Poetry by H.C. Artmann
translated by Johannes Beilharz
forest ...
I'm the deep dark jug : the leaf is a sunny afternoon of my own dusky soul : unadorned by pearls I too am fragrant full of foreboding my eyes : blossom-rooted in the night moss one light after another : rustling moon silk converges in my smile : the spiders breathe
march 1946
a drawing board of winter ...
a drawing board of winter,
everything pro forma,
the evening's riders above.wish I had a clear eye
and a sense for stars.I am forty years old.
my legs have been sewn into
a single boot.I am a hopper
among runners.1960
the sun is a new house ...
the sun is a new house
you write it
it is tomorrow
we hold our hands through
the open windowsthe cricket sets its clockwork
you write it
it is tomorrow
the day arranges a blue dress
in our gardenoh how cool the rose still is
you write it
it is tomorrow
the butterflies still wrap their wings
in silky paperevery word comes from the rose
you write it
it is tomorrow
how nice the leaves so leafy
to expect leafan apple cut into halves precisely
you write it
it is tomorrow
maybe the lark's
flight will unite it once more
again I walk this way a man the sea ...
again I walk this way a man the sea
the cabins colored red their wood cloud and cloudnothing remains still fern bush and tree
turn in this rustling hoopone should stroll across grass with the wind often
often marvel at the hundred elk drinking from the creekoften should the maple put its hand around one's hips
as if it were some matinal light an awakeningoften one should speak words with tongues of whitethorn
like somebody passionately in love before the unionlike the reflection of a jay high above
who thinks his own shape in twothe clover will not tremble by the sea much longer
it will send its scent out towards the beeswhen you take my hand as I take yours
this treaty will be blessed by day and dream
Copyright © by H.C. Artmann. Translations copyright © by Johannes Beilharz 1979 / 2019.
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