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Starting time your review of Poems and Prose

Georg Trakl was built-in in Austria in 1887. He started writing poesy at a very young age, withal he later decided to written report pharmacy. After that, he enlisted in the regular army just never stopped writing. During Globe War I, he worked equally a medical official. He witnessed the harrowing consequences of the war (a battle in Grodek inspired one of his last poems). Equally he found himself surrounded by wounds and decease, his depression – which he suffered all his life – worsened and eventually died of an overdose of Georg Trakl was born in Austria in 1887. He started writing verse at a very young age, nonetheless he subsequently decided to study chemist's shop. Afterward that, he enlisted in the ground forces but never stopped writing. During World War I, he worked every bit a medical official. He witnessed the harrowing consequences of the state of war (a battle in Grodek inspired one of his last poems). Equally he institute himself surrounded by wounds and decease, his depression – which he suffered all his life – worsened and somewhen died of an overdose of cocaine at 27.

Many of these events and the emotions they prompted announced in his verse, which is gracefully tinged with the colors of Expressionism.

Trakl's poetry abounds with nostalgic reminiscences, the bleak colors of the evening, the reverberation of silence. Simply above all, with the images of death. A dark imagery which creates a sorry and oppressive atmosphere.

His delectable language, which fluctuates between fragility and strength, brims over with allusions to death. It's definitely hard to explain, but despite the beauty of the language, the considerable amount of references to such theme started to get a little tiresome. Later on reading a bit about his life, I sympathise. Nonetheless, I felt like I was reading an obituary. A long, bluish lament that afterwards a few pages became somewhat monotonous. It reminded me of my experience while reading Cioran and his overused concept of darkness.
In this sense, I wasn't able to connect with Trakl'southward verse – though I did savour his prose, and that explains the iii-star rating:

My levels of enthusiasm varied widely, regardless of my penchant for melancholic poesy (but this was beyond melancholic; I couldn't handle the lack of rest). After a while, the sense of expectancy was gone. I already knew that the next folio was going to show me another shade of the recurring theme of this drove. Lethal predictability.

July 15, 17
* As well on my blog.

...more

Blueish shadows. O you dark optics.
Which gaze long upon me gliding by.
Sounds of a guitar gently back-trail fall.
In the garden, dissolved in dark-brown fluids.
Death's grave darkling hour is prepared.
Past nymphen hands; decaying lips.
Suck at red breasts and into black fluids.
The sun-youth's damp locks glide.
----

Humbly the patient homo surrenders to pain.
Ringing with melodious sound and soft madness.
Wait! There's the twilight.

Dark returns in one case more and a mortal thing laments.
And another suffers in sy

Bluish shadows. O y'all dark eyes.
Which gaze long upon me gliding by.
Sounds of a guitar gently back-trail autumn.
In the garden, dissolved in brownish fluids.
Death'south grave darkling hour is prepared.
By nymphen hands; decomposable lips.
Suck at cherry breasts and into black fluids.
The sunday-youth'south damp locks glide.
----

Humbly the patient homo surrenders to hurting.
Ringing with melodious sound and soft madness.
Look! At that place's the twilight.

Dark returns once more and a mortal matter laments.
And another suffers in sympathy.

Shuddering nether fall stars.
Yearly the head is bowed deeper.
----

There is an empty gunkhole that at evening drifts downwardly the black canal.
In the gloom of the ancient asylum human ruins decay. The dead orphans lie by the garden wall.
Out of the grey rooms step angels with mud-spattered wings.
Worms drip from their yellowed eyelids.
The square before the church is dark and mute,
equally in the days of childhood.
On silver soles former lives glide past.
And the shades of the damned descend to the sighing waters.
In his grave the white magician plays with his serpents.

Silently, to a higher place the place of skulls,
God's golden optics open.
----

Corruption gliding through the rotted chamber;
Shadows on yellow wallpaper; in nighttime mirrors is arched The ivory sadness of our easily.

Chocolate-brown pearls trickle through the unfeeling fingers.
In the silence
The poppy blueish eyes of an affections are openend.
----

Your eyelids are heavy with poppy seed and gently dream on my brow.
Gentle bells tremble through the breast.
A blue cloud,
Your face has sunk downward on me in the twilight.

----

In absurd chambers without sense
Equipment rots, with skeletal easily
Unholy childhood
Probes in blueness for fairytales,
The fat rat gnaws at door and torso,
A eye
Grows rigid in snowy silence.
The purple curses of hunger
Repeat in rotting gloom,
The black swords of lying,
Like the slamming of bronze doors.
----

Deep is the slumber in dark poisons, replete with stars and Mother's white eyebrow, 1 of stone. Biting is decease, the food of the heavy laden; in the brownish branches of the stem the earthen faces crumbled grinning.
----

Confound you nighttime poisons,
White sleep!
This strangest of gardens
Twilit copse
Filled with snakes, nightmoths,
Spiders, bats.
Stranger! Your lost shadow
At sunset,
A gloomy corsair
In the salty sea of dolour.
White birds palpitate upward at night'due south border
Above crumbling cities
Of steel.
----

All round is stony solitude.
The pallid flowers of expiry practice shudder.
On graves that mourn within the gloom.
Yet all this mourning knows no hurting..

...more than

I don't know that I'k addicted of this Stillmark translation.
Very ponderous and melodramatic. Gothic. Non the virtually Symbolist oddities I'd known previously.
Even and then:

TRUMPETS

Under mutilated willows, where brown children play
And leaves are driven, trumpets sound. A graveyard shudder,
Reddish banners storm through the sycamore's grief,
Horsemen past fields of rye, empty mills.

Or shepherds sing by nighttime and stags footstep
Into the circle of their fires, the grove'south cardinal grief,
Dancers arise from a black

I don't know that I'm fond of this Stillmark translation.
Very ponderous and melodramatic. Gothic. Non the almost Symbolist oddities I'd known previously.
Notwithstanding:

TRUMPETS

Under mutilated willows, where chocolate-brown children play
And leaves are driven, trumpets sound. A graveyard shudder,
Cherry banners storm through the sycamore's grief,
Horsemen by fields of rye, empty mills.

Or shepherds sing past dark and stags footstep
Into the circle of their fires, the grove's primal grief,
Dancers arise from a blackness wall,
Blood-red banners, laughter, madness, trumpets.

Childhood

Full of fruit the elder bush; childhood dwelt tranquil
In a blue cave. In a higher place the path of traversed time,
Where brownish the wild grass at present whistles,
Silent branches ponder; the rustle of foliage

Akin, when the blue water rings in the rock.
Gentle is the blackbird's complaining. A shepherd
Follows the sunday speechless, which rolls from the autumn colina.

A blue moment is nix only soul.
By the forest'southward edge shy game appears and peaceful
The ancient bells and gloomy hamlets remainder in the valley.

More pious, you know the pregnant of the dark years,
Coolness and autumn in lonely rooms;
And in sacred blueness shining steps ring on.

An open up window quietly rattles; the sight of
The ruined graveyard by the colina moves to tears,
Recollection of legends told; however sometimes the soul brightens
When it ponders joyful people, dark gilt days in leap.

*

...more

But the memory of those tranquil days filled with sunshine have remained alive in me, more live peradventure than the noisome present. I shall never again run across the piffling town at the bottom of the valley - yes, I am loath to return to it again. I believe I should be unable to practise so, even though I am at times seized by a deep yearning for those ever youthful things of the past. For I know that I should only expect in vain for that which is lost without trace; I would no longer discover there what lives on i But the memory of those tranquil days filled with sunshine have remained live in me, more alive perchance than the noisome present. I shall never again run across the piffling town at the bottom of the valley - yes, I am loath to return to it once again. I believe I should exist unable to exercise so, even though I am at times seized past a deep yearning for those ever youthful things of the by. For I know that I should only await in vain for that which is lost without trace; I would no longer discover there what lives on in my memory alone - just like the hither and at present - and what would that bring me but endless torment. ...more than

I've quite new to poetry. Just given all the poesy I've read and so far, Trakl's poems virtually consistently capture and depict me in, allowing for experiences that I didn't know I had needed. These are experiences of utmost suffering illuminated in beauty; non as beautiful themselves -- the representations of these experiences are composed past such images and words, which each connect out to experiences of sublime beauty. This allows for reckoning with suffering -- seeing it as possessing aspects never fa I've quite new to poetry. But given all the poetry I've read so far, Trakl'due south poems most consistently capture and draw me in, allowing for experiences that I didn't know I had needed. These are experiences of utmost suffering illuminated in beauty; not equally beautiful themselves -- the representations of these experiences are composed by such images and words, which each connect out to experiences of sublime beauty. This allows for reckoning with suffering -- seeing it as possessing aspects never fathomed before, making peace with and acknowledging it -- in a way that can never happen in ordinary life, in retentiveness or conversation.

Trakl doesn't merely deal with suffering. Some poems show how miraculous acts of caring can be; or what it means to remember something; -- other skillful themes. Just most of the poems are about suffering. If one is looking for poetry that deals with more than diverse moods, Trakl won't be your guy. This is perhaps objectively a limitation of his piece of work, but for my contempo tastes, this is just bang-up.

Here are two arbitrary snippets from this collection of poems (arbitrary in the sense that there are so many that are equally astonishing, and I chose these randomly from that set):

"I am the shadow far from sombre villages./ God's silence/ I drank from the spring in the grove./ Cold metal enters upon my brow,/ Spiders seek out my heart./ There is a light that goes out in my mouth/ At nighttime I found myself on a heath,/ Potent with turn down and dust of stars./ In the hazel-brush/ Crystalline angels sounded once more" (De Profundis)

"Black snow that dribbles from the roofs;/ A blood scarlet finger dips into your brow,/ Blue névés sink into the barren chamber,/ That are the lifeless mirrors of lovers" (Delirium)

The only other verse I've read that feels comparable to this reading experience is Emily Dickenson's and Czesław Miłosz'due south. I really desire to read more poesy like his. If anyone has recommendations, I'd exist grateful.

...more

Meh... Not memorable at all.
Once again the poetry went over my head.
The Barabbas short story was on betoken.

Georg Trakl was an "fall soul," similar the title of one of his poems. His language is unquestionably gorgeous, dark and brooding and sensual, obsessed with dissolution and decline. One can bask in information technology, reading the words slowly and letting the weird lovely images float in 1'south listen. It is regrettable that most of his poems, in this translation anyway, leave only a slight impression in themselves; they appeal, simply they are like obscure dreams that speedily deliquesce. They all share a tone (Rilke spo Georg Trakl was an "fall soul," like the title of one of his poems. His language is unquestionably gorgeous, dark and brooding and sensual, obsessed with dissolution and decline. One tin bask in it, reading the words slowly and letting the weird lovely images float in i'southward listen. It is regrettable that virtually of his poems, in this translation anyhow, leave just a slight impression in themselves; they entreatment, but they are like obscure dreams that quickly dissolve. They all share a tone (Rilke spoke of lines of silence "like fences in a flat land"), and it is difficult to call back anything near particular poems in the collection; reading his oeuvre can feel like drinking wine sediment, and its unyielding seriousness risks monotony. Still, if one is content to scout Trakl's magic picture show unfold, at that place is much to be gotten. Trakl expresses a mood; cavernous melancholy draws one into his search for comfort amidst naked trees, crimson clouds, and starless nights. His last poems such as "Grodek" and "The Sunflowers" hint at the mature artistry cut down by war, melancholy, and morphine. Individually the lines may fade, but together they leave a powerful and dear impression of presence, constant, vulnerable, "yearning for afar cute things." ...more

Jun 30, 2017 Esther rated it information technology was amazing

A criminally underrated German Poet. Sometimes it's difficult to bargain with his pessimistic annals, merely his poetic skill is wonderfully refined- oweing every bit much as it does to the premier Romantic HÖLDERLIN. a lot of Trakl's poems are image-driven in the simplest sense. He gradually builds a scene or a mood, peice by peice, using sure elements that on their ain appear unproblematic- a color, a bloom etc.- but when brought together they create a rich and mysterious atmosphere. Overall, information technology's Trakl's A criminally underrated German Poet. Sometimes information technology's difficult to bargain with his pessimistic register, but his poetic skill is wonderfully refined- oweing every bit much equally it does to the premier Romantic HÖLDERLIN. a lot of Trakl's poems are image-driven in the simplest sense. He gradually builds a scene or a mood, peice by peice, using certain elements that on their own announced elementary- a color, a flower etc.- but when brought together they create a rich and mysterious atmosphere. Overall, information technology'due south Trakl'south technique rather than whatsoever individual verse form that actually stands out. Trakl is a true poet in the mode he is able to use every broken line to parallax the proceeding lines. He seems to be using the line breaks much as a printer or aquatint painter applies layers to an image. Every boosted layer transforms the layer beneath it, by furnishing it with a new implication or narrative twist. Again, sometimes it'south hard to deal with his bleak outlook on life, simply I find the simple (but by no ways simplistic) elegance of Trakl's poems to be irresistable. Forget the poorly broken rants of Paul Celan- information technology's Trakl who deserves the title of Deutschland's Authentic Mod Poet. ...more

Obviously not the best translation, but it was free. Strangely I found it most evocative focusing on the language rather than imagining images. Interesting fellow.

I dearest Trakls's dark verse. It is unbelievable and perfect. Sorry can not requite much more detail than that. Information technology is the nature of poetry, you either like it or hate it and anybody has personal tastes. IT is all aout language and how sure words strike you and various rhythms work for you.

What I will say is that this is by far the best translation of his work in english language. I have compaired it with many other and and then lyricism is the best. Talking with a german friend on mine who is also quite addicted

I love Trakls'due south nighttime poetry. Information technology is unbelievable and perfect. Deplorable can not requite much more than detail than that. It is the nature of verse, y'all either like it or hate it and anybody has personal tastes. IT is all aout language and how certain words strike you and various rhythms work for y'all.

What I will say is that this is by far the all-time translation of his work in english. I have compaired it with many other and so lyricism is the best. Talking with a german language friend on mine who is too quite fond of Trakl he agreed that this was quite expert.

A sample of the fine piece of work from this tome...

Melacholy (third version)

Blueish shadows. O you dark eyes
Which gaze long upon me gliding by.
Sounds of a guitar gently accompany autumn
In the garden, dissolved in brown fluids.
Death's grave darkling hour is prepared
By nymphen hands; Decaying lips
Suck at reddish breasts and into black fluids
The sun-youth's damp locks glide.

...more

Trakl´southward writing is non lofty, it is not opaque-It is sort of dream-similar, but merely in the way that most poetry is dreamlike (symbolism, multi-dimensional...), I unfortunately found a translator who thinks just the opposite and makes efforts to translate these poems into unnecessary turbidity, doing this fine art a tremendous disservice. Fortunately this edition comes with the German originals, side-by-side with Stillmark´s English language translations. So, if I were you, I´d keep on the left side of the page Trakl´s writing is not lofty, it is not opaque-Information technology is sort of dream-like, but only in the way that well-nigh poetry is dreamlike (symbolism, multi-dimensional...), I unfortunately found a translator who thinks but the opposite and makes efforts to translate these poems into unnecessary turbidity, doing this art a tremendous disservice. Fortunately this edition comes with the German originals, side-by-side with Stillmark´due south English translations. So, if I were yous, I´d continue on the left side of the page if possible, dictionary in hand, because clarity leads to depth, and Stillmark´southward translation is annihilation merely clear.
Or better even so, skip this edition totally and get with the Richard Bly translations, xx or so of his best.
And I mean 3 stars for this edition and translation, the original is off the charts, 5 stars certainly. ...more

Reading verse in translation is e'er a chip sketchy to me, peculiarly since I can't read German and can't speak to how "practiced" the translations are (and oh how loaded a phrase that is). Simply I tin speak to what I got from the translations, which is to say a set of apocalyptic visions that would brand T.Due south. Eliot at his virtually anxious blush, set in a grim Teutonic umwelt of black lakes and wintry twilights. Trakl gets referenced a lot by a number of morose Germans I adore, and now I become why. Reading poetry in translation is always a bit sketchy to me, peculiarly since I tin can't read German language and can't speak to how "good" the translations are (and oh how loaded a phrase that is). Only I can speak to what I got from the translations, which is to say a prepare of apocalyptic visions that would brand T.South. Eliot at his most anxious blush, prepare in a grim Teutonic umwelt of black lakes and wintry twilights. Trakl gets referenced a lot past a number of morose Germans I adore, and now I get why. ...more than

I didnt get into these poems or the mode of writing at all. I like the use of layering multiple images over 1 another or weaving them or letting them move together or take on a life of their own. But Trakls are too abrupt to resonate or integrate with one some other. The thoughts too choppy. I felt like I had to practice an incredible amount of work to sympathize these poems.

January 11, 2013 Francesca rated information technology it was amazing

Intense perfection. Pick it upwards in a night mood & the rigorous, profound language volition swirl your emotional state into a rapturous black; pick information technology up at a light moment and thrill to the exuberant bittersweetness of our melancholically brief being. These translations are poems to spend a lifetime with, but failing that, many half-remembered afternoons.

Not bad selection, translation true-blue yet slightly stiff.

Jul 27, 2007 Jenni rated it information technology was amazing

Translation. He translates well. I idea this book was first-class.

Georg Trakl was an Austrian poet. He is considered one of the most important Austrian Expressionists.

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"I felt, smelt, touched the nigh terrible possibilities within me, and heard the demons howl in my blood, the thousand devils with their spikes which madden the flesh. What a fearful nightmare!
Gone! Today this vision of reality has dissolved into naught over again, these things are far abroad from me, their voices farther notwithstanding, and I heed enraptured one time more than to the melodies that live in me, and my elated eye again dreams up its images which are lovelier than all reality! My entire, beautiful globe filled with infinite harmony." — 0 likes

"Too little honey, besides picayune justice and mercy, and always too footling honey; all likewise much hardness, airs, and all manner of criminality - that's me.
I'm certain I just avert evil out of weakness and cowardice and so farther shame my wickedness. I long for the day when the soul shall cease to wish or be able to alive in this wretched torso polluted with melancholy, when it shall quit this laughable form made of muck and rottenness, which is all too faithful a reflection of a godless, cursed century." — 0 likes

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