{"id":164,"date":"2014-05-19T15:48:11","date_gmt":"2014-05-19T15:48:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.mytwostotinki.com\/?p=164"},"modified":"2015-04-26T15:50:44","modified_gmt":"2015-04-26T15:50:44","slug":"the-simple-art-of-poetry","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.mytwostotinki.com\/?p=164","title":{"rendered":"The Simple Art of Poetry"},"content":{"rendered":"

I admit it: I have a preference for poems written in a simple, almost sparse language. And that say many things with comparatively few words.<\/strong><\/p>\n

G\u00fcnter Eich\u2019s Inventur<\/em> (Inventory) was one of the first examples of this kind of poetry I came across when I was very young.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

Inventur<\/strong><\/p>\n


\nDies ist meine M\u00fctze,<\/strong>
\ndies ist mein Mantel,<\/strong>
\nhier mein Rasierzeug<\/strong>
\nim Beutel aus Leinen.\u00a0<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

Konservenb\u00fcchse:<\/strong>
\nMein Teller, mein Becher,<\/strong>
\nich hab in das Wei\u00dfblech<\/strong>
\nden Namen geritzt.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Geritzt hier mit diesem<\/strong>
\nkostbaren Nagel,<\/strong>
\nden vor begehrlichen<\/strong>
\nAugen ich berge.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Im Brotbeutel sind<\/strong>
\nein Paar wollene Socken<\/strong>
\nund einiges, was ich<\/strong>
\nniemand verrate,\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

so dient es als Kissen<\/strong>
\nnachts meinem Kopf.<\/strong>
\nDie Pappe hier liegt<\/strong>
\nzwischen mir und der Erde.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Die Bleistiftmine<\/strong>
\nlieb ich am meisten:<\/strong>
\nTags schreibt sie mir Verse,<\/strong>
\ndie nachts ich erdacht.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Dies ist mein Notizbuch,<\/strong>
\ndies meine Zeltbahn,<\/strong>
\ndies ist mein Handtuch,<\/strong>
\ndies ist mein Zwirn.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Inventory<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nThis is my cap, \u00a0<\/strong>
\nthis is my overcoat,\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nhere is my shave kit\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nin its linen pouch.\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Some field rations:\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nmy dish, my tumbler,\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nhere in the tin-plate\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI\u2019ve scratched my name. \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Scratched it here with this\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nprecious nail\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI keep concealed\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nfrom coveting eyes. \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

In the bread bag I have\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\na pair of wool socks\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nand a few things that I\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\ndiscuss with no one,\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

and these form a pillow\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nfor my head at night.\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nSome cardboard lies\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nbetween me and the ground. \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

The pencil\u2019s the thing\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI love the most:\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nBy day it writes verses\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI make up at night. \u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

This is my notebook,\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nthis my rain gear,\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nthis is my towel,\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong>
\nthis is my twine.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Translated by Joshua Mehigan)<\/strong><\/p>\n

Later I discovered many other interesting and beautiful examples of this genre. There are of course too many to quote them all, so I will just present a very few examples here:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Open House<\/strong><\/p>\n

My secrets cry aloud.<\/strong>
\nI have no need for tongue.<\/strong>
\nMy heart keeps open house,<\/strong>
\nMy doors are widely swung.<\/strong>
\nAn epic of the eyes<\/strong>
\nMy love, with no disguise.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(Theodore Huebner Roethke <\/strong>\u2013 a distant relative)<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Another one:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Was ich habe, will ich nicht verlieren, aber<\/strong>
\nwo ich bin, will ich nicht bleiben, aber<\/strong>
\ndie ich liebe, will ich nicht verlassen, aber<\/strong>
\ndie ich kenne, will ich nicht mehr sehen, aber<\/strong>
\nwo ich lebe, da will ich nicht sterben, aber<\/strong>
\nwo ich sterbe, da will ich nicht hin:<\/strong>
\nBleiben will ich, wo ich\u00a0nie\u00a0gewesen bin.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong>
\nWhat I have, I don\u2019t want to lose, but<\/strong>
\nwhere I am, I don\u2019t want to stay, but<\/strong>
\nthe one I love, I don\u2019t want to leave, but<\/strong>
\nthe ones I know, I don\u2019t want to see again, but<\/strong>
\nwhere I live, I don\u2019t want to die, but<\/strong>
\nwhere I\u2019ll die, I don\u2019t want to go:<\/strong>
\nI want to stay where I have never been.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(Thomas Brasch, translated by Thomas H\u00fc<\/em>bner)\u00a0<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The following\u00a0poem is already a kind of modern classic:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Was es ist<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\n\u00a0Es ist Unsinn<\/strong>
\nsagt die Vernunft<\/strong>
\nEs ist was es ist<\/strong>
\nsagt die Liebe<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nEs ist Ungl\u00fcck<\/strong>
\nsagt die Berechnung<\/strong>
\nEs ist nichts als Schmerz<\/strong>
\nsagt die Angst<\/strong>
\nEs ist aussichtslos<\/strong>
\nsagt die Einsicht<\/strong>
\nEs ist was es ist<\/strong>
\nsagt die Liebe<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nEs ist l\u00e4cherlich<\/strong>
\nsagt der Stolz<\/strong>
\nEs ist leichtsinnig<\/strong>
\nsagt die Vorsicht<\/strong>
\nEs ist unm\u00f6glich<\/strong>
\nsagt die Erfahrung<\/strong>
\nEs ist was es ist<\/strong>
\nsagt die Liebe<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nWhat it is<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nIt is nonsense<\/strong>
\nsays reason<\/strong>
\nIt is what it is<\/strong>
\nsays love<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nIt is misfortune<\/strong>
\nsays calculation<\/strong>
\nIt is nothing but pain<\/strong>
\nsays fear<\/strong>
\nIt is hopeless<\/strong>
\nsays insight<\/strong>
\nIt is what it is<\/strong>
\nsays love<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nIt is laughable<\/strong>
\nsays pride<\/strong>
\nIt is frivolous<\/strong>
\nsays caution<\/strong>
\nIt is impossible<\/strong>
\nsays experience<\/strong>
\nIt is what it is<\/strong>
\nsays love\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(Erich Fried,<\/strong> translated by Gwilym Williams)\u00a0<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\u00a0And\u00a0here is a quite famous example:<\/strong><\/p>\n

This is Just to Say<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI have eaten<\/strong>
\nthe plums<\/strong>
\nthat were in<\/strong>
\nthe icebox<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nand which<\/strong>
\nyou were probably<\/strong>
\nsaving<\/strong>
\nfor breakfast<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nForgive me<\/strong>
\nthey were delicious<\/strong>
\nso sweet<\/strong>
\nand so cold\u00a0\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(William Carlos Williams)\u00a0<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The shortest possible form of a poem is of course the haiku. Therefore here some examples from the great master of the haiku genre, Matsuo Basho:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Waking in the night;<\/strong>
\nThe lamp is low,<\/strong>
\nThe oil freezing.<\/strong>
\n\u00a0–<\/strong>
\n\u00a0It has rained enough<\/strong>
\nTo turn the stubble on the field<\/strong>
\nBlack.<\/strong>
\n–<\/strong>
\n\u00a0Winter rain<\/strong>
\nFalls on the cow-shed<\/strong>
\nA cock crows.<\/strong>
\n–<\/strong>
\n\u00a0The leeks<\/strong>
\nNewly washed white,-<\/strong>
\nHow cold it is!<\/strong>
\n–<\/strong>
\n\u00a0The sea darkens;<\/strong>
\nThe voices of the wild ducks<\/strong>
\nAre faintly white.<\/strong>
\n–<\/strong>
\nIll on a journey;<\/strong>
\nMy dreams wander<\/strong>
\nOver a withered moor.\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(translated by Robert Hass)<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

These are examples by well-known or even famous authors. But frequently lesser-known (but equally gifted) poets produce works that deserve to be noted, read, distributed and recommended. And I don\u2019t want to conclude this short choice of poems\u00a0without giving the floor to a poet that is probably unknown to most of you. I discovered this author only recently, after a close friend presented me a copy of his newest collection of poetry. I am talking about the Bulgarian poet Vladislav Hristov (born 1976), and his book Fi (\u0424\u0438). (Thank you, Eli! And thank you, Vladislav Hristov, for the dedication in my copy!).<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hristov is undoubtedly one of the best haiku poets of our times:\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u0438\u0437\u0433\u043e\u043d\u0435\u043d\u0430\u0442\u0430 \u043a\u043e\u0442\u043a\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u0441\u0430\u043c\u043e \u0442\u044f<\/strong>
\n\u0432\u0438\u0434\u044f \u0437\u0432\u0435\u0437\u0434\u043e\u043f\u0430\u0434\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\ncat shooed away<\/strong>
\nonly she saw<\/strong>
\nthe meteor shower\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(Translated by Maya Lyubenova)<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Also in his new collection the tone is laconic, sparse, but always evocative:<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u0434\u044f\u0441\u043d\u0430\u0442\u0430 \u0440\u044a\u043a\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u0434\u044a\u0440\u0436\u0438 \u043a\u043d\u0438\u0433\u0430\u0442\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u043b\u044f\u0432\u0430\u0442\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u0440\u044a\u043a\u0430\u0442\u0430 \u043d\u0430 \u043b\u044e\u0431\u0438\u043c\u0438\u044f<\/strong>
\n\u0432\u0441\u044f\u043a\u0430 \u043d\u043e\u0432\u0430 \u0441\u0442\u0440\u0430\u043d\u0438\u0446\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u0435 \u0440\u0430\u0437\u0434\u044f\u043b\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nthe right hand<\/strong>
\nholds the book<\/strong>
\nthe left<\/strong>
\nthe hand of the beloved<\/strong>
\neach new page<\/strong>
\nis shared<\/strong>
\n–<\/strong>
\n\u0441\u043d\u0438\u043c\u0430\u043d\u0435\u0442\u043e \u043d\u0430 \u0430\u043d\u0433\u0435\u043b<\/strong>
\n\u0435 \u043c\u043d\u043e\u0433\u043e \u043b\u0435\u0441\u043d\u043e:<\/strong>
\n\u043f\u0440\u043e\u0441\u0442\u043e \u043a\u0430\u0436\u0438 \u043e\u0431\u0438\u0447\u0430\u043c \u0442\u0435<\/strong>
\n\u043f\u0440\u0435\u0434\u0438 \u0434\u0430 \u043d\u0430\u0442\u0438\u0441\u043d\u0435\u0448 \u043a\u043e\u043f\u0447\u0435\u0442\u043e<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nphotographing an angel<\/strong>
\nis very simple:<\/strong>
\njust say I love you<\/strong>
\nbefore you press the button<\/strong>
\n–<\/strong>
\n\u0441\u044a\u043d\u0443\u0432\u0430\u0445 \u0442\u0430\u0440\u043a\u043e\u0432\u0441\u043a\u0438<\/strong>
\n\u0441\u0435\u0434\u043d\u0430\u043b \u043d\u0430 \u043f\u043e\u0434\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u0432 \u0434\u0435\u0442\u0441\u043a\u0430\u0442\u0430 \u0432\u0438 \u0441\u0442\u0430\u044f<\/strong>
\n\u0430\u043d\u0434\u0440\u044e\u0448\u0430 \u043a\u0430\u043a\u0432\u043e \u043f\u0440\u0430\u0432\u0438\u0448 \u0442\u0443\u043a<\/strong>
\n\u0442\u043e\u0439 \u043c\u044a\u043b\u0447\u0438<\/strong>
\n\u0432\u0446\u0435\u043f\u0435\u043d\u0438\u0445 \u0441\u0435 \u043e\u0442 \u0443\u0436\u0430\u0441:<\/strong>
\n\u0430\u043c\u0438 \u0430\u043a\u043e \u043c\u0435 \u043f\u043e\u043f\u0438\u0442\u0430<\/strong>
\n\u0441\u044a\u0449\u043e\u0442\u043e<\/strong>
\n\u00a0<\/strong>
\nI dreamt Tarkovsky<\/strong>
\nsat on the floor<\/strong>
\nin your children\u2019s room<\/strong>
\nandryusha what are you doing here<\/strong>
\nhe was silent<\/strong>
\nfrozen in horror:<\/strong>
\nwhat if you asked me<\/strong>
\nthe same\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

(Translations by Thomas H\u00fc<\/em>bner)<\/strong><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Vladislav Hristov is an extraordinarily versatile and talented poet\/photographer\/artist. He writes also interesting short prose, and it would be nice to see more of his works translated and published in other languages.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Ergo Books, his Bulgarian publisher, is to be congratulated for the efforts they are undertaking to promote contemporary Bulgarian poetry. Beside from Vladislav Hristov, they publish also the poetry of Jana Punkina, Miroslav Hristov, Jordanka Beleva, Dimana Ivanova, Palmi Ranchev, Maria Vasileva, Margarit Zhekov, Kamen Kostov, and Ivaylo Ivanov, amongst others.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"Fi\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0Vladislav Hristov: Fi, Ergo Books, Sofia 2013 (in Bulgarian language)<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

G\u00fcnter Eich: Abgelegene Geh\u00f6fte. Schauer, Frankfurt am Main, 1948 (transl.: <\/em>Poetry, Apr2009, Vol. 194, Issue 1, p37)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Theodore Roethke: Open House. Knopf, New York, 1941<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Thomas Brasch: Die nennen das Schrei. Gesammelte Gedichte. Suhrkamp, Berlin, 2013 <\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Erich Fried: Es ist was es ist. Wagenbach, Berlin 1983 (transl.: http:\/\/poet-in-residence.blogspot.com\/2009\/06\/coming-soon-erich-fried.html<\/a>)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

William Carlos Williams: The Collected Poems, Volume I, 1909-1939. New Directions, New York, 1991<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Matsuo Basho: Poems, e-book 2004 (http:\/\/www.poemhunter.com\/i\/ebooks\/pdf\/matsuo_basho_2004_9.pdf<\/a>)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a9\u00a0Thomas H\u00fcbner\u00a0and mytwostotinki.com, 2014. Unauthorized use and\/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from this blog\u2019s author and\/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to\u00a0Thomas H\u00fcbner\u00a0and mytwostotinki.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.<\/strong><\/pre>\n
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