Open Wardrobe
Günter Grass


The shoes are at the bottom.
They are afraid of a beetle
On the way out,
Of a penny on the way back,
Of a beetle and a penny on which they might tread
Till it impresses itself.
At the top is the home of the headgear.
Take heed, be wary, not headstrong.
Incredible feathers,
what was the bird called,
Where did its eyes roll
When it knew that its wings were too gaudy?
The white balls asleep in the pockets
Dream of moths.
Here a button in missing,
In this belt the clasp grows weary.
Doleful silk,
Asters and other inflammable flowers,
Autumn becoming a dress.
Every Sunday filled with flesh
And the salt of folded linen.
Before the wardrobe falls silent, turns into wood,
A distant relation of pine-trees,—
Who will wear the coat
One day when you're dead?
Who move his arm in the sleeve,
Anticipate every movement?
Who will turn up the collar,
Stop in front of the pictures
And be alone under the windy cloche?

Translated by Michael Hamburger

Sebastian in Dream
Georg Trakl


Mother bore this infant in the white moon,
In the nut-tree"s shade, in the ancient elder's,
Drunk with the poppy's juice, the thrush's lament;
And mute
With compassion a bearded face bowed down to that woman,

Quiet in the window's darkness; and ancestral heirlooms,
Old household goods,
Lay rotting there; love and autumnal reverie.

So dark was the day of the year, desolate childhood,
When softly the boy to cool waters, to silver fishes walked down,
Calm and countenance;
When stony he cast himself down where black horses raced,
In the grey of the night his star possessed him;

Or holding his mother's icy hand
He walked at nightfall across St. Peter's autumnal churchyard,
While a delicate corpse lay still in the bedroom's gloom
And he raised cold eyelids towards it.

But he was a little bird in leafless boughs,
All the churchbells long in dusking November,
His father's illness, when asleep he descended the dark of the
     turning stair.

                              *     *     *

Peace of the soul. A lonely winter evening.
The dark shapes of shepherds by the ancient pond;
Little child in the hut of straw; o how softly
Into black fever his face sank down.
Holy night.

Or holding his father's horny hand
In silence he walked up Calvary Hill
And in dusky rock recesses
The man's blue shape would pass through his legend,
Blood run purple from the wound beneath his heart.
O how softly the Cross rose up in the dark of his soul.

Love; when in black corners the snow was melting,
Gaily a little breeze was caught in the ancient elder,
In the walnut-tree's vault of shade;
And in silence his rosy angel appeared to that boy;

Gladness; when in cool rooms a sonata sounded at nightfall,
In the beams' dark brown
A blue butterfly crept from its silver chrysalis.

O the nearness of death. From the stony wall
A yellow head bowed down, silent that child,
Since in that month the moon decayed.

                              *     *     *

Rose-coloured Easter bells in the burial vault of the night,
And the silver voices of stars,
So that madness, dark and shuddering, ebbed from the sleeper's
     brow.

O how quiet to ramble along the blue river's bank,
To ponder forgotten things when in leafy boughs
The thrush's call brought strangeness into a word's decline.

Or holding an old man's bony hand
In the evening he walked to the crumbling city walls,
And that man in his black greatcoat carried a rosy child,
In the nut-tree's shade the spirit of evil appeared.

Groping his way over the green steps of summer. O how softly
In autumn's brown stillness the garden decayed,
Scent and sadness of the ancient elder,
When in Sebastian's shadow the angel's silver voice subsided.

Translated by Michael Hamburger

Sonnets to Orpheus

Part II: XXIX
Rainer Maria Rilke


Silent friend of many distances,
feel how your breath us still increasing space.
Among the beams of the dark belfries let
yourself ring out. What feeds on you

will grow strong upon this nourishment.
Be conversant with transformation.
From what experience have you suffered most?
Is drinking bitter to you, turn to wine.

Be, in this immeasurable night,
magic power at your senses' crossroad,
be the meaning of their strange encounter.

And if the earthly has forgotten you,
say to the still earth: I flow.
To the rapid water speak: I am.

Translated by M. D. Herter Norton

____________________________________________________

Part II: XXIX
Rainer Maria Rilke


Silent friend of those far from us, feeling 
how your breath is still enlarging space,
fill the sombre belfry with your pealing.
What consumes you now is growing apace

stronger than the feeding strength it borrows.
Be, as Change will have you, shade or shine.
Which has grieved you most of all your sorrows?
Turn, if drinking's bitter, into wine.

Be, in this immeasurable night,
at your sense' cross-ways magic cunning,
be the sense of their mysterious tryst.

Add, should earthliness forget you quite, 
murmur to the quiet earth: I'm running.
Tell the running water: I exist.

Translated by J. B. Leishman

__________________________________________________

Part II: XXIX
Rainer Maria Rilke


Silent friend of many distances, feel 
how your breath enlarges all of space.
Let the presence ring out like a bell
into the night. What feeds upon your face

grows mighty from the nourishment this offered.
Move through transformation, out and in.
What is the deepest loss that you have suffered?
If the drinking is bitter, change yourself to wine.

In this immeasurable darkness, be the power
that rounds your senses in their magic ring,
the sense of their mysterious encounter.

And if the earthly no longer knows your name,
whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing.
To the flashing water say: I am.

Translated by Stephen Mitchell

____________________________________________________

Being
Rainer Maria Rilke


Silent comrade of the distances,
Know that space dilates with your own breath;
ring out, as a bell into the Earth
from the dark rafters of its own high place —

then watch what feeds on you grow strong again.
Learn the transformations through and through:
what in your life has most tormented you?
If the water's sour, turn it into wine.

Our senses cannot fathom this night, so
be the meaning of their strange encounter;
at their crossing, be the radiant centre.

And should the world itself forget your name
say this to the still earth: I flow.
Say this to the quick stream: I am.

Translated by Don Paterson