the expressionism of georg heym - a note and two translations

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The Expressionism of Georg Heym: A Note and Two TranslationsAuthor(s): Werner VordtriedeReviewed work(s):Source: Wisconsin Studies in Contemporary Literature, Vol. 4, No. 3, Studies of RecentBritish & Continental Literature (Autumn, 1963), pp. 284-297Published by: University of Wisconsin Press

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shock the proud Christian into humility. The resulting stenchin both poems is not that of Zola, but has rather a metaphysi-cal origin. And Heym's is, with all the poet's professedi defi-ance, his reminiscences of Rimbaud and the poetes maudits,still a Christian stench, which tries to educate our souls whileoffending our noses. And Gryphius certainly goes much far-ther even than Heym in this malodorous practice. Certainwords, the classical allusions of one who flaunts his humanisteducation, which are almost forbidden in contemporary poetry,as are the reversed position of adjective and noun, the loudpathos and the direct confession, are still permissible for Heym:he still can speak of "Lethe" and the "Icarides" and can say"Im Meere weit, wo fern die Woge flog," as might have Gry-phius.Yet, certain new themes and new combinations of imageshave found an echo in what was to follow: the demonization ofthe great city, the drowned man who continues to move in aprivate universe, the deromanticized suicide. Bertold Brecht'sfamous poem about the floating Ophelia continues Heym'sOphelia poems, an echo of which we find in stanza fifteen ofthe "Morgue." A well-known contemporary poem, IngeborgBachmann's "Gestundete Zeit," contains some lines which seemas tholugh they were written by a Georg Heym put on ice,without ecstasy and rhetoric, and therefore grimmer, more ter-rible, for Ingeborg Bachmann, unlike Heym, does not try tobe terrible by being a poetic enfant terrible:Denn die Eingeweide der FischeSind kalt geworden im Wind.Xrmlich brennt das Licht der Lupinen.Dein Blick spurt im Nebel:Die auf Widerruf gestundete ZeitWird sichtbar am Horizont.

"Umbra Vitae," not the description of a war-threatenedcity, but written before the First World War, reads like thetext to some expressionist picture, as indeed expressionism,vague and simplifying as the term may be, was an art formin which poetry and pictorial art went hand in hand more close-ly than in many other artistic movements. Both forms of ex-pressionism often seem direct translations of each other, thepoem painting the world in vast images of a non-natural colora-tion and in a crowded and floating disequilibrium, and the pic-ture telling a visionary story.The first stanza!sof "Umbra Vitae" put in all those obliquelines and sloping masses which give a picture by Franz Marcor Lyonel Feininger its crystalline transversals. The static rightHeym's Expressionismn 285


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angles of observable reality have been abolished in favor of atremendous movement of obliqueness. The people in the streetsof the city are "standing forward" (stehen vorwiirts), lean-ing in improbable and dangerous angles, oppressed by theimpending ruination of the city. In the sky the comets have"fiery noses" (Feuernasen), irregular protuberances of lightin all directions. They creep around towers whose shape nolonger is straight like that of reliable bastions, but "craggy"(gezackt), lending their contours to the inexorable geometri-cal arrangement. All the roofs are covered with star gazers.The "tubes" (grosse R6hren) which they push into the skyare surely not erect and seen at a straight angle with the roofswhich themselves are certainly gabled, adding the triangle tothe apocalyptic crystal. And to undo the straightness of thewalls of houses, magicians trying to move or exorcise thethreatening stars grow "athwart in darkness" (im Dunkelschriig), long sloping bodies, out of attic windows. The largecrowds of suicides go with a "stooped" posture (gebiickt).With an appropriate palette one can follow the poet's everydirection and paint an unmistakable expressionist picture.When the last war was over no new expressionism arose, in-deed could arise; pathos, rhetoric, the tremendous confessionin 'soundingphrases seemed, fortunately, a thing of the immedi-ate past which now demanded a sober, almost silent re-inter-pretation of the world. But a new interest in expressionistpainting and literature became visible almost at once. For thefirst time collected works were issued. Georg Trakl, ErnstStadler, Gottfried Benn, and Walter Hasenclever have ap-peared, and now Georg Heym, in several volumes with notesand annotations that were formerly reserved to the classicauthors.' Heym was born in 1888 and died, in his 24th year,in 1912, leaving among other posthumous papers, a diary whichhas now been published for the first time. These re-issues, newcollections, and studies gave many writers sharper contours.Yet, in the process, the term "expressionism" tends to becomemore and more diffuse. Should Brecht and Kafka, Walser andElse Lasker-Schiiler all be seen as members of the same literaryschool? What have Diubler and Benn in common? One will haveto look for family relations, genealogical trees, as it were. There,one line of relationship clearly emerges. One might call themthe black line of writers, those whose visions evoke the anti-life, the poetic dangers, the unpoetic terrors, and whose ecstas-ies spring from despair: Biichner, Grabbe, Strindberg, Rim-baud, Benn, and the early Brecht. Georg Heym is in a line1 Georg Heym, Dichtungen und Schriften, 3 vols., ed. by K. L. Schnei-der. Hamburg: H. Ellermann, 1960-63.

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with these. His poems and his few short pieces of prosemight serve as the very yardstick with which to measure thisparticular aspect of expressionism.

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DIE MORGUE

Die Wirter schleichen auf IdenSohlen leise,Wo durch das Tuch es weiss von Schadeln blinkt.Wir, Tote, sammeln uns zur letzen ReiseDurch Wisten weit und Meer und Winterwind.Wir thronen hoch auf kahlen Katafalken,Mit schwarzen Lappen garstig iiberdeckt.Der Mortel fallt. Und aus der Decke BalkenAuf uns ein Christus grosse Hiinde streckt.Vorbei ist unsre Zeit. Es ist vollbracht.Wir sind herunter. Seht, wir sind nun tot.In weissen Augen wohnt uns schon die Nacht,Wir schauen nimmermehr ein Morgenrot.Tretet zurtick von unserer Majestit.Befasst uns nicht, die schon das Land erschaunIm Winter weit, davor ein Schatten steht,Des schwarze Schulter ragt im Abenldgraun.Ihr, die ihr eingeschrumpft wie Zwerge seid,Ihr, die ihr runzelig liegt auf unserm Schoss,Wir wuchsen iber euch wie Berge weitIn ewige Todesnacht, wie Gotter gross.Mit Kerzen sind wir lacherlich umsteckt,Wir, die man friih aus dumpfen Winkeln zogNoch grunzend, unsre Brust schon blau gefleckt,Die nachts der Totenvogel iberflog.Wir K6nige, die man aus Biiumen schnitt,Aus wirrer Luft im Vogelkonigreich,Und mancher, der schon tief durch Rohricht glitt,Ein weisses Tier, mit Augen rund und weich.Vom Herbst verworfen. Faule Frucht der Jahre,Zerronnen sommers in der Gossen Loch,

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THE MORGUE

Silently on their soles the wardens slipWhere through the cloth white skulls gleam in the bins.We dead ones gather for the final tripThrough deserts wide and sea and winter winds.We are enthroned on high bald catafalques,We lie with black rags hideously spanned,The mortar falls. And from the ceiling's balksA Christ is stretching toward us his large hands.Gone by is our time. And done the rite.We are beneath. Look how we now are dead.In white eyes dwells for us already night,Not evermore we see a morn rise red.Step backward from our majesty away,And do not touch us who can now espyThe land in winter wide, where shadows stayWhose blackened shoulders hide the evening !sky.You who like dwarfs are shriveled up and shrunken,You who are lying wrinkled on our knee,We grew above you, we like mountains high,As great as gods, to night's eternity.

With candles are we laughably bedecked,We whom they once from hollow corners drewStill grunting, now, see, our chests are fleckedWith blue over which at night the deathbird flew.We kings who, dangling, have been cut from treesFrom whirring air, the kingdom of the wings,And some who glided deep through many reeds;An animal white, its eyes like round soft rings.Thrown up by autumn. Foul fruit of the years,At summer to the holes of gutters swept

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Wir, denen langsam auf dem kahlen HaareDer Julihitze weisse Spinne kroch.Ruhen wir aus im stummen Turm, vergessen?Werden wie Welle einer Lethe sein?Oder dass Sturm uns treibt um Winteressen,Wie Dohlen reitend auf dem Feuerschein?Werden wir Blumen sein? Werden wir V6gel werden,Im Stolze des Blauen, im Zorne der Meere weit?Werden wir wandern in den tiefen Erden,Maulwiirfe stumm in toter Einsamkeit?Werden wir in den Locken der Friihe wohnen,Werden wir bliihen im Baum und schlummern in Frucht,Oder Libellen blau auf den SeeanemonenZittern am Mittag in schweigender Wasser Bucht?Werden wir sein, wie ein Wort von niemand gehiret?Oder ein Rauch, der flattert im Abendraum?Oder ein Weinen, das plotzlich Freudige st6ret?Oder ein Leuchter zur Nacht? Oder ein Traum? ..Wir, Namenlose arme Unbekannte,In leeren Kellern starben wir allein.Was ruft ihr uns, da unser Licht verbrannte,Was st6rt ihr unser frohes Stelldichein?Seht, den dort, der ein graues Lachen stimmtAuf dem zerfallnen Munde fr6hlich an,Der auf die Brust die lange Zunge kriimmt,Er lacht euch auus,der grosse Pelikan.Er wird euch beissen. Viele Wochen warEr Gast bei Fischen. Riecht doch, wie er stinkt.Seht, eine Schnecke wohnt ihm noch im Haar,Die sp6ttisch euch mit kleinem Fiihler winkt.- Ein kleines Glockchen -. Und sie ziehen aus.Das Dunkel kriecht herein auf schwarzer Hand.Wir ruhen einsam nun im weiten Haus,Unziihlige Sarge tief an hoher Wand.

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We over whom slowly on bald hair and earsThe fallow spider of July heat crept.Do we now rest forgotten in the mute tower?And shall we as a wave in Lethe flow?Or tossed round chimneys by the winter showerLike jackdaws riding on the fire glow?Shall we be flowers? Shall we turn into birds,In azure's pride, in wide seas' angry mood?Or will we wander in the depth of the earthsAs moles and mute in the dead !solitude?Shall we be dwellers in the locks of dawn,Or bloom in trees, slumber in fruits at day,Blue dragon flies over sea anemonesTrembling at midday in a silent bay?Shall we be like a word by no one heard?Or smoke that flutters in an evening beam?A cry by which a joyful man is stirred?Or a beacon at night? Or a dream? . . .We unknown beings, poor and without names,We died in empty cellars - youWhy do you call us with our burnt-out flames,Why trouble this our happy rendezvous?See him there out of whose large mouth unhingedGray laughter in a mirthful chuckle ran,And on his chest his long long tongue is crimped,He laughs at you, that husky pelican.And he will bite you, for he was a guestOf fishes many weeks. Smell how he stinks,Look, in his hair a snail still has its nestThat mockingly at you with feelers winks.- A little bell -. And we are moving out.To us on blackened hands will darkness creep,In loneliness we rest in the vast house,And countless coffins on high walls are deep.



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Was kommt er nicht? Wir haben Tiicher anUnd Totenschuhe. Und wir sind gespeist.Wo ist der Fiirst, der wandert uns voran,Des grosse Fahne vor dem Zuge reist?Wo wird uns seine laute Stimme wehen?In welche Diimmerung geht unser Flug?Verlassen in der Einsamkeit zu stehenVor welcher leeren Himmel Hohn und Trug?Ewige Stille. Und des Lebens RestZerwittert und zerfiillt in schwarzer Luft.Des Todes Wind, der unsre Tiir verliisst,Die dunkle Lunge voll vom Staub der Gruft,Er atmet schwer hinaus, wo Regen rauscht,Eintonig, fern, Musik in unserm Ohr,Das dunkel in die Nacht dem Sturme lauscht,Der ruft im Hause traurig und sonor.Und der Verwesung blauer GlorienscheinEntziindet sich auf unserm Angesicht.Ein' Ratte hropstauf nacktem Zehenbein,Kommnur, wir st6rep deinen Hunger night.Wir zogen aus, gegiirtet wie Giganten,Ein jeder klirrte wie ein Goliath.Nun haben wir die Mause zu Trabanten,Und unser Fleisch ward diirrer Maden Pfad.Wir, Ikariden, die mit weissen SchwingenIm blauen Sturm des Lichtes einst gebraust,Wir horten noch der grossen Ttirme Singen,Da riicklings wir in schwarzen Tod gesaust.Im fernen Plan verlorner Himmelslande,Im Meere weit, wo fern die Woge flog,Wir flogen stolz in Abendrotes BrandeMit Segeln gross, die Sturm und Wetter bog.Was fanden wir im Glanz der Himmelsenden?Ein leeres Nichts. Nun schlappt uns das Gebein,

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Will he not come? We have the shrouds all on,And death shoes too, and all of us are fed.Where is the Prince, he wholwill lead us on,Whose large flag marches, when we go, ahead?Where will his loud voice blow for us its tone?Into what twilight's dusks shall we now fly?Forsaken stand in solitude aloneBefore what empty heavens' scorn and lie?Eternal stillness. What was life beforeNow weathers and decays in blackened gloom.The wind of death that now leaves our door,The dark lungs filled with dust from this our tomb,Heavily breathes outside where rustles rain,Dull-toned and far, like music in the earThat darkly listens to the storm at night,And through the house run calls full-voiced and blear.And our festering's blue and shining haloIs kindled over our face, a light.A rat hops over our naked toe,Come on, we have enough for you to bite.Once we set forth begirded as are giants,Each one was clanking just like a Goliath.Now we have only mice as satellites,And all our flesh became lean maggots' path.We, Icarides, who with their once white wings,Have blustered once in the blue storm of light,We could still hear what the great towers sing,When we rushed headlong into black death's night.On distant plains of the lost heavenly lands,On oceans wide where far the billow went,We proudly flew in the red brand of duskWith sails so large, which storm and weather bent.What did we find in beams of heavens' ends?An empty nothing. Slack are now our feet,



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Wie einen Pfennig in den leeren HandenEin Bettler klappern lasst am Strassenrain.Was wartet noch der Herr? Das Haus ist voll,Die Kammern rings der Karavanserei,Der Markt der Toten, der von Knochen scholl,Wie Zinken laut hinaus zur Wiistenei.

UMBRA VITAE

Die Menschen stehen vorwirts in den StrassenUnd sehen auf die grossen Himmelszeichen,Wo die Kometen mit den FeuernasenUm die gezackten Tiurme drohend schleichen.Und alle Dacher sind voll Sternedeuter,Die in den Himmel stecken grosse R6hren,Und Zauberer, wachsend aus den Bodenlochern,Im Dunkel schriig, die ein Gestirn beschwo'ren.Selbstmorder gehen nachts in grossen Horden,Die isuchen vor sich ihr verlornes Wesen,Gebiickt in Siid und West und Ost und Norden,Den Staub zerfegend mit den Armen-Besen.Sie sind wie Staub, der halt noch eine Weile.Die Haare fallen schon auf ihren Wegen.Sie springen, dass sie sterben, und in Eile,Und sind mit totem Haupt im Feld gelegen,Noch manchmal zappelnd. Und der Felder TiereStehn um sie blind und stossen mit dem HomeIn ihren Bauch. Sie strecken alle Viere,Begraben unter Salbei und dem Dome.Die Meere aber stocken. In den WogenDie Schiffe hingen modernd und verdrossen,

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Just like a cent that in his empty handsA beggar rattles at the edge of streets.The Lord still waits? The house with us abounds,The chambers round the caravanseray,The market of the dead, whose bones did soundLike comets into the deserts loud away.

UMBRA VITAE

All men are standing forward in the streetsAnd look upon the large celestial signs,There where the comets with their fiery nosesCreep threatening round the towers' craggy lines.And all the roofs are full of those who gazeAt stars, who push large tubes into the sky,Magicians growing out of attic-cavesAthwart in darkness star-bewitching lie.Self-murderers go at night in crowded hordes.They search ahead of them for souls they lost,Stooped down in South and West and East and North,And with their pauper-besoms sweep the dust.They are like dust that for a while might stick,Their hair upon their ways already yields,They run that they may die, and all are quick,With dying heads lie down upon the field,Still fidgety sometimes. Beasts of the landsStand round them blind and ram their pointed hornsInto their bellies. They stretch out their hands,Lie buried under sage and under thorns.But all the seas are faltering. In the wavesThe ships are hanging mouldering and amiss,



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Zerstreut, und keine Stromung wird gezogen,Und aller Himmel H6fe sind verschlossen.Die Baume wechseln nicht die ZeitenUnd bleiben ewig tot in ihrem Ende,Und iiber die verfallnen Wege spreitenSie holzern ihre langen Fingerhande.Wer stirbt, der setzt sich auf, sich zu erheben,Und eben hat er noch ein Wort gesprochen,Auf eimal ist er fort. Wo ist sein Leben?Und seine Augen sind wie Glas zerbrochen.Schatten sind viele. Triibe und verborgen.Und Triume, die an stummen Tiiren schleifen,Und der erwacht, bedruckt vom Licht der Morgen,Muss schweren Schlaf von grauen Lidern streifen.

"Die Morgue" and "Umbra Vitae" copyright by HeinrichEllermann, publishers of the new collected edition of the worksof Georg HeymWisconsin Studies96


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Distracted, and no current is that saves,And all the heavens' courtyards close their bliss.

The trees no longer change, for ever dead,With tide and season, barren stark they stand,And over the decaying ways they spreadTheir large and wooden stretched-out fingerhands.And he who dies sits up and tries to rise,And just a while ago his word was spoken,Then suddenly he goes. Where is his life?There shatter both his eyes, as glass is broken.Shadows are many. Hidden, dim, forlorn,And dreams that slither round mute doors are deep.He who wakes up, oppressed by light of morn,From his gray lids must rub off heavy sleep.


the expressionism of georg heym - a note and two translations

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