Here's a very good on, by one Gottfried Benn. A colleague, I am proud to say, starting out as a frustrated pathologist in the twenties and later running a busy dermatology and venereal disease surgery in West Berlin. My father liked this, and of course, he recited it by heart. I used it at my Godfathers funeral. I'd like to ask you: Does the sound carry, does the subtle peripety from loony humour to deathly melancholy become apparent? AFAIK, only Richard (who was there at his Uncle's funeral) and maybe Mactep can judge the translation - is the deviation from the German grammatical structure in the Hölderlin line allowed? Is there a better solution to the hard-to-translate title? But of course, the English-only speakers can say if soil can be "easy on" a spade instead of "light to" it. If the slightly askew grammar in the "invited" stanza can pass. I the adverbial phrases grate. If the thing just sounds contrived, where in German, it easily covers almost Pythonesque humour, dark melancholy and a lot in between. So here goes a very non-English poem that e´ven starts with not speaking English. First, the original:
Gottfried Benn wrote:Was schlimm ist
Wenn man kein Englisch kann,
von einem guten englischen Kriminalroman zu hören,
der nicht ins Deutsche übersetzt ist.
Bei Hitze ein Bier sehn,
das man nicht bezahlen kann.
Einen neuen Gedanken haben,
den man nicht in einen Hölderlinvers einwickeln kann,
wie es die Professoren tun.
Nachts auf Reisen Wellen schlagen hören
und sich sagen, daß sie das immer tun.
Sehr schlimm: eingeladen sein,
wenn zu Hause die Räume stiller,
der Café besser
und keine Unterhaltung nötig ist.
Am schlimmsten:
nicht im Sommer sterben,
wenn alles hell ist
und die Erde für Spaten leicht.
Here is the translation:
Bad
If you can’t speak English,
To hear of a good English crime novel
That hasn’t been translated into German.
In the heat, to see a beer
That you cannot afford.
To have a new thought
But no Hölderlin verse to wrap it into
As the Professors do
In the night on a journey, to hear the waves rippling,
And to say to yourself, they’re always doing that.
Very bad: To be invited
When at home, the rooms are quieter,
The coffee better,
And no conversation required.
The worst:
Not to die in Summer,
When everything is bright
And the soil easy on the spade.
(P.S. Benn died 7 July, 1956; my father, 20 August, 2019. So there.)