Gertrud Kolmar: Verlorenes Lied

Verlorenes Lied

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als lange Haare –
Bin zweiundzwanzig Jahre –
Sind rotes Gold, meine Haare,
Sagen die Kaufleut’ mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als gemalte Brauen –
Fluch den ehrbaren Frauen! –
Sind tintenschwarz, meine Brauen,
Sagen die Schreiber mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als kecke Blicke –
Weißt du, wem ich sie schicke ? –
Sind scharfes Schrot, meine Blicke,
Sagen die Jäger mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als reife Lippen –
Tugend fährt über Klippen –
Sind kirschensüß, meine Lippen,
Sagen die Gärtner mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als geschmeidige Sohlen –
Ei, in der Schenke das Johlen! –
Sind zum Tanzen gemacht, meine Sohlen,
Sagen die Spielleut’ mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als weiße Glieder –
Blankes Gold lockert mein Mieder –
Sind Flammen der Lust, meine Glieder,
Sagst heute nacht du mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als ein Leben in Schande,
Einen Tod am Straßenrande –
Einst in zerlumptem Gewande
Scharrt man mich ein im Sande.
Wo ? Sagt keiner mir.

Ich bin arm und habe nichts.
Nichts! Garnichts!
Nichts als die heimliche Zähre –
Daß ich so arm nicht wäre! –
Nur meine Dirnenehre!
Vom Strauch fällt die tausendste Beere;
Fault sie, wer sucht nach ihr ?
Sterb’ ich, wer weint nach mir?

Gertrud Kolmar
(1894 – 1943)
Verlorenes Lied

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More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive K-L, Archive K-L, Kolmar, Gertrud

Georg Trakl: In Venedig

In Venedig

Stille in nächtigem Zimmer.
Silbern flackert der Leuchter
Vor dem singenden Odem
Des Einsamen;
Zaubrisches Rosengewölk.

Schwärzlicher Fliegenschwarm
Verdunkelt den steinernen Raum
Und es starrt von der Qual
Des goldenen Tags das Haupt
Des Heimatlosen.

Reglos nachtet das Meer.
Stern und schwärzliche Fahrt
Entschwand am Kanal.
Kind, dein kränkliches Lächeln
Folgte mir leise im Schlaf.

Georg Trakl
(1887 – 1914)
In Venedig

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More in: *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Expressionism, Expressionisme, Trakl, Georg, Trakl, Georg

Masaoka Shiki: Buddha-death

Buddha-death

Buddha-death:
the moonflower’s face,
the snake gourd’s fart

Masaoka Shiki
(1867-1902)
Buddha-death

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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Shiki, Masaoka

Feeling All the Kills by Helen Calcutt

Feeling All the Kills is a dazzling new collection that breaks the poet’s silence on what it means to experience and live in the wake of a violent assault and rape.

Calcutt weaves stunning musicality with raw, unhindered storytelling, as the poems both collectively, and in their individual power, explore the distinctly connected, yet fractured selves of ‘sexual being’, ‘mother’ and ‘abused person’.

Through the poems’ breathtaking and vital vocabulary Calcutt brings the physical, emotional, and sexual nuances of life to the foreground, with strength, subtlety and beauty, and courageously harnesses a sense of ownership over such a lasting trauma.

At the heart of this collection is a personal desire to navigate a way back to a sensual, whole-feeling self, to shamelessly ‘feel all’ — with authenticity and power.

Helen Calcutt is a leading artist and choreographer working with a specialism in text embodiment within theatre & movement. She is the author of three volumes of poetry and Artistic Director of dance-theatre company ‘Beyond Words‘.
Her writing has been published globally. ‘Somehow’ (Verve Poetry Press, 2020), was a PBS Winter Bulletin Pamphlet & Poetry School Book of the Year (2020). Anthology ‘Eighty-Four’ (Verve Press, 2019), created in aid of the suicide prevention charity C.A.L.M. was a Saboteur Award shortlist & a Poetry Wales Book of the Year, 2019. Her full-length collection ‘Feeling All the Kills’ was published by Pavilion Poetry, April 2024.

Feeling All the Kills
by Helen Calcutt (Author)
Pavilion Poetry
Publisher: ‎Liverpool University Press
28 April 2024
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 84 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1802074724
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1802074727
£10.11

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More in: #Modern Poetry Archive, - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive C-D, Archive C-D

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: Der Sänger

Der Sänger

Was hör ich draußen vor dem Tor,
Was auf der Brücke schallen?
Laß den Gesang vor unserm Ohr
Im Saale widerhallen!
Der König sprachs, der Page lief;
Der Knabe kam, der König rief:
Laßt mir herein den Alten!

Gegrüßet seid mir, edle Herrn,
Gegrüßt ihr, schöne Damen!
Welch reicher Himmel, Stern bei Stern!
Wer kennet ihre Namen?
Im Saal voll Pracht und Herrlichkeit
Schließt, Augen, euch; hier ist nicht Zeit,
Sich staunend zu ergetzen.

Der Sänger drückt’ die Augen ein
Und schlug in vollen Tönen;
Die Ritter schauten mutig drein,
Und in den Schoß die Schönen.
Der König, dem das Lied gefiel,
Ließ, ihn zu ehren für sein Spiel,
Eine goldne Kette holen.

Die goldne Kette gib mir nicht,
Die Kette gib den Rittern,
Vor deren kühnem Angesicht
Der Feinde Lanzen splittern;
Gib sie dem Kanzler, den du hast,
Und laß ihn noch die goldne Last
Zu andern Lasten tragen.

Ich singe, wie der Vogel singt,
Der in den Zweigen wohnet;
Das Lied, das aus der Kehle dringt,
Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.
Doch darf ich bitten, bitt ich eins:
Laß mir den besten Becher Weins
In purem Golde reichen.

Er setzt’ ihn an, er trank ihn aus:
O Trank voll süßer Labe!
O wohl dem hochbeglückten Haus,
Wo das ist kleine Gabe!
Ergehts euch wohl, so denkt an mich,
Und danket Gott so warm, als ich
Für diesen Trunk euch danke.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832)
Der Sänger

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More in: # Music Archive, Archive G-H, Archive G-H, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, J.W. von Goethe

Adah Menken: Aspiration

Aspiration

Poor, impious Soul! that fixes its high hopes
In the dim distance, on a throne of clouds,
And from the morning’s mist would make the ropes
To draw it up amid acclaim of crowds—
Beware! That soaring path is lined with shrouds;
And he who braves it, though of sturdy breath,
May meet, half way, the avalanche and death!
O poor young Soul!—whose year-devouring glance
Fixes in ecstasy upon a star,
Whose feverish brilliance looks a part of earth,
Yet quivers where the feet of angels are,
And seems the future crown in realms afar—
Beware! A spark thou art, and dost but see
Thine own reflection in Eternity!

Adah Isaacs Menken
(1835 – 1868)
Aspiration

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More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Menken, Adah, THEATRE

Wild nights – Wild nights! by Emily Dickinson

Wild nights
– Wild nights!

Wild nights – Wild nights!
Were I with thee
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile – the winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden –
Ah – the Sea!
Might I but moor – tonight –
In thee!

Emily Dickinson
(1830—1886)
Wild nights – Wild nights!

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Adah Menken: A Memory

A Memory

I see her yet, that dark-eyed one,
Whose bounding heart God folded up
In His, as shuts when day is done,
Upon the elf the blossom’s cup.
On many an hour like this we met,
And as my lips did fondly greet her,
I blessed her as love’s amulet:
Earth hath no treasure, dearer, sweeter.

The stars that look upon the hill,
And beckon from their homes at night,
Are soft and beautiful, yet still
Not equal to her eyes of light.
They have the liquid glow of earth,
The sweetness of a summer even,
As if some Angel at their birth
Had dipped them in the hues of Heaven.

They may not seem to others sweet,
Nor radiant with the beams above,
When first their soft, sad glances meet
The eyes of those not born for love;
Yet when on me their tender beams
Are turned, beneath love’s wide control,
Each soft, sad orb of beauty seems
To look through mine into my soul.

I see her now that dark-eyed one,
Whose bounding heart God folded up
In His, as shuts when day is done,
Upon the elf the blossom’s cup.
Too late we met, the burning brain,
The aching heart alone can tell,
How filled our souls of death and pain
When came the last, sad word, Farewell!

Adah Isaacs Menken
(1835 – 1868)
A Memory

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More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Menken, Adah, THEATRE

Water by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Water

The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily,
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.

Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
Water

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More in: *Archive African American Literature, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Emerson, Ralph Waldo

This Little Bag poem by Jane Austen

This little bag

This little bag I hope will prove
To be not vainly made–
For, if you should a needle want
It will afford you aid.
And as we are about to part
T’will serve another end,
For when you look upon the Bag
You’ll recollect your friend

Jane Austen
(1775 – 1817)
This little bag
Poem

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Austen, Jane, Austen, Jane, Jane Austen

Rachel Long: My Darling from the Lions

Rachel Long’s much-anticipated debut collection of poems, My Darling from the Lions, explores shame, love and healing through her intimate poetic voice.

Shortlisted for the Rathbones Folio Prize / the Costa Poetry Award / the Forward Prize for Best First Collection / the Jhalak Prize

British poet Rachel Long’s poems are so razor-sharp and witty that they stand out from the first line. Long is also founder of the Octavia Collective for Womxn of Colour (a ‘community-minded’ collective where women of color can safely (learn to) write poetry, a response to the lack of inclusivity within literature and the academy).

She debuted two years ago with the impressive collection My darling from the lions. This collection was nominated for five different poetry awards and was named one of the 100 must-read books of 2021 by TIME.

There is a vibrancy to her narrative poems that is extraordinary to find in a text; with dizzying precision, Long describes humorous, sensual and surreal scenes.

Sometimes, as a reader, you recognize yourself in the candid, uncomfortable moments Long shares; sometimes, on the contrary, the scenes are alienating. However, Long has a talent for making that alienation come across naturally nonetheless.

The collection can be described as a coming-of-age story, in which the speaker survives a tumultuous childhood and adolescence only to find himself in the confusing maze called adulthood.

Rachel Long creates relatable, human work that is sure to leave an impression that is sure to leave an impression long after she has once again traded the Rotterdam stage of Poetry International for her native London.

Long reveals herself as a razor-sharp and original voice on the issues of sexual politics and cultural inheritance that polarize our current moment. But it’s her refreshing commitment to the power of the individual poem that will leave the reader turning each page in eager anticipation: here is an immediate, wide-awake poetry that entertains royally, without sacrificing a note of its urgency or remarkable skill.

OPEN
This morning she told me
I sleep with my mouth open
and my hands in my hair.
I say, What, Mum, like screaming?
She says, No, baby, like abandon.

Rachel Long is a poet and the founder of Octavia Poetry Collective for Women of Colour, which is housed at Southbank Centre in London. My Darling from the Lions, first published by Picador in 2020, is her debut collection. She was born in London, and resides there today.

My Darling from the Lions:
Poems
by Rachel Long (Author)
Publisher: ‎Tin House Books
Publication date: ‎September 21, 2021
Language: ‎English
Print length: ‎88 pages
ISBN-10: ‎1951142713
ISBN-13: ‎978-1951142711
Paperback
$14.98