreary soul shudders silently Next to the dark and empty window.

He whispers: “I won't even apologize For loving you so — Either be mine alone Or I will kill you.” It buzzes around me like a gadfly, Incessantly day after day, This same boring argument, Your black jealousy. Grief smothers — but not fatally, The wide wind dries my tears And cheerfulness begins to soothe,…

trans. French Richard Tillinghast Poetry like love is made in a bed. In her messed-up sheets the sun rises. Poetry lives in deep woods. She has all the room she needs. One whole side of the universe      Is ruled by a hawk's gaze,      By the dewdrop on a furled fern,      By the memory of a…

(Trakl's last poem) At sundown the autumn woods resound With deadly weapons, the golden fields And blue lakes, the sun Moves on seriously; The night grasps Dying soldiers, the wild cries From their shattered mouths. Red clouds gather silently Over the meadows, sent by a wrathful god, Soaking up the lost blood, cool as the…

The round, hanging lanterns, Lit early, are squeaking, Ever more festively, ever brighter, The flying snowflakes glitter. And, quickening their steady gait, As if sensing some pursuit, Through the softly falling snow Under a dark blue net, the horses race. And the gilded footman Stands motionless behind the sleigh, And the Tsar looks around strangely…