Loneliness

Einsamkeit

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Einsamkeit
Die Einsamkeit ist wie ein Regen. Sie steigt vom Meer den Abenden entgegen; von Ebenen, die fern sind und entlegen, geht sie zum Himmel, der sie immer hat. Und erst vom Himmel fällt sie auf die Stadt. Regnet hernieder in den Zwitterstunden, wenn sich nach Morgen wenden alle Gassen und wenn die Leiber, welche nichts gefunden, enttäuscht und traurig von einander lassen; und wenn die Menschen, die einander hassen, in einem Bett zusammen schlafen müssen: dann geht die Einsamkeit mit den Flüssen....
Loneliness
Loneliness is like a rain, ascends from sea to softest even, from some remote, far distant plain rising to its abode in heaven; and falls from heaven on the town, in the betwixt hours raining down, when into dawn veers every lane, and bodies, that have sought in vain, in grief and disappointment separate; and when a couple, joined in mutual hate, must sleep in one shared bed together: then loneliness flows with the running river…

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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A White Castle

Ein weißes Schloß

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Ein weißes Schloß
Ein weißes Schloß in weißer Einsamkeit. In blanken Sälen schleichen leise Schauer. Todkrank krallt das Gerank sich an die Mauer, und alle Wege weltwärts sind verschneit. Darüber hängt der Himmel brach und breit. Es blinkt das Schloß. Und längs den weißen Wänden hilft sich die Sehnsucht fort mit irren Händen ... Die Uhren stehn im Schloß: es starb die Zeit.
A White Castle
A castle, white, in a white solitude. Light rains go seeping through its empty halls, Sick creepers close to death claw at the walls, And all the paths towards the world are snowed. The sky hangs over it, inert and wide, The castle glitters. With uncertain hands Feeling along white walls, fond hopes advance… The castle’s clocks have halted. Time has died.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Dust of Snow

Dust of Snow

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
Dust of Snow
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Dust of Snow
I'm glad that a crow shook down just now my dusting of snow from a poison-bough: a try-again start transforming my mood, and saving a part of a day not good.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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That Road, I Trod It Not

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

He never needed the letter E !
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I — I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
That Road, I Trod It Not
Two roads! At a fork in an autumn wood I was sorry I could not go down both Without bifurcating. Long I stood looking down road X as far as I could till it slank out of sight in that sylvan growth. And I took road Y, which could turn a trick, Alluring, and angling for priority, That is, it was grassy and in good nick, Though I must say footfall and walking-stick Had worn both roads with comparability. And both that morning similarly lay Intact, no taint of any trampling black. I put off Road X for a distant day, Though, knowing how way links up with way, I hardly thought that I would go back. I shall spout this story and I shall sigh, Who knows how soon, or in what locality: Two roads at a fork in a wood, and I – Shunning busy road X, I took road Y! – With what upshot? A thoroughgoing dissimilarity!
The story behind this poem: Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" is both humorous and ironic, reflecting the poet's playful side. In the early 20th century, Frost became close friends with the English writer Edward Thomas. They often took long walks together through the countryside, where Thomas would frequently express regret over not choosing a different path once they had gone a certain way. Frost, amused by Thomas's indecision and tendency to second-guess himself, decided to write a poem as a gentle parody of his friend. In 1915, Frost penned "The Road Not Taken," intending it as a playful mockery of Thomas’s indecisiveness. The poem's narrator stands at a fork in the woods, choosing one path over another, only to later claim that the choice made "all the difference," despite the paths being equally worn. Frost sent the poem to Thomas, expecting his friend to catch the humor. However, Thomas did not realize that the poem was meant to be lighthearted and instead interpreted it as a serious reflection on choice and consequence. This misunderstanding disappointed Frost but also deepened the poem’s legacy, as it highlighted how easily people can misconstrue intentions based on their perspectives. Interestingly, this poem, which Frost intended as a joke, became one of his most famous and is often quoted as an inspiring message about individualism and the significance of choices in life. Yet, Frost’s original intent was more about poking fun at the human tendency to overthink and attribute deep meaning to decisions that, in hindsight, may not have been as significant as we believe. This story not only sheds light on the poem’s true meaning but also adds a layer of irony, as the world continues to interpret the poem in a way that differs from Frost’s original playful intent.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Wind’s a Whistler

Es pfeift der Wind . . .

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Es pfeift der Wind . . .
Es pfeift der Wind. Was pfeift er wohl? Eine tolle, närrische Weise. Er pfeift auf einem Schlüssel hohl, bald gellend und bald leise. Die Nacht weint ihm den Takt dazu mit schweren Regentropfen, die an der Fenster schwarze Ruh ohn End eintönig klopfen. Es pfeift der Wind. Es stöhnt und gellt. Die Hunde heulen im Hofe. Er pfeift auf diese ganze Welt, der große Philosophe.
The Wind’s a Whistler
The wind’s a whistler. His will be a melody mad and mental, all in a single dismal key, now bellowing, now gentle. Night weeps the pulse that he maintains, sends heavy raindrops pounding on the black peaceful window-panes, relentlessly resounding. A roaring, groaning sibilant, In all the world he’ll whistle. Let yard-dogs rant: he’s Newton, Kant, Socrates, Bertrand Russell.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Knee

Das Knie

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das Knie
Ein Knie geht einsam durch die Welt. Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts! Es ist kein Baum! Es ist kein Zelt! Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts. Im Kriege ward einmal ein Mann erschossen um und um. Das Knie allein blieb unverletzt- als wärs ein Heiligtum. Seitdem gehts einsam durch die Welt. Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts. Es ist kein Baum, es ist kein Zelt. Es ist ein Knie, sonst nichts.
The Knee
A knee is on a solo spree. It’s just a knee, that’s all! It’s not a tree, nor a tepee, It’s just a knee, that’s all. A soldier in sharp shots was swathed, Shocked, shellacked, shattered, shanked. The knee alone remained unscathed, Seemingly sacrosanct. It still is on a solo spree. It’s just a knee, that’s all. It’s not a tree, nor a tepee, It’s just a knee, that’s all.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Wind and Fiddle

Wind und Geige

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Wind und Geige
Drinnen im Saal eine Geige sang, sie sang von Liebe so wild, so lind. Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Was willst du, Menschenkind? Drinnen im Saale die Geige sang: Ich will das Glück, ich will das Glück! Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Es ist das alte Stück. Drinnen im Saale die Geige sang: Und ist es alt, für mich ist's neu. Draussen der Wind durch die Zweige sang: Schon mancher starb an Reu. Der letzte Geigenton verklang; die Fenster wurden bleich und blind; aber noch lange sang und sang im dunklen Wald der Wind ... Was willst du, Menschenkind?
Wind and Fiddle
Inside the hall a fiddle sang, It sang of love, so sweet and wild. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: What do you wish for, human child? Inside the hall a fiddle sang: Fortune’s my wish, and happiness. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: Old cant! I’ve heard it to excess. Inside the hall a fiddle sang: Old it may be, for me ’tis new. Outside, the wind in the branches sang: Many have died of bitter rue. At last the fiddle-song was done, The panes no longer gleamed and smiled; And still the wind sang on, sang on, Out in the forest dark and wild. What do you wish for, human child?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Aesthetic Weasel

Das ästhetische Wiesel

Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914)

Das ästhetische Wiesel
Ein Wiesel saß auf einem Kiesel inmitten Bachgeriesel. Wißt ihr weshalb? Das Mondkalb verriet es mir im Stillen: Das raffinier- te Tier tat’s um des Reimes willen.
The Aesthetic Weasel
A weasel sat on an easel no, a pebble in the Ribble. Are you aware, for why, and wherefore? The mooncalf blew the gaff in a quiet time: The tiny mammal, a refined animal, loved the laugh and the rhyme.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Nis Randers

Nis Randers

Otto Ernst (1862-1928)

Nis Randers
Krachen und Heulen und berstende Nacht, Dunkel und Flammen in rasender Jagd - Ein Schrei durch die Brandung! Und brennt der Himmel, so sieht man’s gut: Ein Wrack auf der Sandbank! Noch wiegt es die Flut; Gleich holt sich’s der Abgrund. Nis Randers lugt - und ohne Hast Spricht er: «Da hängt noch ein Mann im Mast; Wir müssen ihn holen.» Da fasst ihn die Mutter: «Du steigst mir nicht ein! Dich will ich behalten, du bleibst mir allein, Ich will’s, deine Mutter! Dein Vater ging unter und Momme, mein Sohn, Drei Jahre verschollen ist Uwe schon, Mein Uwe, mein Uwe!» Nis tritt auf die Brücke. Die Mutter ihm nach! Er weist nach dem Wrack und spricht gemach: «Und seine Mutter?» Nun springt er ins Boot und mit ihm noch sechs: Hohes, hartes Friesengewächs; Schon sausen die Ruder. Boot oben, Boot unten, ein Höllentanz! Nun muss es zerschmettern...! Nein, es blieb ganz!... Wie lange, wie lange?   Mit feurigen Geißeln peitscht das Meer Die menschenfressenden Rosse daher; Sie schnauben und schäumen. Wie hechelnde Hast sie zusammenzwingt! Eins auf den Nacken des andern springt Mit stampfenden Hufen! Drei Wetter zusammen! Nun brennt die Welt! Was da? - Ein Boot, das landwärts hält. - Sie sind es! Sie kommen! – Und Auge und Ohr ins Dunkel gespannt... Still - ruft da nicht einer? - Er schreit’s durch die Hand: «Sagt Mutter, 's ist Uwe!»
Nis Randers
Crashing and howling and thunder-scarred night, Racing and chasing of darkness and light – A cry through the lightning! When heaven is blazing the sighting is good: A wreck on the sandbar! still tossed by the flood: The sea-trench is gaping. Nis Randers he gazes, and speaks out at last: ‘One man is still there, hanging on to the mast; We must hasten to save him.’ His mother has seized him. ‘You’ll not brave the squall: I’ll hold you and keep you, my last one of all. ’Tis the wish of your mother. ‘Your father has perished, and Momme, my son, And my Uwe three years has been missing and gone, My Uwe, my Uwe.’ Nis hastes to the jetty. She follows behind. He points to the wreck and speaks gently his mind: ‘He too has a mother.’ Now he leaps in the boat and six more spring aboard: The brave men of Friesland are stalwart and hard. The oars are soon straining. Boat up and boat down, it’s a caper from hell. Look now, she must shatter! No, all is yet well. How long, O how long?   The sea cracks its whip, flaring onward it forces The fearsome assault of its man-eating horses: They snort and they foam. With curses and urgency herded together, They bound on the backs and the necks of each other: Hooves trample and swarm. Triple lightning! The world is a burning brand! What’s that? It’s a boat – it is heading to land! They are coming, they come! Intent on the darkness, all ears and all eyes… Did somebody call? Through cupped hands he cries: ‘Tell Mother it’s Uwe!’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Bean

La fève

Maurice Donnay (1859-1945)

On Twelfth Night, the French enjoy 'la galette des Rois', a flat cake of almond paste (frangipane) containing a 'bean'. The person who gets the bean wears the crown.
La fève
Tu nous dindonneras encor plus d'une fois, Chère âme, et près des tiens nos moyens sont infimes. Je me souviens toujours d'un dîner que nous fîmes, Un beau soir, dans Auteuil, à la porte du Bois Et tu faisais de l'œil à ton voisin de face, Et tu faisais du pied à tes deux amoureux A gauche, à droite, et ton amant était heureux, Car tu lui souriais tout de même avec grâce. Ah ! tu n'es pas la femme aux sentiments étroits Qu'une fidélité trop exclusive gêne. Entre tous, Pierre, Jean, Jacques, Alphonse, Eugène, Tu partages ton cœur comme un gâteau des Rois. Et, si grand est ton art, aimable fille d’Ève, Que chacun se croit seul à posséder la fève.
The Bean
You’ll stitch us up again, and more than once, Dear soul: compared to you, we haven’t got the means. I can’t forget that dinner one fine night: we were Out in Auteuil, just where you get into the Bois. To the sitting-opposite guy, you gave the eye, Played footy-foot with the two who fancied you, To left and right; your lover was in clover, As you anyway gave him a smile with lovely style. You’re not a woman prone to narrow sentiments, Whom high fidelity might inconvenience. Between all these, John, Peter, James, Eugene, Alphonse, You share your heart out like a Twelfth Night frangipane. And so great is your art, delightful feminine, That each one thinks himself sole owner of the bean.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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