Cosima Underwater

Last year for Christmas, I posted one of my favorite German Christmas poems, and this year I wanted to continue the tradition. I started to translate “Knecht Ruprecht” (Servant Ruprecht) by Theodor Storm. To understand the poem, you have to know a little bit about German Christmas traditions, which differ from region to region, and have changed quite a bit over time. “Knecht Ruprecht” is not Santa Claus. He has pagan origins, and when Christianity came to Germany, he was made the helper of Saint Nicholas. While Saint Nicholas gave presents to the good children, Knecht Ruprecht gave bad children a whipping with his rod.

After the reformation, Martin Luther wanted to stop the worship of saints and encouraged the tradition of giving presents to children on Christmas Eve instead of Saint Nicholas Day on the 6th of December. Instead of Saint Nicholas, the “Holy Christ” brought presents for children. Over the years, the abstract “Holy Christ” became the angelic, golden-robed “Christkind” (Christ Child). The Christkind and her helper Knecht Ruprecht made the rounds on Christmas Eve, and brought presents to children.

Somewhat ironically, the Christkind was slowly replaced by the “Weihnachtsmann” (Father Christmas) in Germany’s Protestant North, while the Catholic South continues Martin Luther’s tradition of the Christkind to this day.

Theodor Storm, who wrote “Knecht Ruprecht”, lived in the North of Germany in the nineteenth century. His poem mentions the Christkind and her helper Knecht Ruprecht, who gives whippings as well as presents. No mentioning of Saint Nicholas… he had already emigrated to the US, changed his name to Santa Claus, and taken over the North American Christmas franchise ;).

Knecht Ruprecht

These days, the poem is recited by Weihnachtsmänner/Knecht Ruprechts all over Germany as they enter the homes of little children on Christmas Eve. My uncle (even-numbered years) and my father (odd-numbered years) used to recite it as well. After Weihnachtsmann had made his entrance, he asked my cousin and me whether we had been good, which we always affirmed even if we had been rather naughty…lol. Then he asked us to recite a Christmas poem. Afterwards, Weihnachtsmann opened his large sack and gave us our presents.

To speed up the translation of the poem, I pasted it into Babel Fish, and the result is so funny that I couldn’t stop myself from posting it…

Farmhand Ruprecht

Of drauss of the forest come ‘ I;
I must say you, it weihnachtet very much!

All everywhere on the fir points
I saw golden light flax sitting;

And up there from the sky gate
The Christian child saw out, with large eyes

And as I strolcht in such a way ‘ by finstern the Tann,
There rief’s me with bright voice on:

“farmhand Ruprecht”, called it, “older associates,
Lift the legs and spute you fast!

The candles begin to burn,
The sky gate is opened,

Old ‘ and boy are now
Of the hunt of the life ruhn;

And tomorrow fly ‘ I down there to ground connection,
Because it is to become again Christmas!”

I spoke: “O dear Herre Christian,
My journey nearly to end is;

I am only into this city,
Wo’s vainly good children has.” -

“haste the Saecklein also with you?”

I spoke: “the Saecklein, that is here;

Because apples, nut and almond core
Meal pious children gladly.” -

“haste the rod also with you?”
I spoke: “the rod, those is here;

But for the children only, the bad,
Those meets it the part, the right.”

Christian child flax spoke: “like that it is quite;
Thus go with God, my faithful farmhand!”

Of drauss of the forest come ‘ I;
I must say you, it weihnachtet very much!

Now speaks, how ich’s here inside find ‘!
Sind’s good child, sind’s bad child?

Knecht Ruprecht

Von drauß vom Walde komm’ ich her;
Ich muss euch sagen, es weihnachtet sehr!

Allüberall auf den Tannenspitzen
Sah ich goldene Lichtlein sitzen;

Und droben aus dem Himmelstor
Sah mit großen Augen das Christkind hervor,

Und wie ich so strolcht’ durch den finstern Tann,
Da rief’s mich mit heller Stimme an:

“Knecht Ruprecht”, rief es, “alter Gesell,
Hebe die Beine und spute dich schnell!

Die Kerzen fangen zu brennen an,
Das Himmelstor ist aufgetan,

Alt’ und Junge sollen nun
Von der Jagd des Lebens ruhn;

Und morgen flieg’ ich hinab zur Erden,
Denn es soll wieder Weihnachten werden!”

Ich sprach: “O lieber Herre Christ,
Meine Reise fast zu Ende ist;

Ich soll nur noch in diese Stadt,
Wo’s eitel gute Kinder hat.” -

“Hast denn das Säcklein auch bei dir?”

Ich sprach: “Das Säcklein, das ist hier;

Denn Äpfel, Nuss und Mandelkern
Essen fromme Kinder gern.” -

“Hast denn die Rute auch bei dir?”
Ich sprach: “Die Rute, die ist hier;

Doch für die Kinder nur, die schlechten,
Die trifft sie auf den Teil, den rechten.”

Christkindlein sprach: “So ist es recht;
So geh mit Gott, mein treuer Knecht!”

Von drauß vom Walde komm’ ich her;
Ich muß euch sagen, es weihnachtet sehr!

Nun sprecht, wie ich’s hierinnen find’!
Sind’s gute Kind, sind’s böse Kind?

by Theodor Storm (1817-1888)

I hope you have been good this year… ;)
either way, I wish you a

MERRY  CHRISTMAS  AND  A  VERY  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR!

Caught a cold this week and it has gotten worse. Can’t breathe and terrible headache, much sneezing and coughing. But have to take care of business and little man, nevertheless. Hope he doesn’t catch it.

Yesterday’s outing to Causeway Bay was a big mistake. Outside it was hot and humid, inside the shops and restaurants it was icy cold. Not good if you have the snivels anyway.

See you you all in a few days, when I have stopped coughing up something that looks like ancient brown chewing gum (aren’t you glad I shared that?).

Der Schnupfen
von Christian Morgenstern

Ein Schnupfen hockt auf der Terasse
auf dass er sich ein Opfer fasse,

- und stürzt alsbald mit großem Grimm
auf einen Menschen namens Schrimm.

Paul Schrimm erwidert prompt: Pitschü!
und hat ihn drauf bis Montag früh.

The Sniffle
Translation by Max Knight

A sniffle crouches on the terrace
to catch a victim he can harass.

And suddenly he jumps with vim
upon a man by name of Schrimm.

Paul Schrimm, responding with “hatchoo,”
is stuck with him the weekend through.

PS: Lecram and Osbasso, Don’t think you are off the hook on the interview. But please give me a bit more time.

I just discovered this…

Michael Manring, Murray Orrick, Nina Hagen: “Die Welt die monden ist” from Schönherz & Fleer’s Rilke Projekt

… and thought I share it with you.

It’s from a CD called Rilke Projekt on which German actors and singers recite/sing poems by Rainer Maria Rilke accompanied by music written especially for the CD. The first CD was such a success in Germany that two more CDs followed.

Rilke is one of my favorite poets, but very hard to translate. Listening to the recording makes the poem much clearer than reading the English version below, doesn’t it?

Forget, forget, and let us live now
only this, how the stars pierce through
cleared nocturnal sky; how the moon’s whole disk
surmounts the gardens. We’ve sensed so long already
how the darkness breeds many mirrors: how a gleam
takes shape, a white shadow in the radiance
of night. But now let us cross over
and invest this world where
everything is lunar–

Translation from Uncollected Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke,
selected and translated by Edward Snow
(New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1986)

For the German original go here.

Little man and I have read Mondays at Monster School about 101 times, The Tickle Book close to 99 times, and the classic The Very Hungry Caterpillar exactly 100 times. All of them are fantastic. How can you not love a book in which little monster Fred is so nervous about his first day in school that he doesn’t want to eat his bug crispies, but overcomes his fear and has his first lesson in howling and growling, and listens to a story about a yucky prince and a nice monster? But I thought it’s time to introduce little man to something new…

It’s a poem every child in Germany knows and loves. There are several versions told, some longer, some shorter, but my dad told me this one.

It was dark, the moon shone brightly,
snow lay on green ground,
when a car, fast as lightning,
rounded slowly ‘round a bend.

Within standing people sat,
silently lost in discussion,
when a hare, shot to death,
skated on a sandbank.

And on a green bench,
which was painted red,
sat a blond-curled youth
with hair black as sooth.

In his arms an old woman,
not yet sixteen years of age,
in her hand a butter sandwich,
which was spread with lard.

All around deep silence reigned,
and with terrible noise,
play in grass’s branches
two camels silently chess.

And two fishes walked merrily
through the blue cornfield.
Finally, the sun went down
and the grey day appeared.

This poem by Goethe
wrote Schiller at night during dawn,
when he sat on his chamber pot,
reading the newspaper.

(author unknown)
German versions at wikisource

The night secretly collects through the curtain’s folds
forgotten sunshine from your hair.
See, I just want to hold your hands
and be still and good and full of peace.

My soul grows until it bursts everyday life
into shards; it becomes so wondrously wide:
At its dawn-red wharfs die
the first waves of infinity.

~~~~~~~~~~

Die Nacht holt heimlich durch des Vorhangs Falten
aus deinem Haar vergeßnen Sonnenschein.
Schau, ich will nichts, als deine Hände halten
und still und gut und voller Frieden sein.

Da wächst die Seele mir, bis sie in Scherben
den Alltag sprengt; sie wird so wunderweit:
An ihren morgenroten Molen sterben
die ersten Wellen der Unendlichkeit.

by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Cosima

This site as a long list of English-language resources on Rainer Maria Rilke with links to translations of his poems, quotes, and letters he wrote.

Christmas

Market and streets are deserted,
Quietly lighted is every house,
Deep in thought I walk through lanes,
Everything looks so festive.

In windows, women have faithfully
Decked out colorful toys,
Thousand children stand and gaze,
Are so very happy.

And I wander from the walls
Out to the open field,
Hallowed shine, holy tremour!
How wide and still is the world!

Stars high up turn their circles,
Out of snow’s solitude
It rises like a wonderful song –
Oh, time so full of grace!

Weihnachten

Markt und Straßen stehn verlassen,
Still erleuchtet jedes Haus,
Sinnend geh ich durch die Gassen,
Alles sieht so festlich aus.

An den Fenstern haben Frauen
Buntes Spielzeug fromm geschmückt,
Tausend Kindlein stehn und schauen,
Sind so wunderstill beglückt.

Und ich wandre aus den Mauern
Bis hinaus ins freie Feld,
Hehres Glänzen, heilges Schauern!
Wie so weit und still die Welt!

Sterne hoch die Kreise schlingen,
Aus des Schnees Einsamkeit
Steigts wie wunderbares Singen –
O du gnadenreiche Zeit!

by Joseph von Eichendorff
(translated by Cosima)

Many of you, I am sure, know Maya Angelou’s poem already. But I think that it is the most fitting poem to say thank you to you all for your wonderful comments on Friday’s post.

Phenomenal Woman
by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
‘Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

It is nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love

It is disaster
says consideration
It is nothing but pain
says fear
It is hopeless
says understanding
It is what it is
says love

It is ridiculous
says pride
It is careless
says caution
It is impossible
says experience
It is what it is
says love

by Erich Fried

(“Was es ist” translated by Cosima)

More poems by Erich Fried: Wanting, Only not

Bagan

I would like to visit Burma. I have seen many pictures of it. Often look at the satellite images in Google Earth. The golden domes of the stupas in Mandalay and Rangoon are clearly visible. So is the water moat of the palace compound in Mandalay. I also have read about it. Aung San Suu Kyi’s Letters from Burma, and Amitav Gosh’s Glass Palace among others. But I wait. I would like to go, when Aung San Suu Kyi is finally heading the country’s government.

Her poem below is from this site, which also has great information about the peaceful struggle of Aung San Suu Kyi and her party. This travel account in one of the site’s forums, I found especially informative. And this is one of Aung San Suu Kyi’s short stories, which is also printed in her excellent book Letters from Burma. It tells how complicated it is for Burmese people to stay overnight at their friends’ houses, a simple thing in most other countries.

The poem reminded me of the feeling I had whenever I visited my grandmother in Eastern Germany, which I wrote about earlier in this post. The former GDR was also a quiet country, but probably not even half as bad as Burma.

In The Quiet Land
(By Daw Aung San Suu Kyi)

In the Quiet Land, no one can tell
if there’s someone who’s listening
for secrets they can sell.
The informers are paid in the blood of the land
and no one dares speak what the tyrants won’t stand.

In the quiet land of Burma,
no one laughs and no one thinks out loud.
In the quiet land of Burma,
you can hear it in the silence of the crowd

In the Quiet Land, no one can say
when the soldiers are coming
to carry them away.
The Chinese want a road; the French want the oil;
the Thais take the timber; and SLORC takes the spoils…

In the Quiet Land….
In the Quiet Land, no one can hear
what is silenced by murder
and covered up with fear.
But, despite what is forced, freedom’s a sound
that liars can’t fake and no shouting can drown.

Floating underwater
held safely from all sides

Stillness around me
Inside me

Sun rays lost in blue
Glittering fish below

No need to breathe
Time does not exist

by Cosima

tags: poem