Georg Trakl

Georg Trakl (Salzburg, 3. veljače 1887. – Krakov, 3. studenog 1914.), austrijski pjesnik. Osnovne teme njegove lirike (koja se u stanovitom smislu nastavlja na Höderlina) su tamne životne moći, besmislena patnja, smrt, morbidna priviđenja užasa koja se objavljaju u snažnim slikama asocijativnih impresija, oslobođenih svakog logičkog i sintatičkog reda. Mračni sanjar, izopačenik, alkoholičar, samotnik čiji se život odvijao samo noću, mamuran piše svoje pjesme na zgužvanim papirićima ili nagnut nad prljave kavanske stolove, i satima vodi nadahnute lirske monologe. I njegova je proza puna osjećaja strave i tjeskobe. Bio je narkoman, a život je završio samoubojstvom. Neshvaćen je i odbačen u vrijeme kada je pisao i djelovao, a za Europu je “otkriven” tek nakon Drugog svjetskog rata.

De profundisDečaku ElisuElisGrodekHelijanIz knjige vječnostiIstočni frontJugoJednom prerano umrlomNoćProljeće dušePsalamPregrađe pod južnim vetromPesma o Kasparu HauzeruSan i pomračenjeSedmopev smrtiZimsko veče

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De profundis

I strnište po kojem crna kiša lije,I suro stablo što ovdje samotno stoji,I fijuk ledenog vjetra oko koliba pustih -Kako je ovo veče žalosno.Još pokraj zaseokaKrotka sirota pabirči po koji rasuti klas.

Zlaćane i kolutaste, oči joj sumračjem bludeA njeno krilo nebeskog ženika čeka.Na povratkuNađoše pastiri to ljupko tijeloVeć raspadnuto u trnjaku.Mračnim selima ja sam daleka sjena.Božju tišinuKušah na studencu, u lugu.Hladnoća kovine dotiče moje čelo,Srce mi pauci traže.I svjetlost jedna u mojim ustima zgasne.Na ledini se nekoj noću nađohOkaljan gnusom i zasut prahom zvjezdanim.U grmu ljeskovu

Zvonjahu opet kristalni anđeli.

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Dečaku Elisu

Elise, kada se kos u crnoj šumi glasi,ovo je propast tvoja.Usne ti piju svežinu plavoga vrela u steni.

Trpi, kada ti čelo tiho krvariprastare legendei gatanje tamno ptičijeg leta.

Ti pak ideš mekim koracima u noć,okićenu purpurnim grozdovima,i ruke pružaš lepše u plavetnilu.

Trnovit zvuči žbunonde gde su ti mesečinaste oči.O, Elise, otkada si već umro.

Telo ti je zumbulu koji monah uranja voštane prste.Crna pećina naše je ćutanje,

iz nje ponekad kroči blagosna zveri polako obara teške kapke.Na slepoočnice kaplje ti crna rosa,

poslednje zlato strošenih zvezda.

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Elis

ISavršen je pokoj ovog zlatnog dana.Pod starim hrastovimaPojavljuješ se, Elise, u počivanju kolutastih očiju.U njihovoj se plaveti zrcali sanak ljubavnika.Na tvojim ustimaUtihnuše njihovi rumeni uzdasi.Izvuče ribar teške mreže, podvečer.Dobar pastirSvoje stado vodi rubom šume.O, kako si, Elise, sve svoje dane valjano proveo.TIho padaNiz gole zidove plava spokojnost masline,Zamire mračno pjevanje nekog starca.U zlatnom čunu, Elise,Ziba se tvoje srce na pustom nebu.IINježna glazba zvončića bruji u Elisovim grudimaUvečer,Dok mu glava u crn jastuk tone.Plava zvijerTiho krvari u guštari trnjaka.Tu suro stablo u osami čami;Njegovi plodovi plavi već su pootpadali.Znamenja i zvijezdePolako utonu u večernje vode ribnjaka.Iza brijega već je stigla zima.Plavi goluboviPiju noću ledeni znojŠto oblijeva Elisovo kristalno čelo.Sveudilj huljiSamotnik vjetar oko crnih zidina Božjih.

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Grodek

U predvečerje zveče jesenje šumeOd ubojitog oružja, zlatne ravniceI jezera plava, a nad njima se sunceNatmureno valja; noć prima u svoje tmineBorce na umoru, vapaje divljeNjihovih smrskanih usta.A u dnu pašnjaka nečujno bujaOblačje rujno, tamo je sada jedno gnjevno božanstvo,I krv prolivena, i hlad mjesečasti;Svi putovi vode u crno raspadanje.Pod zlatnim granama noći i zvijezda,Utihnulim lugom tetura sestrina sjena,Ona ide da pozdravi duhove junaka, glave što krvare;

A tamne frule jeseni u trski tiho bruje.O, gorda tugo! Vi mjedeni oltari,Silna bol potiče danas taj žarki plamen duha,Unuci nerođeni.

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Helijan

U usamljenim časovima duhalepo je koračati pod suncemduž žutih zidina leta.Koraci tiho zvone u travi; al’ vazdaPanov sin spava u sivom mermeru.

Uveče na terasi opismo se od smeđeg vina.Rujno se žari breskva u lišću;blaga sonata, veseo smeh.

Lepa je noćna tišina.Na tamnoj ravnisusrećemo pastire i bele zvezde.

Kada se zajeseni,javi se trezvena jasnost u gaju.Skroćeni hodamo pored crvenih zidova,okrugle oči prate ptičiji let.Uveče bela voda tone u grobljanske urne.

U golom granju svetkuje nebo.U čistim rukama seljak nosi hleb i vinoi mirno u sunčanom ambaru dozrevaju plodovi.

O, kako je ozbiljno lice dragih pokojnika.Ali dušu veseli pravedno gledanje.

Ogromno je ćutanje opustošene baštekad mladi iskušenik ovenčava čelo mrkim lišćem,a duh mu pije ledeno zlato.

Ruke dodiruju drevnost plavetnih voda,ili u hladnoj noći bele obraze sestara.

Tih i skladan je hod duž prijaznih soba,gde je samoća i šumor javora,gde možda još peva drozd.

Lep je čovek i velik se javlja u tmini,dok sa čuđenje pokreće ruke i noge,a u purpurnim špiljama tiho kolutaju oči.

Pred večernje se stranac gubi u crnom novembarskom razaranju,ispod natrulog granja, duž ogubalih zidova,gde je ranije hodao sveti brat,potonuo u nežnu svirku svog ludila.

O, kako samotno okončava večernji vetar.Glava na umoru tone u tmini masline.

Strahovito je propadanje roda.U taj čas pune se oči posmatračazlatom njegovih zvezda.

Uveče tonu zvona što više ne bruje,ruše se crni zidovi na trgu,mrtvi vojnik zove na molitvu.

Kao bledi anđeostupa sin u prazni dom svojih otaca.

Sestre su otišle daleko: belim starcima.Noću ih spavač nađe pod stubovima u tremu,na povratku sa tužnih hodočašća.

O, kako im je kosa prepuna blata i crva,dok on tu stoji na srebrnim nogama,a one pomrle izlaze iz golih soba.

O, vi psalmi pod plamenim ponoćnim kišama,kad sluge koprivama po blagim tukoše očima,kad se detinjski plodovi zovenadvijaju u čudu iznad praznog groba.

Tiho se meseci požuteli kotrljajupreko mladićevih grozničavih čaršavapre no što naiđu zima i ćutanje.

Uzvišen usud snuje niz Kidron,gde se kedar, meko stvorenje,širi pod plavim veđama oca,gde pastir noću vodi livadom stado.Ili se čuju krici u snukada tučani anđeo sretne čoveka u gaju,kad se na žaru rastapa svečevo meso.

Oko krovinjara vreži se purpurna loza,sumorno snoplje požutela žita,zujanje pčela, ždralov let.Vaskrsli se uveče sretaju na vrletnim stazama.

U crnim vodama gubavci se ogledaju;ili u plaču otvaraju zablaćene haljetkepred melemnim vetrom što piri sa ružičastog huma.

Vitke devojke kroz noćne sokake pipajune bi li našle pastira ljubavnika.Subotom blaga pesma bruji u kolibama.

Dajte da pesma pomene i dečaka,njegovo ludilo, bele veđe, i kako odlazi,istruleo, plavičasto dižući oči.O, tuge u ovom ponosnom viđenju.

Stepenici ludila u crnim sobama,senke staraca pod otvorenim vratima,dok se Helijanova duša ogleda u ružičastom ogledalui sneg i guba tonu sa njegova čela.

Duž zidova su utrnule zvezdei bela obličja svetlosti.

Iz ćilima niču kosturi grobni,ćutanje trošnih krstača na ćuviku,sladunjav tamjan u purpurnom noćnom vetru.

O, vi skrhane oči u crnim grotlima,dok unuk u blagom pomračenjusamotno snuje o tamnijem okončanju,a tihi bog plave kapke nadnosi nad njega.

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Iz knjige vječnosti

Uvijek se vraćaš,ti ,melankolijo,O nježna hrabrosti usamljene duše.I ovaj zlatan dan je pri krajugubeći svoj užareni sjaj.

Poraženo se poklanja bolu smrtnikjecajući iz blagosti i iz mekog ludila.Pogledaj! Već je sumrak.

Vraća se noć i žali se smrtnik,i jedan drugi pati sa njim.

Jezivo ispod jesenskih zvijezdasavija se godišnje njegova bit sve niže.

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Istočni front

Kao note za orgulje zimskih oluja,bijes ljudski nadovezuje se u tami,

Grimizni val bitke, golašuma zvijezdi.Sprženih obrva, srebrnih ruku,Noć priziva umiruće vojnike.U sjeni jesenskog pepelaUzdišu duhovi onih palih.Trnovita divljina zaokružuje grad.Sa okrvavljenih kućnih pragova mjesecprogoni prestravljene žene.Divlji vukovi prodiru kroz gradska vrata.

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Jugo

Mračan lelek u vjetru, zimski mjesečasti dani,Djetinjstvo, tiho zamiru koraci duž crne živice,Duga večernja zvonjava.Nečujno ovamo stiže i bijela noć,Pa u grimizne snove pretvara boli i patnjeKamenog života.Da nikad trnova bodlja ne takne tijelo što trune.U snu duboko uzdahne tjeskobna duša,Bolno zajeca vjetar u polomljenim stablima,A posrće korotni likMajke kroz samotnu šumuOve nijeme žalosti; noćiPune suza i plamenih anđela.Srebrno se o goli zid razbija djetinji kostur.

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Jednom prerano umrlom

O, crni anđeo što tiho izđe iz debladok smo se blago igrali uveče,na rubu plavkastog kladenca.Miran nam korak beše, okrugle očiu smeđoj svežini jeseni,

o, zvezda purpurna slast.

A on je kamenitim stubištem Monaškog brega,s plavim osmehom na licu, čudno učauren,silazio u svoje tiše detinjstvo i umro;

i u bašti je ostalo prijateljevo srebrno licesluteći u lišću ili u starom kamenju.

Duša je pevala smrt, zeleno rastakanje mesa,i čulo se hujanje šume,strašna čalopojka divljaci.Neprestano su s tornjeva sumračnih odjekivalaplava zvona večeri.

Dođje čas kad onaj vide senke pod purpurnim suncem,senke truleži u ogolelom granju;veče kad je kraj sutonskog zida pevao kosi duh prerano umrlog tiho se javio u sobi.

O, krv što teče iz njegovog grla razbrujalog,plavi cvet; o, suza ognjenaotplakana u noć.

Zlatni oblak i vreme. U samotnom sobičkupočešće pozivaš mrtvaca u goste,u prisnom razgovoru hodaš pod brestovimaniz zelenu reku.

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Noć

Tebe opevam, divlja razrovanosti,u noćoj burinagromadana planino;vi sive kule iz kojih kuljajupaklene čuvide,ognjeno zverje,hrapava paprat, smrče,kristalno cveće.Beskrajna mukašto si se domogao Boga,blagi dušekoji uzdišeš sred slapa vode,među uskolebanim borjem.

Zlatno plaminjaju uokrugvatre naroda.Niz crnkaste liticestropoštava se opijen smrćurazaren vihor,plavi talasglečera,i silno tutnjizvono u dolini:

ognjevi, kletvei tamneigre sladostrašća,juriša na nebookamenjena glava.

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Proljeće duše

Krik iza sna; srlja vjetar crnim ulicama,Treperi plavet proljeća kroz grane što se krše,Grimizna rosa noći, a zvijezde posvuda gasnu.Sinje svjetluca rijeka, srebrni odsjaj starih drvoredaI tornjeva grada. O, blaga opojnostiU čunu što mirno plovi i mračni dozivi kosaU vrtovima djetinjskim. Već se truse ružičaste latice.Svečano vode žubore. O, vlažne sjenke cvjetne livade,Zvijer što kroči; mlado lišće, rascvalo granjeDodiruje kristalno čelo; blistavi čun, zaljuljan.Tiho zvuči sunce u ružičastom oblačju, nad brijegom.Velika je tišina jelove šume, teške sjene kraj rijeke.Nevinosti! Nevinosti! Gdje su strahotni putovi smrti,Putovi sive kamene šutnje, klisure noćiI nespokojne sjene? Blistavi bezdan sunčeva svjetla.Sestro, kad te nađoh na pustoj čistiniŠume, a bješe podne i šutnja zvijeri golema,Bijelu pod divljim hrastom, srebrno je trnjak procvjetao.Silovito preminuće i raspjevan plamen u srcu.Tamnije okružuju vode lijepe igre riba.Vrijeme žalosti, nijema prisutnost sunca;Duša je samo stranac na ovoj zemlji. Sablasno tamniModrina iznad iskrčene šume, a dugo jeOdzvanjala mračna zvonjava u selu; spokojni ispraćaj.Tiho cvate mirta preko bijelih mrtvačkih vjeđa.Tiho šumore vode u kasno poslijepodne,A tamnije prolistava šikara uz obalu, radost na ružičastom vjetru;Nježno pjevanje brata na večernjem brežuljku.

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Psalam

posvećeno Karlu Krausu

Jedna svjetlost koju je vjetar ugasio.Jedna zabitna krčma iz koje popodne pijan čovjek odlazi.Jedan vinograd, ofuren i crn, s rupama punim paukova.Jedna prostorija koju su mlijekom obijelili.Mahnitac je preminuo. Jedan otok u Južnom moru

Za doček Boga-Sunca. U bubnjeve udaraju.Muškarci izvode ratničke plesove.Žene se njišu u bokovima na kojima su povijuše i plameni cvjetoviKad more pjeva. O, naš izgubljeni raju!*Napustile su nimfe zlatne šume.Pokapaju stranca. Uto udari vatreno blistavi pljusak.Pojavljuje se Panov sin u liku radnika s napisaKoji prespava podne na usijanom pločniku.Male djevojčice sred nekog dvorišta u ganutljivo sirotinjskim haljinicama!Sobe ispunjene akordima i sonatama.Sjene koje se grle pred oslijepljelim zrcalom.Na prozorima bolnice griju se oporavljenici.Kulja bijela para iz kanala okružena krvavim pošastima.*I opet tuđa sestra dolazi u teške snove nečije.Igra se njegovim zvijezdama počivajuć pod grmom ljeskovim.Student, dvojnik možda, dugo je promatra s prozora.Njegov pokojni brat stoji mu iza leđa, ili silazi starim zavojitim stubama.U zasjenku mrkih kestena lik mladog iskušenika blijedi.Vrt je utonuo u predvečerje. Pod svodištem samostana lete netopiri.Djeca pazikuće prestaju se igrati i traže zlato neba.Završni akordi kvarteta. Slijepo djevojče trči drščuć kroz drvored,A kasnije ko sjena tapajuć odmiče kraj hladnih zidina, okružena bajkama i svetim legendama.*Jedna prazna barka koja podveče plovi niz crne vode prokopa.U tmuši starog skloništa za onemoćale raspadaju se ruševine ljudi.Mrtva siročad leži u vrtu podno zida.Iz sivih soba izlaze anđeli a krila su im poštrapana gnusom.Crvi kaplju s njihovih požutjelih vjeđa.Trg pred crkvom mračan je i tih kao u danima djetinjstva.Na srebrnim tabanima klize mimo minuli životi,A sjene prokletnika spuštaju se do voda koje uzdišu.Bijeli čarobnjak u grobu igra se svojim zmijama.*Nad kosturnicom se nečujno otvaraju zlatne oči Boga.

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Pregrađe pod južnim vetrom

Uveče puste, smeđe kuće leže,u vazduhu svud sivog smrada ima.Grmljava voza s mosta, oblak dima -vrapci vrh žbunja i plotova beže.

Kolibe čuče, staze propletene,tišma i vreva ispunjava bašte,ponekad muklo jaukanje raste,međ decom lete haljine šarene.

Zaljubljen cilik pacova na smeću.Pronose žene iznutrice smradneu korpama, i povorke im gadne,sve krastave, iz pomrčine kreću.

I masnu krv najednom kanal bljujeiz klanice u mirnu reku dole.Od juga se šarene grane golei sporo rumen kroz talase ruje.

Šapati što u mutne snove rone.Roj prilika iz jaraka leprša,na bivši život možda spomen mršavšto s toplim vetrom penje se i tone.

Aleje sjaje kroz oblake tmaste,s jahačima, sa lepim kočijama.Vidi se i brod što o hridi se slama.pa džamije, ponekad, ružičaste.

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San i pomračenje

Uveče je otac postao starac; u tamnim sobama skame-nilo se lice majke, a dečaka je tištalo prokletstvo izopače-nog pokolenja. Ponekad se sećao svog detinjstva, prepunogbolesti, užasa i mraka, ćutljivih igara u zvezdanoj bašti, ilikako je hranio pacove u sumračnom dvorištu. Iz plavog ogle-dala izlazila je vitka prilika sestre i on se kao mrtav stro-poštovao u tminu. Noću su mu se usta rastvarala poputcrvenog ploda i zvezde bi zasjale nad njegovom nemom tu-gom. Snovi su mu ispunjavali stari dom otaca. Uveče je radoišao po zapuštenom groblju, ili bi u sumračnoj mrtvačnicigledao leševe, zelene mrlje truljenja na njihovim lepimrukama. Pred vratnicama manastira molio je za komad hle-ba; senka jednog vranca iskrsnu iz mraka i uplaši ga. Kadbi ležao u svojoj hladnoj postelji, spopadale bi ga neizrecivesuze. Ali nije bilo nikoga ko bi stavio šaku na njegovočelo. Kad bi naišla jesen, šetao je, vidovnjak, po smeđemporečju. O, časovi divljeg ushićenja, večeri kraj zelene reke,lov. O, duša koja je tiho pevala pesmu požutele trske; pla-mena pobožnost. Tiho je i dugo ostajao zagledan u zvezda-ne žablje oči, rukama punim jeze pipao svežinu starogakamena i tumačio dostojanstveno predanje plavoga kladen-ca. O, srebrne ribe i plodovi što su padali sa bogaljastogdrveća. Akordi njegovih koraka prožimali su ga ponosomi preziranjem ljudi. Vraćajući se kući naišao je na jedannenastanjen zamak. Rušni bogovi stajali su u bašti, tugu-jući kroz veče. A njemu se činilo: ovde sam živeo zaborav-

ljenih godina. Horal sa orgulja prožeo ga je božanskom je-zom. Ali u tamnoj pećini provodio je svoje dane, lagao ikrao i skrivao se, rasplamsali vuk, od beloga majčinog lica.O, onaj čas kada je okamenjenih usta klonuo u zvezdanojbašti, kad ga je natkrilila senka ubice. Purpurna čela otišaoje u močvar i Božiji gnev je kažnjavao njegova metalnaramena; o, breze u oluji, tamno zverje što se klonilo nje-govih pomračenih staza. Mržnja mu je sažizala srce, slado-strašće, dok je u zelenom letnjem vrtu vršio nasilje nadćutljivim detetom i u blistavom licu prepoznavao svoje po-mračenje. Avaj, ono veče kraj prozora kad je iz purpurnogcveća iskoračio sivkast kostur, kad se pojavila smrt. O, vikule i zvona; i noćne senke padoše, skamenjene, na njega.Niko ga nije voleo. Glavu su mu sagorevali laž i razvratu sumračnim sobama. Od plavog šuštanja neke ženske ha-ljine ukočio bi se kao stub, a na vratima bi stajala tamnaprilika njegove majke. Više njegove glave uzdizala se senkazla. O, vi noći i zvezde. Uveče je išao sa bogaljem dužbrega; na ledenom vrhu počivao je ružičast sjaj večernjegrumenila i njegovo srce je tiho odzvanjalo kroz suton. Burnosu padale teške jele na njih, a crveni lovac iziđe iz šume.Kad pade noć, razbi se njegovo kristalno srce i mrak mustade udarati u čelo. Pod golim hrašćem ledenim je rukamaudavio jednu divlju mačku. S desne strane se naričući pojavibela prilika anđela, a kroz pomrčinu se razraste bogaljevasenka. On pak podiže kamen i baci ga prema bogalju, i ovajkukajući pobeže, a pod senkom drveta sa uzdahom se ras-plinu blago anđelovo lice. Dugo je ležao na kamenitoj njivii čudeći se posmatrao zlatni šator zvezda. Gonjen slepimmiševima, stuštio se u tminu. Bez daha je ušao u oronulukuću. U dvorištu se, kao divlja zver, napio plave vode izbunara, dok nije počeo da zebe. Grozničav je sedeo naledenim stepenicama, pomahnitalo okrenut Bogu, ne bi liumro. O, sivo lice užasa, dok je dizao okrugle oči nadrasečenim grlom golubice. Nečujno promičući tuđim stepe-ništima, sreo je jednu jevrejsku devojku i dohvatio je zacrnu kosu i poljubio je u usta. Neprijateljstvo ga je pratilokroz mračne ulice, a uho mu je razdiralo gvozdeno zvec-kanje. Duž jesenjih zidova je, dečak-prislužnik, tiho pratioćutljivog sveštenika; pod sasušenim drvećem je pijano udi-sao skerlet njegove dostojanstvene odežde. O, trošni sunčevkolut. Slatke muke razjedale su njegovu put. U jednom pu-stom hodniku javila mu se njegova krvava prilika prepunanečisti. Dublje je zavoleo uzvišena dela kamena; kulu štosa paklenim prikazama mračno juriša put plavog zvezdanogneba; hladni grob u kojem je sačuvano čovekovo vatrenosrce. Avaj, neizreciva krivica koju ono naveštava. Ali dokje užarenih misli išao pod golim drvećem niz jesenju reku,pred njim se u kostretnom plaštu pojavi sestra, rasplamsalidemon. Kad se behu probudili, nad glavama im potrnuše

zvezde.O, prokleto pokolenje. Kad se u zamrljanim sobamanavrši svaka sudbina, trulim koracima ulazi smrt u kuću. O,kad bi napolju bilo proleće i kad bi u cvetnom drvetu pevalaneka mila ptica. Ali sivkasto se suši oskudno zelenilo naprozorima noćnika i raskrvavljena srca još snuju o zlu. O,sutonske prolećne staze zamišljenoga. Opravdanije ga veselerascvala živica, seljakovi mladi usevi i raspevana ptica, bo-žije blago stvorenje; večernje zvono i lepa zajednica ljudi.Kad bi mogao da zaboravi svoju sudbinu i žalac što ga bode.Slobodno se zeleni potok onde gde mu srebrno hode stope,i rečito drvo mu šumori nad obnoćalom glavom. I on krh-kom rukom podiže zmiju, i srce mu se stopi u ognjenimsuzama. Uzvišeno je ćutanje šume, prozelenela tmina i ma-hovinasto zverje što uzleprša kada se spusti noć. O, kakvajeza obuzima svakoga ko je svestan svoje krivice dok idetrnovitim stazama. I on tako u žbunju drača nađe belu pri-liku deteta što krvari za plaštom svoga ženika. A on je nemoi pateći stajao pred njom zariven u svoju čeličnu kosu. O,blistavi anđeli koje razveja purpurni noćni vetar. Noćimaje boravio u kristalnoj špilji, a po čelu mu je rasla srebrnaguba. Kao senka je išao niz planinsku stazu pod jesenjimzvezdama. Pade sneg, i plava tama ispuni kuću. Kao u slepcazvonio je oštri očev glas i prizivao grozu. Teško pognutimprilikama žena. Pod ukočenim rukama raspadalo se užasnu-tom pokolenju voće i oruđe. Vuk je raskomadao prvoro-đenče i sestre pobegoše u tamne bašte koščatim starcima.On, pomračeni vidovnjak, pevao je kraj oronulih zidovai božji vetar gutao je njegov glas. O, sladostrašće smrti.O, deco, tamnog pokolenja. Srebrnasto se presijava zlo cvećekrvi na njegovoj slepoočnici, a hladni mesec u njegovimpolomljenim očima. O, noćnici; o, prokletnici.Dubok je san u tamnim otrovima, prepun zvezda i be-loga lica majke, kamenog. Gorka je smrt, hrana onima podbremenom krivice; u mrkome granju stabla raspadoše seiskežena zemljana lica. Ali on je tiho pevao pod zelenomsenkom zove, kad se prenuo iz teških snova; premili sadrug,približi mu se ružičasti anđeo, te se on, pitomo zvere, pre-nese snom u noć; i vide zvezdano lice čistote. Zlatno klo-nuše suncokreti preko baštenske ograde, kad naiđe leto. O,marljivost pčela i zeleno lišće oraha; oluje što dođu i minu.Srebrno je i mak cvetao, noseći u zelenoj čauri naše su-mračne zvezdane snove. O, kako je tih bio dom kad je otacotišao u tminu. Purpurno je sazrevalo voće na drvetu i ba-štovan je poslovao grubim rukama; o, kostretna znamenjapod blistavim suncem. Ali tiho je uveče stupila senka mrt-vaca među rodbinu što ga je oplakivala, i kristalno mu jezvučao korak preko zelene livade pred šumom. A oni su sećutke okupili oko stola; samrtnici, lomili su voštanim ru-kama hleb, hleb što je krvario. Jao, okamenjene sestrine

oči, dok je za obedom njeno ludilo prelazilo na sumračnobratovljevo čelo, kada se majci pod patničkim rukama hlebpretvarao u kamen. O, istruleli, dok su srebrnim jezicimaćutali pakao. I tako utrnuše svetiljke u hladnoj odaji i krozpurpurne maske su ljudi patnici ćutke gledali jedni druge.Celu noć je šumorila kiša i osvežavala polja.  Kroz trnovitudivljinu potamnjeni je išao niz požutele putanje kroz žito,za pesmom ševe i blagom tišinom zelenoga granja, ne bi linašao mira. O, vi sela i mahovinasti stepenici, jarki prizor.Ali koščato se kolebajući koraci preko usnulih zmija na ivicišume i uho neprestano prati pomahnitalo kliktanje orlalešinara. Kamenu pustinju zatekao je uveče, pratnju jednogmrtvaca u tamni očev dom. Purpurni oblak obujmi mu glavute se ćutke stušti na sopstvenu krv i sopstveno obličje, me-sečinasta lica; skamenjen potonu u prazninu, kad se u raz-bijenom ogledalu, kao mladić na umoru, pojavi sestra; i noćproguta prokleto pokolenje.

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Pesma o Kasparu Hauzeru

On je doista voleo suncešto je purpurno silazilo niz breg,šumske putanje, raspevanog kosai radost što je u zelenilu.

Ozbiljan beše mu boravak u senci drvetai čisto njegovo lice.Bog blagi plamen reče njegovom srcu:O, čoveče!

Tiho mu korak uveče nađe grad;tamni lelek iz njegovih usta:hoću da budem konjanik.

A za njim kretahu žbun i zver,dom i sutonska bašta belih ljudi,i njegov ubica ga je tražio.

Proleće i leto i lepa jesenpravednikova, njegov korak tihmimo sumračnih soba sanjalica.Noću je ostao sa svojom zvezdom sam;

video kako na golo granje pada snegi u sve tamnijem tremu senku ubice.

Srebrno klonu glava nerođenoga.

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Sedmopev smrti

Plavkasto sutoni proleće; pod drvećem što sokove crpehodi nešto tamno u veče i u propast,osluškujući blago kosovo kukanje.Ćutke se javlja noć, raskrvavela zverŠto se polako opruža na brežuljku.

U vlažnom zraku leluja ocvetalo granje jabuka,srebrni se spletovi odvajajuodumirući iz onoćalih očiju; padaju zvezde;blaga pesma detinjstva.

Pojavniji sidje spavač niz crnu šumu,i plavi izvor zašume u jaruzi,te onaj tiho podiže blede kapkenad svojim snežnim licem;

i mesec istera jednu crvenu zveriz njene pećine;u uzdasima zamre tamno jaukanje žena.

Blistavije diže ruke ka svojoj zvezdibeli stranac;ćutke mrtvac napušta trošnu kuću.

O, čovekova trula prilika: sklopljena od hladnih metala,noći i užaxa potonulih šumai zverkine divljine što sažiže;maina duše.

U crnkastom čunu otplovi onaj niz svetlucave bujice,prepun purpurnih zvezda, i s miromzazelenelo granje klonu na njega,mak iz srebrnog oblaka.

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Zimsko veče

Dok sneg na prozor padaI večernje zvono dugo bruji,Mnogima je sto zastrven,Dom ih spreman čeka.Nekoga dok lutaMračne staze na kapiju vode.Zlatno cveta drvo spasaCrpeć’ iz zemlje hladan sok.

Putnik spokojno unutra kroči;Prag se skamenio od bola.Tu u čistom sjaju nasredStola sijaju hleb i vino.)

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Sonja

« Abend kehrt in alten Garten;Sonjas Leben, blaue Stille.Wilder Vögel Wanderfahrten;Kahler Baum in Herbst und Stille.

Sonnenblume, sanftgeneigteÜber Sonjas weißes Leben.Wunde, rote, niegezeigteLäßt in dunklen Zimmern leben

Wo die blauen Glocken läuten;Sonjas Schritt und sanfte Stille.Sterbend Tier grüßt im Entgleiten,Kahler Baum in Herbst und Stille.

Sonne alter Tage leuchtetÜber Sonjas weiße Brauen,Schnee, der ihre Wangen feuchtet,Und die Wildnis ihrer Brauen. »

Sonja, Georg Trakl

Na pjesnikovom grobu, Mühlau 2011.

Nad kosturnicom se nečujno otvaraju zlatne oči Boga. (Greorg Trakl)

Twenty Poems of Georg Trakl

Translated and Chosen

by

James Wright and Robert Bly

The Silence of Georg Trakl

The poems of Georg Trakl have a magnificent silence in them. It is very rare that he himself talks—for the most part he allows the images to speak for him. Most of the images, anyway, are images of silent things.In a good poem made by Trakl images follow one another in a way that is somehow stately. The images have a mysterious connection with each other. The rhythm is slow and heavy, like the mood of someone in a dream. Wings of dragonflies, toads, the gravestones of cemeteries, leaves, and war helmets give off strange colors, brilliant and sombre colors—they live in too deep a joy to be gay. At the same time they live surrounded by a darkness without roads. Everywhere there is the suggestion of this dark silence:The yellow flowers Bend without words over the blue pondThe silence is the silence of things that could speak, but choose not to. The German language has a word for deliberately keeping silence, which English does not have. Trakl uses this word “schweigen” often. When he says “the flowers/Bend without words over the blue pond”, we realise that the flowers have a voice, and that Trakl hears it. They keep their silence in the poems. Since he doesn’t put false speeches into the mouths of plants, nature has more and more confidence in him. As his poems grow, more and more creatures live in his poems—first it was only wild ducks and rats, but then oak trees, deer, decaying wall-paper, ponds, herds of sheep, trumpets, and finally steel helmets, armies, wounded men, battlefield nurses, and the blood that had run from the wounds that day.Yet a red cloud, in which a furious god, The spilled blood itself, has its home, silentlyGathers, a moonlike coolness in the willow bottomsBefore he died, he even allowed his own approaching death to appear in the poems, as in the late poem “Mourning“.Trakl died when he was 27. He was born in Salzburg in 1887, the son of a hardware dealer. The family was partially Czech, but spoke German. He took a degree in Pharmacy in Vienna, and became a corpsman in the army, stationed at Innsbruch. He left the service after a short time, and spent a year writing and visiting friends. In August of 1914, at the outbreak of war, he returned to the army, and served in the field near Galizia. He felt the hopelessness of the badly wounded more than most men, and his work brought him into great depressions. After the battle of Grodek, ninety badly wounded men were left in a barn for him to care for. That night he attempted to kill himself, but was prevented by friends. The last poems in this selection were written during this time, and the sense of his own approaching death is clear, and set down with astonishing courage. His poem called “Grodek”, which is thought to be his last work, is a ferocious poem. It is constructed with great care. A short passage suggesting the whole German Romantic poetry of the nineteenth century will appear, and be followed instantly by a passage evoking the mechanical violence of the German twentieth century. This alternation, so strong that it can even be felt slightly in the translation, gives the poem great strength and fiber.After the crisis at Grodek, Trakl went on serving in his post for several months, meanwhile using the drugs obtained from his pharmacy supplies. He was transferred to the hospital at Krakow, and assigned, to his surprise, not as a corpsman, but as a patient. There, a few days later, in November of 1914, he committed suicide with an overdose sufficient to be poisonous.His poems were edited after his death, and his work is now available in three volumes Aus Goldenem Kelch(the early poems), Die

Dichtungen (the later poems), and Errinnerung An Georg Trakl(letters and reminiscences). These volumes are published by Otto Muller Verlag in Salzburg, to whom we are indebted for permission to publish the poems. Most of the poems in the volume called Die Dichtungen are of equal quality with the twenty from that volume we have chosen.We would like to thank Franz Schneider, Stanley Kunitz, and Jackson Mathews for their help and excellent criticism of some of these poems.

Robert Bly

A Note on Trakl

In the autumn of 1952, I wandered into the wrong classroom at the University of Vienna. According to my instructions, the professor was supposed to be a German, whose name I forget. I also forget what course I had expected. But the lecturer who actually appeared was a short swarthy man; and he spoke soft, clear German, clinging to his Italian accent. His name was Professor Susini. The only other persons in that unheated room were a few old men, who resembled Bowery bums in America.He stood still, peering into the dusk where we sat. Then he read a poem called “Verfall”, the first poem in Georg Trakl’s Die Dichtungen . It was as though the sea had entered the class at the last moment. For this poem was not like any poem I had ever recognized: the poet, at a sign from the evening bells, followed the wings of birds that became a train of pious pilgrims who were continually vanishing into the clear autumn of distances; beyond the distances there were black horses leaping in red maple trees, in a world where seeing and hearing are not two actions, but one.I returned to that darkening room every afternoon for months, through autumn and winter, while Professor Susini summoned every poem out of Trakl’s three volumes. I always went back to that strange room of twilight, where Susini peered for long silences into the darkness until he discovered the poem he sought; and then he spoke it with the voice of a resurrected blackbird.His entire manner was one of enormous patience, and he read Trakl’s poems very slowly. I believe that patience is the clue to the understanding of Trakl’s poems. One does not so much read them as explore them. They are not objects which he constructed, but quiet places at the edge of a dark forest where one has to sit still for a long time and listen very carefully. Then, after all one’s patience is exhausted, and it seems as though nothing inside the poem will ever make sense in the ways to which one has become accustomed by previous reading, all sorts of images and sounds come out of the trees, or the ponds, or the meadows, or the lonely roads—those places of awful stillness that seem at the centre of nearly every poem Trakl ever wrote.In the poems which we have translated, there are frequent references to silence and speechlessness. But even where Trakl does not mention these conditions of the spirit by name, they exist as the very nourishment without which one cannot even enter his poems, much less understand them.We are used to reading poems whose rules of traditional construction we can memorize and quickly apply. Trakl’s poems, on the other hand, though they are shaped with the most beautiful delicacy and care, are molded from within. He did not write according to any “rules of construction”, traditional or other, but rather waited patiently and silently

for the worlds of his poems to reveal their own natural laws. The result, in my experience at least, is a poetry from which all shrillness and clutter have been banished. A single red maple leaf in a poem by Trakl is an inexhaustibly rich and wonderful thing, simply because he has had the patience to look at it and the bravery to resist all distraction from it. It is so with all of his small animals, his trees, his human names. Each one contains an interior universe of shapes and sounds that have never been touched or heard before, and before a reader can explore these universes he must do as this courageous and happy poet did: he must learn to open his eyes, to listen, to be silent, and to wait patiently for the inward bodies of things to emerge, for the inward voices to whisper. I cannot imagine any more difficult tasks than these, either for a poet or for a reader of poetry. They are, ultimately, attempts to enter and to recognize one’s very self. To memorize quickly applicable rules is only one more escape into the clutter of the outside world.Trakl is a supreme example of patience and bravery, and the worlds which these virtues enabled him to explore, and whose inhabitants he so faithfully describes, are places of great fullness and depth. His poems are not objects to be used and then cast aside, but entrances into places where deer. silent labors go on.

James Wright

The Twenty Poems

Summer

At evening the complaint of the cuckoo

Grows still in the wood.

The grain bends its head deeper,

The red poppy.

Darkening thunder drives

Over the hill.

The old song of the cricket

Dies in the field.

The leaves of the chestnut tree

Stir no more.

Your clothes rustle

On the winding stair.

The candle gleams silently

In the dark room;

A silver hand

Puts the light out;

Windless, starless night.

Trumpets

Under the trimmed willows, where brown children

are playing

And leaves tumbling, the trumpets blow. A quaking

of cemeteries.

Banners of scarlet rattle through a sadness of maple

trees,

Riders along rye-fields, empty mills.

Or shepherds sing during the night, and stags step

delicately

Into the circle of their fire, the grove’s sorrow

immensely old,

Dancing, they loom up from one black wall;

Banners of scarlet, laughter, insanity, trumpets.

The Sun

Each day the gold sun comes over the hill.

The woods are beautiful, also the dark animals,

Also man; hunter or farmer.

The fish rises with a red body in the green pond.

Under the arch of heaven

The fisherman travels smoothly in his blue skiff.

The grain, the cluster of grapes, ripens slowly.

When the still day comes to an end,

Both evil and good have been prepared.

When the; night has come,

Easily the pilgrim lifts his heavy eyelids;

The sun breaks from gloomy ravines.

Song of The Western Countries

Oh the nighttime beating of the soul’s wings:

Herders of sheep once, we walked along the forests

that were growing dark,

And the red deer, the green flower and the speaking

river followed us

In humility. Oh the old old note of the cricket,

Blood blooming on the altarstone,

And the cry of the lonely bird over the green silence

of the pool.

And you Crusades, and glowing punishment

Of the flesh, purple fruits that fell to earth

In the garden at dusk, where young and holy men

walked,

Enlisted men of war now, waking up out of wounds

and dreams about stars.

Oh the soft cornflowers of the night.

And you long ages of tranquillity and golden

harvests,

When as peaceful monks we pressed out the purple

grapes;

And around us the hill and forest shone strangely.

The hunts for wild beasts, the castles, and at night,

the rest,

When man in his room sat thinking justice,

And in noiseless prayer fought for the living head

of God.

And this bitter hour of defeat,

When we behold a stony face in the black waters.

But radiating light, the lovers lift their silver eyelids:

They are one body. Incense streams from rose-

colored pillows

And the sweet song of those risen from the dead.

My Heart at Evening

Toward evening you hear the cry of the bats.

Two black horses bound in the pasture,

The red maple rustles,

The walker along the road sees ahead the small

tavern.

Nuts and young wine taste delicious,

Delicious: to stagger drunk into the darkening woods.

Village bells, painful to hear, echo through the black

fir branches,

Dew forms on the face.

The Rats

In the farmyard the white moon of autumn shines.

Fantastic shadows fall from the eaves of the roof.

A silence is living in the empty windows;

Now from it the rats emerge softly

And skitter here and there, squeaking,

And a grey malodorous mist from the latrine

Follows behind them, sniffling:

Through the mist the ghostly moonlight quivers.

And the rats squeak eagerly as if insane

And go out to fill houses and barns

Which are filled full of fruit and grain.

Icy winds quarrel in the darkness.

On The Marshy Pastures

A man who walks in the black wind; the dry reeds

rustle quietly

Through the silence of the marshy pastures. In

the grey skies

A migration of wild birds move in ranks

Catty-corner over dark waters.

Insurgence. In the collapsing houses

Decay is fluttering out with black wings;

Crippled-up birches breathe heavily in the wind.

Evening in empty roadhouses. The longing for home

settles about

The delicate despair of the grazing flocks,

Vision of the night: toads plunge from silver waters.

In Hellbrun

Once more following the blue grief of the evening

Down the hill, to the springtime fishpond—

As if the shadows of those dead for a long time were

hovering above,

The shadows of church dignitaries, of noble ladies—

Their flowers bloom so soon, the earnest violets

In the earth at evening, and the clear water washes

From the blue spring. The oaks turn green

In such a ghostly way over the forgotten footsteps

of the dead

The golden clouds over the fishpond.

Birth

These mountains: blackness, silence, and snow.

The red hunter climbs down from the forest;

Oh the mossy gaze of the wild thing.

The peace of the mother: under black firs

The sleeping hands open by themselves

When the cold moon seems ready to fall.

The birth of man. Each night

Blue water washes over the rockbase of the cliff;

The fallen angel stares at his reflection with sighs,

Something pale wakes up in a suffocating room.

The eyes

Of the stony old woman shine, two moons.

The cry of the woman in labor. The night troubles

The boy’s sleep with black wings,

With snow, which falls with ease out of the purple

clouds.

De Profundis

It is a stubble field, where a black rain is falling.

It is a brown tree, that stands alone.

It is a hissing wind, that encircles empty houses.

How melancholy the evening is.

A while later,

The soft orphan garners the sparse ears of corn.

Her eyes graze, round and golden, in the twilight

And her womb awaits the heavenly bridegroom.

On the way home

The shepherd found the sweet body

Decayed in a bush of thorns.

I am a shadow far from darkening villages.

I drank the silence of God

Out of the stream in the trees.

Cold metal walks on my forehead.

Spiders search for my heart.

It is a light that goes out in my mouth.

At night, I found myself on a pasture,

Covered with rubbish and the dust of stars.

In a hazel thicket

Angels of crystal rang out once more.

Descent and Defeat

To Karl Borromaus Heinrich

Over the white fishpond

The wild birds have blown away.

An icy wind drifts from our stars at evening.

Over our graves

The broken forehead of the night is bending.

Under the oaks we veer in a silver skiff.

The white walls of the city are always giving off

sound.

Under arching thorns

O my brother blind minute-hands we are climbing

toward midnight.

The Heart

The wild heart grew white in the forest;

Dark anxiety

Of death, as when the gold

Died in the grey cloud.

An evening in November.

A crowd of needy women stood at the bare gate

Of the slaughterhouse;

Rotten meat and guts fell

Into every basket;

Horrible food.

The blue dove of the evening

Brought no forgiveness.

The dark cry of trumpets

Travelled in the golden branches

Of the soaked elms,

A frayed flag

Smoking with blood,

To which a man listens

In wild despair.

All your days of nobility, buried

In that red evening!

Out of the dark entrance hall

The golden shape

Of the young girl steps

Surrounded by the pale moon,

The prince’s court of autumn,

Black fir trees broken

In the night’s storm,

The steep fortress.

O heart

Glittering above in the snowy cold.

In Venice

Silence in the rented room.

The candlestick flickers with silver light

Before the singing breath

Of the lonely man;

Enchanted rosecloud.

Black swarms of flies

Darken the stony space,

And the head of the man who has no home

Is numb from the agony

Of the golden day.

The motionless sea grows dark.

Star and black voyages

Vanished on the canal.

Child, your sickly smile

Followed me softly in my sleep.

The Mood of Depression

You dark mouth inside me,

You are strong, shape

Composed of autumn cloud,

And golden evening stillness;

In the shadows thrown

By the broken pine trees

A mountain stream turns dark in the green light;

A little town

That piously dies away into brown pictures.

Now the black horses rear

In the foggy pasture.

I think of soldiers!

Down the hill, where the dying sun lumbers,

The laughing blood plunges,

Speechless

Under the oak trees! Oh the hopeless depression

Of an army; a blazing steel helmet

Fell with a clatter from purpled foreheads.

The autumn night comes down so coolly.

With her white habit glittering like the stars

Over the broken human bodies

The convent nurse is silent.

The Evening

With the ghostly shapes of dead heroes

Moon, you fill

The growing silence of the forest,

Sickle-moon—

With the gentle embraces

Of lovers,

And with ghosts of famous ages

All around the crumbling rocks;

The moon shines with such blue light

Upon the city,

Where a decaying generation

Lives, cold and evil—

A dark future prepared

For the pale grandchild.

You shadows swallowed by the moon

Sighing upward in the empty goblet

Of the mountain lake.

TWO PROSE FRAGMENTS

A Winter Night

It has been snowing. Past midnight, drunk on purple wine, you leave the gloomy shelters of men, and the red fire of their fireplaces. Oh the darkness of night.Black frost. The ground is hard, the air has a bitter taste. Your stars make unlucky figures.With a stiff walk, you tramp along the railroad embankment with huge eyes, like a soldier charging a dark machinegun nest. Onward!Bitter snow and moon.A red wolf, that an angel is strangling. Your trouser legs rustle, as you walk, like blue ice,

and a smile full of suffering and pride petrifies your face, and your forehead is white before the ripe desire of the frost; or else it bends down silently over the doze of the night watchman, slumped down in his wooden shack.Frost and smoke. A white shirt of stars burns on your clothed shoulders, and the hawk of God strips flesh out of your hard heart.Oh the stony hill. The cool body, forgotten and silent, is melting away in the silver snow.Sleep is black. For a long time the ear follows the motion of the stars deep down in the ice.When you woke, the churchbells were ringing in the town. Out of the door in the east the rose-colored day walked with silver light.

From Revelation and Defeat

On silver soles I climbed down the thorny stairs, and I walked into the white-washed room. A light burned there silently, and without speaking I wrapped my head in purple linen; and the earth threw out a childlike body, a creature of the moon, that slowly stepped out of the darkness of my shadow, with broken arms, stony waterfalls sank away, fluffy snow.

On The Eastern Front

The ominous anger of masses of men

Is like the wild organ of the winter storm,

The purple surge of battle,

Leafless stars.

With broken eyebrows and silver arms

The night waves to dying soldiers.

In the shade of the ash tree of autumn

The souls of the slain are sighing.

A thorny desert surrounds the city.

The moon chases the shocked women

From the bleeding stairways.

Wild wolves have broken through the door.

Mourning

The dark eagles, sleep and death,

Rustle all night around my head:

The golden statue of man

Is swallowed by the icy comber

Of eternity. On the frightening reef

The purple remains go to pieces,

And the dark voice mourns

Over the sea.

Sister in my wild despair

Look, a precarious skiff is sinking

Under the stars,

The face of night whose voice is fading.

Sleep

Not your dark poisons again,

White sleep!

This fantastically strange garden

Of trees in deepening twilight

Fills up with serpents, nightmoths,

Spiders, bats.

Approaching stranger!

Your abandoned shadow

In the red of evening

Is a dark pirate ship

Of the salty oceans of confusion.

White birds from the outskirts of the night

Flutter out over the shuddering cities

Of steel.

Grodek

At evening the woods of autumn are full of the sound

Of the weapons of death, golden fields

And blue lakes, over which the darkening sun

Rolls down; night gathers in

Dying recruits, the animal cries

Of their burst mouths.

Yet a red cloud, in which a furious god,

The spilled blood itself, has its home, silently

Gathers, a moonlike coolness in the willow bottoms;

All the roads spread out into the black mold.

Under the gold branches of the night and stars

The sister’s shadow falters through the diminishing

grove,

To greet the ghosts of the heroes, bleeding heads;

And from the reeds the sound of the dark flutes of

autumn rises.

O prouder grief! you bronze altars,

The hot flame of the spirit is fed today by a more

monstrous pain,

The unborn grandchildren.