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Amy Levy: A Farewell

Amy Levy

(1861-1889)

A Farewell

(After Heine.)

The sad rain falls from Heaven,
A sad bird pipes and sings ;
I am sitting here at my window
And watching the spires of “King’s.”

O fairest of all fair places,
Sweetest of all sweet towns!
With the birds, and the greyness and greenness,
And the men in caps and gowns.

All they that dwell within thee,
To leave are ever loth,
For one man gets friends, and another
Gets honour, and one gets both.

The sad rain falls from Heaven;
My heart is great with woe–
I have neither a friend nor honour,
Yet I am sorry to go.

Amy Levy poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Novalis: Hymnen an die Nacht 4

Novalis

(Friedrich von Hardenberg, 1772–1802)

Hymnen an die Nacht 4

Nun weiß ich, wenn der letzte Morgen seyn wird – wenn das Licht nicht mehr die Nacht und die Liebe scheucht – wenn der Schlummer ewig und nur Ein unerschöpflicher Traum seyn wird. Himmlische Müdigkeit fühl ich in mir. – Weit und ermüdend ward mir die Wallfahrt zum heiligen Grabe, drückend das Kreutz. Die krystallene Woge, die gemeinen Sinnen unvernehmlich, in des Hügels dunkeln Schooß quillt, an dessen Fuß die irdische Flut bricht, wer sie gekostet, wer oben stand auf dem Grenzgebürge der Welt, und hinübersah in das neue Land, in der Nacht Wohnsitz – warlich der kehrt nicht in das Treiben der Welt zurück, in das Land, wo das Licht in ewiger Unruh hauset.

Oben baut er sich Hütten, Hütten des Friedens, sehnt sich und liebt, schaut hinüber, bis die willkommenste aller Stunden hinunter ihn in den Brunnen der Quelle zieht – das Irdische schwimmt obenauf, wird von Stürmen zurückgeführt, aber was heilig durch der Liebe Berührung ward, rinnt aufgelöst in verborgenen Gängen auf das jenseitige Gebiet, wo es, wie Düfte, sich mit entschlummerten Lieben mischt.

Noch weckst du, muntres Licht den Müden zur Arbeit – flößest fröhliches Leben mir ein – aber du lockst mich von der Erinnerung moosigem Denkmal nicht. Gern will ich die fleißigen Hände rühren, überall umschaun, wo du mich brauchst – rühmen deines Glanzes volle Pracht – unverdroßen verfolgen deines künstlichen Werks schönen Zusammenhang – gern betrachten deiner gewaltigen, leuchtenden Uhr sinnvollen Gang – ergründen der Kräfte Ebenmaß und die Regeln des Wunderspiels unzähliger Räume und ihrer Zeiten. Aber getreu der Nacht bleibt mein geheimes Herz, und der schaffenden Liebe, ihrer Tochter. Kannst du mir zeigen ein ewig treues Herz? hat deine Sonne freundliche Augen, die mich erkennen? fassen deine Sterne meine verlangende Hand? Geben mir wieder den zärtlichen Druck und das kosende Wort? Hast du mit Farben und leichtem Umriß Sie geziert – oder war Sie es, die deinem Schmuck höhere, liebere Bedeutung gab? Welche Wollust, welchen Genuß bietet dein Leben, die aufwögen des Todes Entzückungen? Trägt nicht alles, was uns begeistert, die Farbe der Nacht? Sie trägt dich mütterlich und ihr verdankst du all deine Herrlichkeit. Du verflögst in dir selbst – in endlosen Raum zergingst du, wenn sie dich nicht hielte, dich nicht bände, daß du warm würdest und flammend die Welt zeugtest. Warlich ich war, eh du warst – die Mutter schickte mit meinen Geschwistern mich, zu bewohnen deine Welt, sie zu heiligen mit Liebe, daß sie ein ewig angeschautes Denkmal werde – zu bepflanzen sie mit unverwelklichen Blumen. Noch reiften sie nicht diese göttlichen Gedanken – Noch sind der Spuren unserer Offenbarung wenig – Einst zeigt deine Uhr das Ende der Zeit, wenn du wirst wie unser einer, und voll Sehnsucht und Inbrunst auslöschest und stirbst. In mir fühl ich deiner Geschäftigkeit Ende – himmlische Freyheit, selige Rückkehr. In wilden Schmerzen erkenn ich deine Entfernung von unsrer Heymath, deinen Widerstand gegen den alten, herrlichen Himmel. Deine Wuth und dein Toben ist vergebens. Unverbrennlich steht das Kreutz – eine Siegesfahne unsers Geschlechts.

Hinüber wall ich,

Und jede Pein

Wird einst ein Stachel

Der Wollust seyn.

Noch wenig Zeiten,

So bin ich los,

Und liege trunken

Der Lieb’ im Schooß.

Unendliches Leben

Wogt mächtig in mir

Ich schaue von oben

Herunter nach dir.

An jenem Hügel

Verlischt dein Glanz –

Ein Schatten bringet

Den kühlenden Kranz.

O! sauge, Geliebter,

Gewaltig mich an,

Daß ich entschlummern

Und lieben kann.

Ich fühle des Todes

Verjüngende Flut,

Zu Balsam und Aether

Verwandelt mein Blut –

Ich lebe bey Tage

Voll Glauben und Muth

Und sterbe die Nächte

In heiliger Glut.

Novalis poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Charlotte Brontë: The Wife’s Will

Charlotte Brontë

(1816 -1855)

The Wife’s Will

Sit still–a word–a breath may break

(As light airs stir a sleeping lake)

The glassy calm that soothes my woes–

The sweet, the deep, the full repose.

O leave me not! for ever be

Thus, more than life itself to me!

Yes, close beside thee let me kneel–

Give me thy hand, that I may feel

The friend so true–so tried–so dear,

My heart’s own chosen–indeed is near;

And check me not–this hour divine

Belongs to me–is fully mine.

‘Tis thy own hearth thou sitt’st beside,

After long absence–wandering wide;

‘Tis thy own wife reads in thine eyes

A promise clear of stormless skies;

For faith and true love light the rays

Which shine responsive to her gaze.

Ay,–well that single tear may fall;

Ten thousand might mine eyes recall,

Which from their lids ran blinding fast,

In hours of grief, yet scarcely past;

Well mayst thou speak of love to me,

For, oh! most truly–I love thee!

Yet smile–for we are happy now.

Whence, then, that sadness on thy brow?

What sayst thou? “We muse once again,

Ere long, be severed by the main!”

I knew not this–I deemed no more

Thy step would err from Britain’s shore.

“Duty commands!” ‘Tis true–’tis just;

Thy slightest word I wholly trust,

Nor by request, nor faintest sigh,

Would I to turn thy purpose try;

But, William, hear my solemn vow–

Hear and confirm!–with thee I go.

“Distance and suffering,” didst thou say?

“Danger by night, and toil by day?”

Oh, idle words and vain are these;

Hear me! I cross with thee the seas.

Such risk as thou must meet and dare,

I–thy true wife–will duly share.

Passive, at home, I will not pine;

Thy toils, thy perils shall be mine;

Grant this–and be hereafter paid

By a warm heart’s devoted aid:

‘Tis granted–with that yielding kiss,

Entered my soul unmingled bliss.

Thanks, William, thanks! thy love has joy,

Pure, undefiled with base alloy;

‘Tis not a passion, false and blind,

Inspires, enchains, absorbs my mind;

Worthy, I feel, art thou to be

Loved with my perfect energy.

This evening now shall sweetly flow,

Lit by our clear fire’s happy glow;

And parting’s peace-embittering fear,

Is warned our hearts to come not near;

For fate admits my soul’s decree,

In bliss or bale–to go with thee!

Currer Bell (Charlotte Brontë) poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Anne, Emily & Charlotte Brontë, Archive A-B, Brontë, Anne, Emily & Charlotte

Hendrik Marsman: Afscheid

Hendrik Marsman

(1899-1940)

Afscheid

Slaap met het donker, vrouw
slaap met de nacht

ons diepst omarmen
heeft de droom omgebracht

donker en zonder erbarmen
zijn bloed en geslacht

slaap met het donker, vrouw
slaap met de nacht.

Afscheid II

Ik ga op weg
en laat mijn huis
verdonkren
in het avondrood

– o, ga niet weg,
de nacht is groot.

Ik kan niet blijven
lieveling,
de dood ontbood mij
tot zijn kring;

vergeef mij
dat ik achterlaat
wat ik zozeer
heb liefgehad:

mijn huis, mijn stad,
mijn kleine straat
en u
mijn eigen hart,

ik hoor een lied
een grote stem.

– zijt gij dan niet
van mij?

. . . . . . van hem.

o, vrouw die
eenzaam achterblijft
in het verwaaiend
avondrood

o dood, o stem

de nacht is groot
en sterk de stem
die tussen slaap
en morgenrood
roept uit het
nieuw Jeruzalem.

Hendrik Marsman poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

G.K. Chesterton Poetry

fdm01

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

(1874-1936)

BY THE BABE UNBORN
If trees were tall and grasses short,
As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
Beyond the breaking pale,

If a fixed fire hung in the air
To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
I know what I should do.

In dark I lie: dreaming that there
Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
And living men behind.

Let storm-clouds come: better an hour,
And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
The empires of the night.

I think that if they gave me leave
Within that world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
I spent in fairyland.

They should not hear a word from me
Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
If only I were born.

THE DONKEY
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil’s walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

THE SONG OF THE CHILDREN
The World is ours till sunset,
Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
Who loved us long ago.

The grown folk mighty and cunning,
They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
Of the million tales he told.

He taught them laws and watchwords,
To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
The games that the angels play.

Had he stayed here for ever,
Their world would be wise as ours–
And the king be cutting capers,
And the priest be picking flowers.

But the dark day came: they gathered:
On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
And hanged him on a tree.

THOU SHALT NOT KILL
I had grown weary of him; of his breath
And hands and features I was sick to death.
Each day I heard the same dull voice and tread;
I did not hate him: but I wished him dead.
And he must with his blank face fill my life–
Then my brain blackened; and I snatched a knife.

But ere I struck, my soul’s grey deserts through
A voice cried, ‘Know at least what thing you do.’
‘This is a common man: knowest thou, O soul,
What this thing is? somewhere where seasons roll
There is some living thing for whom this man
Is as seven heavens girt into a span,
For some one soul you take the world away–
Now know you well your deed and purpose. Slay!’

Then I cast down the knife upon the ground
And saw that mean man for one moment crowned.
I turned and laughed: for there was no one by–
The man that I had sought to slay was I.

THE MIRROR OF MADMEN
I dreamed a dream of heaven, white as frost,
The splendid stillness of a living host;
Vast choirs of upturned faces, line o’er line.
Then my blood froze; for every face was mine.

Spirits with sunset plumage throng and pass,
Glassed darkly in the sea of gold and glass.
But still on every side, in every spot,
I saw a million selves, who saw me not.

I fled to quiet wastes, where on a stone,
Perchance, I found a saint, who sat alone;
I came behind: he turned with slow, sweet grace,
And faced me with my happy, hateful face.

I cowered like one that in a tower doth bide,
Shut in by mirrors upon every side;
Then I saw, islanded in skies alone
And silent, one that sat upon a throne.

His robe was bordered with rich rose and gold,
Green, purple, silver out of sunsets old;
But o’er his face a great cloud edged with fire,
Because it covereth the world’s desire.

But as I gazed, a silent worshipper,
Methought the cloud began to faintly stir;
Then I fell flat, and screamed with grovelling head,
‘If thou hast any lightning, strike me dead!

‘But spare a brow where the clean sunlight fell,
The crown of a new sin that sickens hell.
Let me not look aloft and see mine own
Feature and form upon the Judgment-throne.’

Then my dream snapped: and with a heart that leapt
I saw across the tavern where I slept,
The sight of all my life most full of grace,
A gin-damned drunkard’s wan half-witted face.

THE SKELETON
Chattering finch and water-fly
Are not merrier than I;
Here among the flowers I lie
Laughing everlastingly.
No: I may not tell the best;
Surely, friends, I might have guessed
Death was but the good King’s jest,
It was hid so carefully.

THE HAPPY MAN
To teach the grey earth like a child,
To bid the heavens repent,
I only ask from Fate the gift
Of one man well content.

Him will I find: though when in vain
I search the feast and mart,
The fading flowers of liberty,
The painted masks of art.

I only find him at the last,
On one old hill where nod
Golgotha’s ghastly trinity–
Three persons and one god.

A NOVELTY
Why should I care for the Ages
Because they are old and grey?
To me, like sudden laughter,
The stars are fresh and gay;
The world is a daring fancy,
And finished yesterday.

Why should I bow to the Ages
Because they were drear and dry?
Slow trees and ripening meadows
For me go roaring by,
A living charge, a struggle
To escalade the sky.

The eternal suns and systems,
Solid and silent all,
To me are stars of an instant,
Only the fires that fall
From God’s good rocket, rising
On this night of carnival.

g.k. chesterton poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Chesterton, Gilbert Keith, G.K. Chesterton

Karel van de Woestijne: Gij zijt de goede vrouw

Karel van de Woestijne

1878-1929

Gij zijt de goede vrouw…

Gij zijt de goede vrouw ten drempel mijner dood, –

gij die me uw oogen als een zomer-nacht ontsloot

vol wondre lichten en vol rust’ge duisterheden;

gij die me uw leden als de rijkste herfsten bracht,

en, schooner dan een schemering, de zéekre kracht

van vredig leven en zich goed bemind te weten.

Want gij, die weet hoe iedre vreugde tanen moet,

gij mínt me; – en ‘lijk een god de dood der zon begroet

met stille liefde, al heeft hij vreugde-vol geschapen

die zon: zoo mint ge in mij wat ge in u-zelf voelt slapen

en dat in mij voor eeuw’gen slaap moe de oogen sloot,

ons moede liefde, o vrouw, ten drempel mijner dood.

karel van de woestijne poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive W-X, Woestijne, Karel van de

Cesar Vallejo: Tiempo, tiempo

Cesar Vallejo
(1892 – 1938)

Tiempo, tiempo

Tiempo, tiempo

Mediodía estancado entre relentes.
Bomba aburrida del cuartel achica
tiempo tiempo tiempo tiempo.

Era Era.

Gallos cancionan escarbando en vano.
Boca del claro día que conjuga
era era era era.

Mañana Mañana.

El reposo caliente aun de ser.
Piensa el presente guárdame para
mañana mañana mañana mañana.

Nombre Nombre.

¿Qué se llama cuanto heriza nos?
Se llama Lomismo que padece
nombre nombre nombre nombre.

Cesar Vallejo poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Erika De Stercke: Klimaat

stercke500

Klimaat

De aarde draait rond

zeker weten

mijn hoofd in het vierkant

dikwijls, soms

het gevaar loert van alle kanten

eenvoudig lijkt het

het leven en de kunst

maar zintuigen sputteren tegen

gedachten weten beter

terug naar de kern

de grondvoorraden slinken

het klimaat warmt op

ozonlaag en natuurplagen

zuurtegraad en woedevlagen

we schreeuwen moord en brand

respect voor de natuur

in al haar vormen

andere denkwijze

gewoontes aanpassen

vijf voor twaalf

kleine inspanningen

grote stap in het behoud

van onze aarde

de kunst van bewust leven

nog niets verloren

Erica De Stercke

fleursdumal.nl magazine

Mireille Havet: À un très petit enfant

havetmireille 06

Mireille Havet

(1898-1932)

À un très petit enfant

Pendant la Guerre

Le vent qui souffle ! Tu ne t’en occupes pas.

La guerre qui souffle ! Tu ne t’en occupes pas.

Peu à peu tu apprendras

que sur la terre il y a des orages

et la pluie drue pendant des jours.

Peu à peu tu apprendras

que la haine existe vivace et ardente :

Et le désir de tuer des hommes innocents

parfaitement inconnus de nom et de visage

…. qui auraient pu être des frères

si on avait voulu !

Ô Toi ! Né pendant la guerre

la plus folle ! la plus absolue.

Toi ! spectateur impassible et incompréhensif

qui ne jugeras que bien plus tard,

quand seront éteintes les flammes

et balayées les cendres.

Toi ! qui viens pour reconstruire

avec toute la tendresse de ton regard

bien disposé et sans méfiance,

avec tes mains si douces…. et roses

où peu à peu se dessineront

les grandes lignes de l’existence.

Te voici envoyé vers nous,

avec la perspective de ton enfance

inconsciente et échevelée,

pendant que se finira la guerre démente

et que nous planterons nos croix !

Tu ne viens, ni pour pleurer

ni pour souffrir

en quoi que ce soit, du malheur de notre année !

Tu viens, Promesse d’Avenir,

pour établir et contempler la paix !

Ô mon petit Enfant,

pour l’instant, dans le soleil,

tu joues avec le sable de cette terre

pour laquelle le sang coule

incompressible depuis des mois !

Et tout à l’heure, quand le soleil dormira

sur nos chantiers de morts,

tu souriras à la lumière de ta veilleuse

entre les voiles de ton berceau blanc.

Tu ne sais rien. Ton âme est close.

Tu es la chrysalide du lendemain.

Et je te regarde, affolée par tant d’innocence

et de certitude.

Ta tâche n’est pas la plus douce.

Constructeur parmi les décombres :

Il te faudra aller sans défaillance,

ne pas croire que la vie est mauvaise

parce que la mort fut un instant

la plus forte !

Tout reprendra avec tes soins.

Génération de vie laborieuse et fervente

après notre génération de sacrifices et de croix

— Efflorescence merveilleuse sur nos morts. —

Le soleil se refera d’une clarté éblouissante

et le blé sera haut dans les champs

avec des cigales dedans.

Des maisons blanches seront bâties

au bord des rivières :

au bord de la Meuse, de la Marne, du Rhin !

Et vous saurez être heureux encore

d’un bonheur neuf et vigoureux

comme votre sang d’enfants nés pendant la guerre.

Mais en ce moment : Tu dors,

ignorant la terre, le vent, la lutte ;

tes yeux fermés abritent le secret

de ton âme

qui est bien la plus forte…

avec son rôle à venir

et l’inconscience de son rêve actuel

où se mire l’éternité.

La Maison dans l’œil du chat

Paris, éditions Georges Crès & Cie, 1917

Mireille Havet poetry

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive G-H, Havet, Mireille, Mireille Havet

William Butler Yeats: May God be praised for woman

W i l l i a m B u t l e r Y e a t s

(1865-1939)

May God be praised for woman

T h r e e P o e m s

Politics

How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics?
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms!

To A Young Girl

My dear, my dear, I know
More than another
What makes your heart beat so;
Not even your own mother
Can know it as I know,
Who broke my heart for her
When the wild thought,
That she denies
And has forgot,
Set all her blood astir
And glittered in her eyes.

On Woman

May God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It’s plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me — no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale’s true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again —
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.

FLEURSDUMAL.NL MAGAZINE

MAGAZINE FOR ART & LITERATURE

More in: Archive Y-Z, Yeats, William Butler

Käthe Kollwitz: Die Toten mahnen uns (II)

K ä t h e K o l l w i t z

D i e T o t e n m a h n e n u n s

( I I ) B i l d e r

Denkmal Karl Liebknecht

Denkmal Ernst Thalmann

Käthe Kollwitz

Die Toten mahnen uns (II) Bilder

Photos: Anton K. Berlin

fleursdumal.nl magazine – magazine for art & literature

More in: *War Poetry Archive, Anton K. Photos & Observations, Käthe Kollwitz

Käthe Kollwitz: Die Toten mahnen uns (I)

K ä t h e K o l l w i t z

Die Toten Mahnen uns

Berlin

The street names still reflect old DDR times, before the demolishment of the wall in 1989. The Karl-Liebknecht-Straße runs alongside the Alexanderplatz and connects Prenzlauer Berg to the Museuminsel and Unter den Linden. At the Rosa-Luxembourg-Platz, a few hundred meters to the north, a monument to Herbert Baum and a memorial plaque to Ernst Thälmann commemorate the resistance of the communists against fascism and against the wars that overshadowed life in Europe during the first half of the 20th century. The rise of a working class who lived in miserable conditions dominated social discussions in the early 1900’s. In 1914 a complex combination of imperialism, militarism and strong nationalistic feelings led to the First World War which eventually involved 75 percent of the world’s population and took the lives of 20 million soldiers and civilians. After the war the political situation in Germany remained unstable. The Treaty of Versailles declared Germany responsible for the war, it redefined its territory and Germany was forced to pay enormous war reparations. This treaty caused great bitterness in Germany and was a source of inspiration for both left and right extremism. It eventually led to the rise of fascism and the Second World War. Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxembourg, founders of the Kommunistische Partei Deutschland (KPD), were killed in 1919 by Freikorpsen, right extremist remainders of the German army. Herbert Baum and his resistance group were killed by the Gestapo in 1942 and Ernst Thälmann, Hitlers political opponent during the elections of 1932, was executed in Buchenwald in August 1944, on direct orders from Hitler.

Käthe Kollwitz

Käthe Schmidt was born in Königsberg in 1867 in a family of social democrats that were sensitive to the changes that were taking place in society. Her talent for art was recognised and stimulated by her father. She received lessons in drawing in a private art school in Berlin. Under the influence of her teacher Stauffer-Bern and the work of Max Klinger she decided to focus on black and white drawing, etching and lithography. She married Karl Kollwitz, a friend of the family, in 1891. Karl had decided to dedicate his live to the poor working class and started a doctor’s practice in Prenzlauer Berg in a street that is now called the Käthe-Kollwitz-Straße. They had 2 sons, Hans and Peter. Käthe was deeply moved by the social misery she was confronted with in her husbands practice and the life of the working class became a dominant theme in her work. It was Gerhard Hauptman’s play ‘die Weber’ that inspired her to her first successful series of etchings called ‘Ein Weberaufstand’. Another successful series was ‘Bauernkrieg” for which she received the prestigious ‘Villa Romana’ price. At the age of 50 Käthe had become famous throughout Germany and to the occasion of her birthday, exhibitions of her work were held in Berlin, Bremen and Königsberg.

In October 1914 her son Peter was killed in the trenches of Flanders. To his memory Käthe designed a monument which took her almost 18 years to complete. In Diksmuide-Vladslo, in a landscape covered by hundreds of war cemeteries, her ‘Grieving Parents’ impressively expresses the poignant grief and helplessness of parents who have lost a child. The death of her son had a great impact on her work and war and death became the dominant themes. When Karl Liebknecht was killed in 1919 his family asked Käthe to make a drawing to his memory. In a charcoal drawing she depicts the worker’s farewell to Liebknecht. A final version in woodcut was made 2 years later. Sieben Holzschitte zur Krieg were made in 1920/1923 and her famous poster Nie Wieder Krieg, a consignment by the International Labours Union, in 1924. She was not the only artist that stood up against war but while the artistic protests of for instance George Grosz, Otto Dix or Frans Masereel were primarily aimed at the horrors of the battlefield or the political climate, Käthe Kollwitz’s concern was with the human suffering of those who were left behind.

When the Nazis came to power in 1933, she and her husband signed an urgent appeal to unite the working class and to the formation of a front against Hitler. The SPD and KPD were forbidden by the Nazis and Käthe was removed from her position at the Berlin Art Academy where she was heading the Masterclass of Graphics. Exhibitions of her work were forbidden. Karl was also temporarily disallowed to exercise his practice and their financial situation became precarious until his ban was relieved due to a shortage of skilled physicians. Karl Kollwitz, after a life dedicated to the health of the poor, died in July 1940.

After Karl’s death Käthe suffered from depression and her physical condition was rapidly declining. The house in Berlin where she and Karl had been living since 1891 was bombed in 1943 and Käthe was evacuated to Nordhausen and later to Moritzburg. A few days before the end of the Second World War, in April 1945, Käthe Kollwitz died. She was buried in the family grave in Berlin-Friedrichsfelde at the same cemetery where a memorial monument pays tribute to the socialist heroes Karl Liebknecht, Rosa Luxembourg and Ernst Thälmann.

A mission

Käthe’s importance as an artist cannot be overvalued. Her authentic, expressive depictions of human misery, resulting from the exploitation of human labour, from fascism and war, are timeless, genuine and moving. She was not a politician but an artist with a vocation who found a way to make art that goes straight to the heart.

When you are in Berlin be sure to visit ‘Die Neue Wache’, a building designed by Christian Schinkel, which since the 1960-s is a monument against war and fascism. In the centre of the building, right beneath a circular opening in the ceiling, Käthe Kollwitz’s sculpture Mother and Child is an arresting plea for vigilance against mentalities and attitudes that may again lead to fascism and war.

References:

Ilse Kleberger: Kathe Kollwitz, Eine Biographie

Venues

Neue Wache – Unter den Linden near the Museuminsel

Kathe Kollwitzmuseum Berlin – Fasanenstrasse 24