A few selections from her book, her 20th century. (Previous post)
Guillaume Apollinaire, from Shadow:
As a hundred furs make only one coat
As those thousands of wounds make only one newspaper article…
Siegfried Sassoon, from Repression of War Experience:
You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You’d never know there was a bloody war on!…
Osip Mandelstam, from The Stalin Epigram:
He rolls the executions on his tongue like berries.
He wishes he could hug them like big friends from home.
George Oppen, from Route, Part 5:
There was an escape from that dilemma, as, in a way, there always is. Pierre told me of a man who, receiving the notification that he was to report to the German army, called a celebration and farewell at this home. Nothing was said at that party that was not jovial. They drank and sang. At the proper time, the host got his bicycle and waved good-bye. The house stood at the top of a hill and, still waving and calling farewells, he rode with great energy and as fast as he could down the hill, and, at the bottom, drove into a tree.
Bertolt Brecht, Motto
This, then, is all. It’s not enough, I know
At least I’m still alive, as you may see.
I’m like the man who took a brick to show
How beautiful his house used to be.
Joseph Brodsky, from Elegy:
A ruin’s a rather stubborn
architectural style…At sunrise, when nobody stares at one’s face, I often
set out on foot to a monument cast in molten
lengthy bad dreams. And it says on the plinth “Commander
in chief.” But it reads “in grief,” or “in brief,” or “in going under.”
Irina Ratushinskaya, from Try to cover your shivering shoulders
‘You must die’ – but is that so distressing?
You just feel slightly sick,
As you enter the stain on the wall.
W. H. Auden, from September 1, 1939
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return…Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.
Benjamin Peret, from Hymn of the Patriotic War Veterans
Even though I threw down my rifle butt
The Tauben still spit in my eye
that’s how I got decorated
Long live the republicI got rabbit punches in the ass
I was blinded by goat turds
asphyxiated by my horse’s dung
then they gave me the Cross of Honor
Paul Celan, from Black Fugue
we shovel a grave in the air there you won’t lie too cramped
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland you golden hair
Marguerite…he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
He whistles his hounds to come close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he orders us to strike up and play for the dance…A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland you golden hair
Marguerite
you ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air….
Celan’s poetry anchors the work of Anselm Kiefer, especially Black Fugue, with its reoccurring images of the blond German (your golden hair Marguerite) and the Jewish dead (your ashen hair Shulamith)…(Images via)
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