Poetry in an Age of Crisis

You do not know our times, Only know that somewhere far away A war is being fought, You make wood into swords and shields and spears And play-fight happily in the garden, Put up some tents, Wear white bandages with the Red Cross sign. And if my dearest wish has any power, War for you will Always remain only a vague legend: Never standing in battle Never dying Never fleeing a house destroyed by fire. But you will still be warriors And you will all know, That your experience of sweet breath, That your dear possession of a heartbeat Are only on loan, and that through your blood Runs the past, the heir you’re expecting And the far-off future, And that for each of the hairs on your head A fight, a pain, a death has been endured. And you will know, that the nobility In your mind is always a warrior, Even when it’s unarmed, That each day an enemy, That each day a fight and a fate are waiting. So, don’t forget! Remember the blood, slaughter a...

Master Ju Zhi, it is reported to us, Was a quiet, gentle type and so modest That he completely gave up words and teachings For words are appearance, and all appearance He was determined to avoid. So, when many pupils, monks and novices Were happy to indulge themselves In noble rhetoric and flashing insights Into great topics, he kept a quiet guard For every excessive exuberance. And when they came to him with all their questions, Both frivolous and serious, about The meaning of the scriptures, the Buddha names, Enlightenment, the world’s beginning  And its decline, he remained silent, Just quietly pointing upwards with his finger. And this wordless, eloquent finger pointing Was ever more intimate and admonishing: It spoke, taught, praised, punished, pointed so close to The heart of the world and of truth, that then Afterwards many followers understood This finger’s gentle urging, shook and woke up. Der erhobene Finger Hermann Hesse, 15 Januar...

Autumn is early this terrible year ... I go to the field by night, alone, wind on hat, Rain pattering ... And you? And you, my friend? You stand - perhaps - and watch the crescent moon Crossing above the woods in a small arc And a camp fire red in a dark valley. You lie - perhaps - in a straw field and sleep, And on your brow and army coat the dew falls cold. Maybe you are out on a horse tonight, At the front, peering around, a revolver in your hand, Whispering and smiling with your tired old nag. Perhaps - I like to think - you are a guest In a strange castle and its grounds tonight And writing a letter by candlelight, And tapping as you pass by on the keys Of a grand piano ...                                   - And perhaps You are already silent, dead, and the day Shines no more on your dear, serious eyes, And your dear, brown hand hangs down limply there, And your white forehe...

Many thousands of brilliant dots Crowd greedily together in quivering Circles of feverish ecstasy. And wastefully feasting As a whole hour long slips rapidly away With a shrill noise they rush on wildly In flickering pleasure against their death. Empires have declined and fallen, Their gold-laden thrones suddenly and without any trace Scattered into night and legend, Never having known such a wild dancing. Muckenschwarm Hermann Hesse, 1908

Every death I have died already, Every death I will die once again, Dying the wooden death in the tree, Dying the stone death in the mountain, Earthy death in the sand, Leafy death in the rustling summer grasses And the poor, bloody death of human beings. As flowers I will once again be reborn, As trees and grass I will once again be reborn, As fish and deer, bird and butterfly. And from every form I will be torn upstairs by longing To the last suffering, To the suffering of human beings. O what a quivering strained bow, When the raging fist of longing Demands the two poles of life Start bending towards one another! Often and many times more You will keep hunting me from death to birth On the painful way of how things are, On the splendid way of how things are. Alle Tode Hermann Hesse, December 1919

By the stream bed In the meadow so red There have appeared in these days Many yellow flowers Which have opened up their golden eyes. And I, long fallen from innocence, Am deeply moved by a memory Coming from the hours of my life’s golden morning Brightly watching from the eyes of the flowers. I was thinking of cutting some; Now I leave them all alone And go on home, an old man now. Die ersten Blumen Hermann Hesse, 12 February 1912

My pillow looks at me at night Void as a graveyard stone; It’s much more bitter than I thought, To be alone And in your hair no longer lying down! I lie alone in a still house, The lamp already dim, And gently stretch my hands right out, To circle yours in mine, And quietly press my ardent mouth To you and weak, sore, kiss myself - And suddenly I’m wide awake And in the night hear no one speak, Through the window the star shines clear - Oh where are you with your blonde hair, Oh where is your sweet mouth? Now I drink pain in every joy Poison in every wine; It’s much more bitter than I knew, To be alone, To be without you, all alone! Ohne dich  Hermann Hesse, 1913

Out of eyes of precious stones You look, eternal and still, Over us later men and women. It does not seem that love or need Are known within your smoothly glinting row. Royally and like some siblings of the stars You were incomprehensible As you strode between the temples, Holiness blows like a distant whiff of gods  Round your brows even today,  Dignity round your knees; Your beauty seems to breathe quite calmly, Your homeland is eternity. But, as for us, your much younger siblings, Godless we reel along a lunatic life, To all the torments of passion, To every burning longing See how our trembling souls stand greedily opened up. For our goal is just death, Our conviction is transience, No remoteness of time Overrides our pleading portraits. Yet we also carry A secret spiritual affinity Burned into our souls, Sensing the gods and feeling for you, Silent images of the past, A quite fearless love. So, now look, No being is hateful to us, no...

Wind in the bushes and bird’s peep And high in the highest sweet blue There’s a still, proud cloud like a ship ... I dream about a blonde girl like you, And I dream about my younger years, The high heaven, blue and far, is The cradle of my longing, In which feeling so mild Blissfully warm I lie quietly humming, Like I was in my mother’s arms A child. Fruhlingstag Hermann Hesse, 1912

I love the dark night you know; But, when it’s pale and full of gloom As if laughing at my sorrow, I really dread its awful realm And I feel so much longing to see the sun And the blue sky with its clouds full of light, And to feel warm in the day’s brilliant room Having dreams of the night. Wohl lieb ich die finstre Nacht  Hermann Hesse, 1905

Is all this now ... illusory flowers, Fuzzy colours of the bright summer meadow, Soft blue stretches of heaven, some bee song, Is all this now really a god’s Groaning dreaming, Some unconscious power’s crying for release? The far-off line of mountains, Fine and bold resting in the blue, Is that too just a cramp, Just a mad tension in seething nature, Just grief, just pain, just a pointless testing, Never resting, never in joyful movement? Oh, no! Release me now, you monstrous dream Of the world’s strain! A midges’ dance in evening light rocks you, And a bird’s cry rocks you, A breath of wind cools my forehead With affection. Release me now, you primal human grief! Let all be pain, Yes, let all be strain and shadows - But not this one sweet hour of life in the sunshine, And not the scent of red clover, And not the soft feeling of well-being Deep within my soul. Im Grase liegend Hermann Hesse, April 1913