Hi. Happy New Year. Today I wanted to post a poem that had something or other to do with a "new year" but didn't find anything appropriate asides from this gigantic rubber duck. Instead here is a very long Friedrich Holderlin poem ("In the Forest" said to be a fragment, i.e. an unfinished poem written not too long before he went a little nutso and stopped writing, 1805), translated by Richard Sieburth, and at times, by Maxine Chernoff and Paul Hoover (two translations mixed together, sorry if this is against some kind of translation orthodoxy), and slightly edited by me. Though it's not really a new years poem, it's what I found most interesting today. It's quite long (keep scrolling) and there's lots of space in it. Also, in the middle section there are many many names from many languages (Tip: they sound good read out loud). Holderlin was into names, the act of naming things, be it people, places or more broadly, giving shape to narratives. He thought that names/words were where humans and gods / god found a middle ground / neutral channel through which to communicate. And sure, why can't this also be true? But I love the little patches of lucidity that appear amongst the monuments he describes. And how the poem ends is one of my favorite little bits of poetry. Always on my mind. May the year go well,
In the Forest (Im Walde)Noble deer.But man lives in huts, wrapped in the garments of his
shame, and is the more inward, the more alert for it, and
that he tend his spirit as the priestess tends the heavenly
flame, this is his understanding. Which is why recklessness
and the higher power to fail and achieve are given him,
godlike creature, and language, most dangerous of
possessions, is given man so that creating, destroying,
perishing and returning back to her, eternal mistress and
mother, so that he might bear witness to what he is, having
inherited and learned form her the godliest of her attributes,
all-preserving love.
He remains nowhere.No signbinds.Not everA vessel to contain him.Good things are three.I have no wishto destroy your imagesand maintaining the sacramentHoly keeps our soulsTogether, the ones that God has given us, life-lightCompanionTo our endBy all means,differences aregood. Eachand everyHas its own existence.the dark leafAnd the growthWas perceptableand the Syrian soilshattered, and flames underfootStingingand queasiness comingOver me from raving hungerFriedrich with his bitten cheekEisenachThe renownedBarbarossaConradinUgolino—EugenuisHeaven's ladderThe farewell of Timeand in peace they partThus Mohammed, RinaldoBarbarossa, qua free spiritEmperor Heinrich,But we confuseour datesDemetrius PoliorcetesPeter the GreatHeinrich'sCrossing of the Alps and thatwith his own hand he gave the peoplefood and drink and his son Conrade died of poisonPerfect visionaryReformerConradin, etc.all significantas relations.Tende Stromfield Simonetta.Teufen Amyclae Aveiro on the riverVouga the family Alencstro itsname therefrom Amalasuntha AntegonAnathem Ardinghellus Sorbonne Celestineand Innocent interrputed the dis-quisition and dubbed it (the Sorbonne)the nursery of the French bishops—Aloisa Sigea differentia vitateurbaanae et rusticae Thermodona river in Cappadocia Val-telino Schonberg Scotus Schonberg TenerifeSulaco VenafromRegionof Olympos. Weissbrunn in LowerHungary. Zamora Jacca BacchoImperiali. Genoa Larissa in SyriaWhen there are flames above the vineyardWhich looks black as coalAround the timeIn autumn, becauseThe reeds of life breathe fire
In shadows of the vines. But
How pretty when the soul unfoldsAnd this brief life.And the sky becomes a painter's houseWith all his pictures on display.Like the man who eats menIs he who lives without(Love)and describing shadows, his eyesWould fill with anger
Quite simply
this time, but often
Something happens inside one's head, impossible
To understand, but when a freeman
Goes out for a walk, he finds
the path waiting.
As for the horses, an endless desire
For life, as when nightingales
Sing their sweet-home-song or the snow goose
Sets the tone, high above
The globe, longing.
stripes of blue lilies
Do you know of the work
Of artists alone or like
The stag rambling in the heat. Not
Without limitations.
Narcissi, ranunculi and
Syringas from Persia,
Flowers, carnations, cultivated in pearl
And black and hyacinths,
As when instead of music heralding an entrance
There's the scent of an evil thought,
My son should forget to enter
Loving relationships and this life
Christopher's dragon has exactly
Nature's walk and spirit and shape.
He should take
Everything
Except the long ones
To a pure place
Where someone
Scatters ashes
And burns the wood with fire.
From pagan
Io Bacche, let them learn to work with their hands
And, by the same means. Be
Forward or avenged. Vengeance,
In fact, should return to its source.
While we are raw, don't let God
Lash us with
waves. To be sure,
We are godless,
Common folk all,
Whom God tests
Like nobility,
Yet it's forbidden
To boast about this. But the heart knows
A hero. It's for me
To speak of my homeland. Don't
Begrudge me that. In the same way,
A carpenter makes
A cross.
Sword
and hidden knife, when
sharpened
more or less well,
But don't let our native land become
Too small a place. Heavy is the to lie
at rest, feet and hands outstreched.
Only air.
I want to build
and raise new
the temples of Theseus and the stadiums
and where Perikles lived
But there's no money, too much spent
today. I had a guest
over and we sat together.