Georg Trakl

Georg Trakl (Salzburg, 3. veljae 1887. Krakov, 3. studenog 1914.), austrijski pjesnik. Osnovne teme njegove lirike (koja se u stanovitom smislu nastavlja na Hderlina) su tamne ivotne moi, besmislena patnja, smrt, morbidna privienja uasa koja se objavljaju u snanim slikama asocijativnih impresija, osloboenih svakog logikog i sintatikog reda. Mrani sanjar, izopaenik, alkoholiar, samotnik iji se ivot odvijao samo nou, mamuran pie svoje pjesme na zguvanim papiriima ili nagnut nad prljave kavanske stolove, i satima vodi nadahnute lirske monologe. I njegova je proza puna osjeaja strave i tjeskobe. Bio je narkoman, a ivot je zavrio samoubojstvom. Neshvaen je i odbaen u vrijeme kada je pisao i djelovao, a za Europu je otkriven tek nakon Drugog svjetskog rata. De profundis Deaku Elisu Elis Grodek Helijan Iz knjige vjenosti Istoni front Jugo Jednom prerano umrlom No Proljee due Psalam Pregrae pod junim vetrom Pesma o Kasparu Hauzeru San i pomraenje Sedmopev smrti Zimsko vee ___________________________________ De profundis I strnite po kojem crna kia lije, I suro stablo to ovdje samotno stoji, I fijuk ledenog vjetra oko koliba pustih Kako je ovo vee alosno. Jo pokraj zaseoka Krotka sirota pabiri po koji rasuti klas.

Zlaane i kolutaste, oi joj sumrajem blude A njeno krilo nebeskog enika eka. Na povratku Naoe pastiri to ljupko tijelo Ve raspadnuto u trnjaku. Mranim selima ja sam daleka sjena. Boju tiinu Kuah na studencu, u lugu. Hladnoa kovine dotie moje elo, Srce mi pauci trae. I svjetlost jedna u mojim ustima zgasne. Na ledini se nekoj nou naoh Okaljan gnusom i zasut prahom zvjezdanim. U grmu ljeskovu Zvonjahu opet kristalni aneli. ___________________________________ Deaku Elisu Elise, kada se kos u crnoj umi glasi, ovo je propast tvoja. Usne ti piju sveinu plavoga vrela u steni. Trpi, kada ti elo tiho krvari prastare legende i gatanje tamno ptiijeg leta. Ti pak ide mekim koracima u no, okienu purpurnim grozdovima, i ruke prua lepe u plavetnilu. Trnovit zvui bun onde gde su ti meseinaste oi. O, Elise, otkada si ve umro. Telo ti je zumbul u koji monah uranja votane prste. Crna peina nae je utanje, iz nje ponekad kroi blagosna zver i polako obara teke kapke. Na slepoonice kaplje ti crna rosa, poslednje zlato stroenih zvezda. ___________________________________ Elis

I Savren je pokoj ovog zlatnog dana. Pod starim hrastovima Pojavljuje se, Elise, u poivanju kolutastih oiju. U njihovoj se plaveti zrcali sanak ljubavnika. Na tvojim ustima Utihnue njihovi rumeni uzdasi. Izvue ribar teke mree, podveer. Dobar pastir Svoje stado vodi rubom ume. O, kako si, Elise, sve svoje dane valjano proveo. TIho pada Niz gole zidove plava spokojnost masline, Zamire mrano pjevanje nekog starca. U zlatnom unu, Elise, Ziba se tvoje srce na pustom nebu. II Njena glazba zvonia bruji u Elisovim grudima Uveer, Dok mu glava u crn jastuk tone. Plava zvijer Tiho krvari u gutari trnjaka. Tu suro stablo u osami ami; Njegovi plodovi plavi ve su pootpadali. Znamenja i zvijezde Polako utonu u veernje vode ribnjaka. Iza brijega ve je stigla zima. Plavi golubovi Piju nou ledeni znoj to oblijeva Elisovo kristalno elo. Sveudilj hulji Samotnik vjetar oko crnih zidina Bojih. ___________________________________ Grodek U predveerje zvee jesenje ume Od ubojitog oruja, zlatne ravnice I jezera plava, a nad njima se sunce Natmureno valja; no prima u svoje tmine Borce na umoru, vapaje divlje Njihovih smrskanih usta. A u dnu panjaka neujno buja Oblaje rujno, tamo je sada jedno gnjevno boanstvo, I krv prolivena, i hlad mjeseasti; Svi putovi vode u crno raspadanje. Pod zlatnim granama noi i zvijezda, Utihnulim lugom tetura sestrina sjena, Ona ide da pozdravi duhove junaka, glave to krvare;

A tamne frule jeseni u trski tiho bruje. O, gorda tugo! Vi mjedeni oltari, Silna bol potie danas taj arki plamen duha, Unuci neroeni. ___________________________________ Helijan U usamljenim asovima duha lepo je koraati pod suncem du utih zidina leta. Koraci tiho zvone u travi; al vazda Panov sin spava u sivom mermeru. Uvee na terasi opismo se od smeeg vina. Rujno se ari breskva u liu; blaga sonata, veseo smeh. Lepa je nona tiina. Na tamnoj ravni susreemo pastire i bele zvezde. Kada se zajeseni, javi se trezvena jasnost u gaju. Skroeni hodamo pored crvenih zidova, okrugle oi prate ptiiji let. Uvee bela voda tone u grobljanske urne. U golom granju svetkuje nebo. U istim rukama seljak nosi hleb i vino i mirno u sunanom ambaru dozrevaju plodovi. O, kako je ozbiljno lice dragih pokojnika. Ali duu veseli pravedno gledanje. Ogromno je utanje opustoene bate kad mladi iskuenik ovenava elo mrkim liem, a duh mu pije ledeno zlato. Ruke dodiruju drevnost plavetnih voda, ili u hladnoj noi bele obraze sestara. Tih i skladan je hod du prijaznih soba, gde je samoa i umor javora, gde moda jo peva drozd. Lep je ovek i velik se javlja u tmini, dok sa uenje pokree ruke i noge, a u purpurnim piljama tiho kolutaju oi.

Pred veernje se stranac gubi u crnom novembarskom razaranju, ispod natrulog granja, du ogubalih zidova, gde je ranije hodao sveti brat, potonuo u nenu svirku svog ludila. O, kako samotno okonava veernji vetar. Glava na umoru tone u tmini masline. Strahovito je propadanje roda. U taj as pune se oi posmatraa zlatom njegovih zvezda. Uvee tonu zvona to vie ne bruje, rue se crni zidovi na trgu, mrtvi vojnik zove na molitvu. Kao bledi aneo stupa sin u prazni dom svojih otaca. Sestre su otile daleko: belim starcima. Nou ih spava nae pod stubovima u tremu, na povratku sa tunih hodoaa. 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 pononim kiama, kad sluge koprivama po blagim tukoe oima, kad se detinjski plodovi zove nadvijaju u udu iznad praznog groba. Tiho se meseci pouteli kotrljaju preko mladievih grozniavih arava pre no to naiu zima i utanje. Uzvien usud snuje niz Kidron, gde se kedar, meko stvorenje, iri pod plavim veama oca, gde pastir nou vodi livadom stado. Ili se uju krici u snu kada tuani aneo sretne oveka u gaju, kad se na aru rastapa sveevo meso. Oko krovinjara vrei se purpurna loza, sumorno snoplje poutela ita, zujanje pela, dralov let. Vaskrsli se uvee sretaju na vrletnim stazama.

U crnim vodama gubavci se ogledaju; ili u plau otvaraju zablaene haljetke pred melemnim vetrom to piri sa ruiastog huma. Vitke devojke kroz none sokake pipaju ne bi li nale pastira ljubavnika. Subotom blaga pesma bruji u kolibama. Dajte da pesma pomene i deaka, njegovo ludilo, bele vee, i kako odlazi, istruleo, plaviasto diui oi. O, tuge u ovom ponosnom vienju. Stepenici ludila u crnim sobama, senke staraca pod otvorenim vratima, dok se Helijanova dua ogleda u ruiastom ogledalu i sneg i guba tonu sa njegova ela. Du zidova su utrnule zvezde i bela oblija svetlosti. Iz ilima niu kosturi grobni, utanje tronih krstaa na uviku, sladunjav tamjan u purpurnom nonom vetru. O, vi skrhane oi u crnim grotlima, dok unuk u blagom pomraenju samotno snuje o tamnijem okonanju, a tihi bog plave kapke nadnosi nad njega. ___________________________________ Iz knjige vjenosti Uvijek se vraa,ti ,melankolijo, O njena hrabrosti usamljene due. I ovaj zlatan dan je pri kraju gubei svoj uareni sjaj. Poraeno se poklanja bolu smrtnik jecajui iz blagosti i iz mekog ludila. Pogledaj! Ve je sumrak. Vraa se no i ali se smrtnik, i jedan drugi pati sa njim. Jezivo ispod jesenskih zvijezda savija se godinje njegova bit sve nie. ___________________________________

Istoni front Kao note za orgulje zimskih oluja, bijes ljudski nadovezuje se u tami, Grimizni val bitke, gola uma zvijezdi. Sprenih obrva, srebrnih ruku, No priziva umirue vojnike. U sjeni jesenskog pepela Uzdiu duhovi onih palih. Trnovita divljina zaokruuje grad. Sa okrvavljenih kunih pragova mjesec progoni prestravljene ene. Divlji vukovi prodiru kroz gradska vrata. ___________________________________ Jugo Mraan lelek u vjetru, zimski mjeseasti dani, Djetinjstvo, tiho zamiru koraci du crne ivice, Duga veernja zvonjava. Neujno ovamo stie i bijela no, Pa u grimizne snove pretvara boli i patnje Kamenog ivota. Da nikad trnova bodlja ne takne tijelo to trune. U snu duboko uzdahne tjeskobna dua, Bolno zajeca vjetar u polomljenim stablima, A posre korotni lik Majke kroz samotnu umu Ove nijeme alosti; noi Pune suza i plamenih anela. Srebrno se o goli zid razbija djetinji kostur. ___________________________________ Jednom prerano umrlom O, crni aneo to tiho ize iz debla dok smo se blago igrali uvee, na rubu plavkastog kladenca. Miran nam korak bee, okrugle oi u smeoj sveini jeseni, o, zvezda purpurna slast. A on je kamenitim stubitem Monakog brega, s plavim osmehom na licu, udno uauren, silazio u svoje tie detinjstvo i umro;

i u bati je ostalo prijateljevo srebrno lice slutei u liu ili u starom kamenju. Dua je pevala smrt, zeleno rastakanje mesa, i ulo se hujanje ume, strana alopojka divljaci. Neprestano su s tornjeva sumranih odjekivala plava zvona veeri. Doje as kad onaj vide senke pod purpurnim suncem, senke trulei u ogolelom granju; vee kad je kraj sutonskog zida pevao kos i duh prerano umrlog tiho se javio u sobi. O, krv to tee iz njegovog grla razbrujalog, plavi cvet; o, suza ognjena otplakana u no. Zlatni oblak i vreme. U samotnom sobiku poee poziva mrtvaca u goste, u prisnom razgovoru hoda pod brestovima niz zelenu reku. ___________________________________ No Tebe opevam, divlja razrovanosti, u nooj buri nagromadana planino; vi sive kule iz kojih kuljaju paklene uvide, ognjeno zverje, hrapava paprat, smre, kristalno cvee. Beskrajna muka to si se domogao Boga, blagi due koji uzdie sred slapa vode, meu uskolebanim borjem. Zlatno plaminjaju uokrug vatre naroda. Niz crnkaste litice stropotava se opijen smru razaren vihor, plavi talas gleera, i silno tutnji zvono u dolini:

ognjevi, kletve i tamne igre sladostraa, juria na nebo okamenjena glava. ___________________________________ Proljee due Krik iza sna; srlja vjetar crnim ulicama, Treperi plavet proljea kroz grane to se kre, Grimizna rosa noi, a zvijezde posvuda gasnu. Sinje svjetluca rijeka, srebrni odsjaj starih drvoreda I tornjeva grada. O, blaga opojnosti U unu to mirno plovi i mrani dozivi kosa U vrtovima djetinjskim. Ve se truse ruiaste latice. Sveano vode ubore. O, vlane sjenke cvjetne livade, Zvijer to kroi; mlado lie, rascvalo granje Dodiruje kristalno elo; blistavi un, zaljuljan. Tiho zvui sunce u ruiastom oblaju, nad brijegom. Velika je tiina jelove ume, teke sjene kraj rijeke. Nevinosti! Nevinosti! Gdje su strahotni putovi smrti, Putovi sive kamene utnje, klisure noi I nespokojne sjene? Blistavi bezdan suneva svjetla. Sestro, kad te naoh na pustoj istini ume, a bjee podne i utnja zvijeri golema, Bijelu pod divljim hrastom, srebrno je trnjak procvjetao. Silovito preminue i raspjevan plamen u srcu. Tamnije okruuju vode lijepe igre riba. Vrijeme alosti, nijema prisutnost sunca; Dua je samo stranac na ovoj zemlji. Sablasno tamni Modrina iznad iskrene ume, a dugo je Odzvanjala mrana zvonjava u selu; spokojni ispraaj. Tiho cvate mirta preko bijelih mrtvakih vjea. Tiho umore vode u kasno poslijepodne, A tamnije prolistava ikara uz obalu, radost na ruiastom vjetru; Njeno pjevanje brata na veernjem breuljku. ___________________________________ Psalam posveeno Karlu Krausu Jedna svjetlost koju je vjetar ugasio. Jedna zabitna krma iz koje popodne pijan ovjek odlazi. Jedan vinograd, ofuren i crn, s rupama punim paukova. Jedna prostorija koju su mlijekom obijelili. Mahnitac je preminuo. Jedan otok u Junom moru

Za doek Boga-Sunca. U bubnjeve udaraju. Mukarci izvode ratnike plesove. ene se njiu u bokovima na kojima su povijue i plameni cvjetovi Kad more pjeva. O, na izgubljeni raju! * Napustile su nimfe zlatne ume. Pokapaju stranca. Uto udari vatreno blistavi pljusak. Pojavljuje se Panov sin u liku radnika s napisa Koji prespava podne na usijanom ploniku. Male djevojice sred nekog dvorita 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 okruena krvavim poastima. * I opet tua sestra dolazi u teke snove neije. Igra se njegovim zvijezdama poivaju pod grmom ljeskovim. Student, dvojnik moda, dugo je promatra s prozora. Njegov pokojni brat stoji mu iza lea, ili silazi starim zavojitim stubama. U zasjenku mrkih kestena lik mladog iskuenika blijedi. Vrt je utonuo u predveerje. Pod svoditem samostana lete netopiri. Djeca pazikue prestaju se igrati i trae zlato neba. Zavrni akordi kvarteta. Slijepo djevoje tri dru kroz drvored, A kasnije ko sjena tapaju odmie kraj hladnih zidina, okruena bajkama i svetim legendama. * Jedna prazna barka koja podvee plovi niz crne vode prokopa. U tmui starog sklonita za onemoale raspadaju se ruevine ljudi. Mrtva siroad lei u vrtu podno zida. Iz sivih soba izlaze aneli a krila su im potrapana gnusom. Crvi kaplju s njihovih poutjelih vjea. Trg pred crkvom mraan je i tih kao u danima djetinjstva. Na srebrnim tabanima klize mimo minuli ivoti, A sjene prokletnika sputaju se do voda koje uzdiu. Bijeli arobnjak u grobu igra se svojim zmijama. * Nad kosturnicom se neujno otvaraju zlatne oi Boga. ___________________________________ Pregrae pod junim vetrom Uvee puste, smee kue lee, u vazduhu svud sivog smrada ima. Grmljava voza s mosta, oblak dima vrapci vrh bunja i plotova bee. Kolibe ue, staze propletene, tima i vreva ispunjava bate, ponekad muklo jaukanje raste, me decom lete haljine arene.

Zaljubljen cilik pacova na smeu. Pronose ene iznutrice smradne u korpama, i povorke im gadne, sve krastave, iz pomrine kreu. I masnu krv najednom kanal bljuje iz klanice u mirnu reku dole. Od juga se arene grane gole i sporo rumen kroz talase ruje. apati to u mutne snove rone. Roj prilika iz jaraka lepra, na bivi ivot moda spomen mrav to s toplim vetrom penje se i tone. Aleje sjaje kroz oblake tmaste, s jahaima, sa lepim koijama. Vidi se i brod to o hridi se slama. pa damije, ponekad, ruiaste. ___________________________________ San i pomraenje Uvee je otac postao starac; u tamnim sobama skamenilo se lice majke, a deaka je titalo prokletstvo izopaenog pokolenja. Ponekad se seao svog detinjstva, prepunog bolesti, uasa i mraka, utljivih igara u zvezdanoj bati, ili kako je hranio pacove u sumranom dvoritu. Iz plavog ogledala izlazila je vitka prilika sestre i on se kao mrtav stropotovao u tminu. Nou su mu se usta rastvarala poput crvenog ploda i zvezde bi zasjale nad njegovom nemom tugom. Snovi su mu ispunjavali stari dom otaca. Uvee je rado iao po zaputenom groblju, ili bi u sumranoj mrtvanici gledao leeve, zelene mrlje truljenja na njihovim lepim rukama. Pred vratnicama manastira molio je za komad hleba; senka jednog vranca iskrsnu iz mraka i uplai ga. Kad bi leao u svojoj hladnoj postelji, spopadale bi ga neizrecive suze. Ali nije bilo nikoga ko bi stavio aku na njegovo elo. Kad bi naila jesen, etao je, vidovnjak, po smeem poreju. O, asovi divljeg ushienja, veeri kraj zelene reke, lov. O, dua koja je tiho pevala pesmu poutele trske; plamena pobonost. Tiho je i dugo ostajao zagledan u zvezdane ablje oi, rukama punim jeze pipao sveinu staroga kamena i tumaio dostojanstveno predanje plavoga kladenca. O, srebrne ribe i plodovi to su padali sa bogaljastog drvea. Akordi njegovih koraka proimali su ga ponosom i preziranjem ljudi. Vraajui se kui naiao je na jedan nenastanjen zamak. Runi bogovi stajali su u bati, tugujui kroz vee. A njemu se inilo: ovde sam iveo zaborav-

ljenih godina. Horal sa orgulja proeo ga je boanskom jezom. Ali u tamnoj peini provodio je svoje dane, lagao i krao i skrivao se, rasplamsali vuk, od beloga majinog lica. O, onaj as kada je okamenjenih usta klonuo u zvezdanoj bati, kad ga je natkrilila senka ubice. Purpurna ela otiao je u movar i Boiji gnev je kanjavao njegova metalna ramena; o, breze u oluji, tamno zverje to se klonilo njegovih pomraenih staza. Mrnja mu je saizala srce, sladostrae, dok je u zelenom letnjem vrtu vrio nasilje nad utljivim detetom i u blistavom licu prepoznavao svoje pomraenje. Avaj, ono vee kraj prozora kad je iz purpurnog cvea iskoraio sivkast kostur, kad se pojavila smrt. O, vi kule i zvona; i none senke padoe, skamenjene, na njega. Niko ga nije voleo. Glavu su mu sagorevali la i razvrat u sumranim sobama. Od plavog utanja neke enske haljine ukoio bi se kao stub, a na vratima bi stajala tamna prilika njegove majke. Vie njegove glave uzdizala se senka zla. O, vi noi i zvezde. Uvee je iao sa bogaljem du brega; na ledenom vrhu poivao je ruiast sjaj veernjeg rumenila i njegovo srce je tiho odzvanjalo kroz suton. Burno su padale teke jele na njih, a crveni lovac izie iz ume. Kad pade no, razbi se njegovo kristalno srce i mrak mu stade udarati u elo. Pod golim hraem ledenim je rukama udavio jednu divlju maku. S desne strane se nariui pojavi bela prilika anela, a kroz pomrinu se razraste bogaljeva senka. On pak podie kamen i baci ga prema bogalju, i ovaj kukajui pobee, a pod senkom drveta sa uzdahom se rasplinu blago anelovo lice. Dugo je leao na kamenitoj njivi i udei se posmatrao zlatni ator zvezda. Gonjen slepim mievima, stutio se u tminu. Bez daha je uao u oronulu kuu. U dvoritu se, kao divlja zver, napio plave vode iz bunara, dok nije poeo da zebe. Grozniav je sedeo na ledenim stepenicama, pomahnitalo okrenut Bogu, ne bi li umro. O, sivo lice uasa, dok je dizao okrugle oi nad raseenim grlom golubice. Neujno promiui tuim stepenitima, sreo je jednu jevrejsku devojku i dohvatio je za crnu kosu i poljubio je u usta. Neprijateljstvo ga je pratilo kroz mrane ulice, a uho mu je razdiralo gvozdeno zveckanje. Du jesenjih zidova je, deak-prislunik, tiho pratio utljivog svetenika; pod sasuenim drveem je pijano udisao skerlet njegove dostojanstvene odede. O, troni sunev kolut. Slatke muke razjedale su njegovu put. U jednom pustom hodniku javila mu se njegova krvava prilika prepuna neisti. Dublje je zavoleo uzviena dela kamena; kulu to sa paklenim prikazama mrano juria put plavog zvezdanog neba; hladni grob u kojem je sauvano ovekovo vatreno srce. Avaj, neizreciva krivica koju ono navetava. Ali dok je uarenih misli iao pod golim drveem niz jesenju reku, pred njim se u kostretnom platu pojavi sestra, rasplamsali demon. Kad se behu probudili, nad glavama im potrnue

zvezde. O, prokleto pokolenje. Kad se u zamrljanim sobama navri svaka sudbina, trulim koracima ulazi smrt u kuu. O, kad bi napolju bilo prolee i kad bi u cvetnom drvetu pevala neka mila ptica. Ali sivkasto se sui oskudno zelenilo na prozorima nonika i raskrvavljena srca jo snuju o zlu. O, sutonske prolene staze zamiljenoga. Opravdanije ga vesele rascvala ivica, seljakovi mladi usevi i raspevana ptica, boije blago stvorenje; veernje zvono i lepa zajednica ljudi. Kad bi mogao da zaboravi svoju sudbinu i alac to ga bode. Slobodno se zeleni potok onde gde mu srebrno hode stope, i reito drvo mu umori nad obnoalom glavom. I on krhkom rukom podie zmiju, i srce mu se stopi u ognjenim suzama. Uzvieno je utanje ume, prozelenela tmina i mahovinasto zverje to uzlepra kada se spusti no. O, kakva jeza obuzima svakoga ko je svestan svoje krivice dok ide trnovitim stazama. I on tako u bunju draa nae belu priliku deteta to krvari za platom svoga enika. A on je nemo i patei stajao pred njom zariven u svoju elinu kosu. O, blistavi aneli koje razveja purpurni noni vetar. Noima je boravio u kristalnoj pilji, a po elu mu je rasla srebrna guba. Kao senka je iao niz planinsku stazu pod jesenjim zvezdama. Pade sneg, i plava tama ispuni kuu. Kao u slepca zvonio je otri oev glas i prizivao grozu. Teko pognutim prilikama ena. Pod ukoenim rukama raspadalo se uasnutom pokolenju voe i orue. Vuk je raskomadao prvoroene i sestre pobegoe u tamne bate koatim starcima. On, pomraeni vidovnjak, pevao je kraj oronulih zidova i boji vetar gutao je njegov glas. O, sladostrae smrti. O, deco, tamnog pokolenja. Srebrnasto se presijava zlo cvee krvi na njegovoj slepoonici, a hladni mesec u njegovim polomljenim oima. O, nonici; o, prokletnici. Dubok je san u tamnim otrovima, prepun zvezda i beloga lica majke, kamenog. Gorka je smrt, hrana onima pod bremenom krivice; u mrkome granju stabla raspadoe se iskeena zemljana lica. Ali on je tiho pevao pod zelenom senkom zove, kad se prenuo iz tekih snova; premili sadrug, priblii mu se ruiasti aneo, te se on, pitomo zvere, prenese snom u no; i vide zvezdano lice istote. Zlatno klonue suncokreti preko batenske ograde, kad naie leto. O, marljivost pela i zeleno lie oraha; oluje to dou i minu. Srebrno je i mak cvetao, nosei u zelenoj auri nae sumrane zvezdane snove. O, kako je tih bio dom kad je otac otiao u tminu. Purpurno je sazrevalo voe na drvetu i batovan je poslovao grubim rukama; o, kostretna znamenja pod blistavim suncem. Ali tiho je uvee stupila senka mrtvaca meu rodbinu to ga je oplakivala, i kristalno mu je zvuao korak preko zelene livade pred umom. A oni su se utke okupili oko stola; samrtnici, lomili su votanim rukama hleb, hleb to je krvario. Jao, okamenjene sestrine

oi, dok je za obedom njeno ludilo prelazilo na sumrano bratovljevo elo, kada se majci pod patnikim rukama hleb pretvarao u kamen. O, istruleli, dok su srebrnim jezicima utali pakao. I tako utrnue svetiljke u hladnoj odaji i kroz purpurne maske su ljudi patnici utke gledali jedni druge. Celu no je umorila kia i osveavala polja. Kroz trnovitu divljinu potamnjeni je iao niz poutele putanje kroz ito, za pesmom eve i blagom tiinom zelenoga granja, ne bi li naao mira. O, vi sela i mahovinasti stepenici, jarki prizor. Ali koato se kolebajui koraci preko usnulih zmija na ivici ume i uho neprestano prati pomahnitalo kliktanje orla leinara. Kamenu pustinju zatekao je uvee, pratnju jednog mrtvaca u tamni oev dom. Purpurni oblak obujmi mu glavu te se utke stuti na sopstvenu krv i sopstveno oblije, meseinasta lica; skamenjen potonu u prazninu, kad se u razbijenom ogledalu, kao mladi na umoru, pojavi sestra; i no proguta prokleto pokolenje. ___________________________________ Pesma o Kasparu Hauzeru On je doista voleo sunce to je purpurno silazilo niz breg, umske putanje, raspevanog kosa i radost to je u zelenilu. Ozbiljan bee mu boravak u senci drveta i isto njegovo lice. Bog blagi plamen ree njegovom srcu: O, ovee! Tiho mu korak uvee nae grad; tamni lelek iz njegovih usta: hou da budem konjanik. A za njim kretahu bun i zver, dom i sutonska bata belih ljudi, i njegov ubica ga je traio. Prolee i leto i lepa jesen pravednikova, njegov korak tih mimo sumranih soba sanjalica. Nou je ostao sa svojom zvezdom sam; video kako na golo granje pada sneg i u sve tamnijem tremu senku ubice. Srebrno klonu glava neroenoga.

___________________________________ Sedmopev smrti Plavkasto sutoni prolee; pod drveem to sokove crpe hodi neto tamno u vee i u propast, oslukujui blago kosovo kukanje. utke se javlja no, raskrvavela zver to se polako oprua na breuljku. U vlanom zraku leluja ocvetalo granje jabuka, srebrni se spletovi odvajaju odumirui iz onoalih oiju; padaju zvezde; blaga pesma detinjstva. Pojavniji sidje spava niz crnu umu, i plavi izvor zaume u jaruzi, te onaj tiho podie blede kapke nad svojim snenim licem; i mesec istera jednu crvenu zver iz njene peine; u uzdasima zamre tamno jaukanje ena. Blistavije die ruke ka svojoj zvezdi beli stranac; utke mrtvac naputa tronu kuu. O, ovekova trula prilika: sklopljena od hladnih metala, noi i uaxa potonulih uma i zverkine divljine to saie; maina due. U crnkastom unu otplovi onaj niz svetlucave bujice, prepun purpurnih zvezda, i s mirom zazelenelo granje klonu na njega, mak iz srebrnog oblaka. ___________________________________ Zimsko vee Dok sneg na prozor pada I veernje zvono dugo bruji, Mnogima je sto zastrven, Dom ih spreman eka. Nekoga dok luta Mrane staze na kapiju vode. Zlatno cveta drvo spasa Crpe iz zemlje hladan sok.

Putnik spokojno unutra kroi; Prag se skamenio od bola. Tu u istom sjaju nasred Stola sijaju hleb i vino.) ___________________________________ Sonja Abend kehrt in alten Garten; Sonjas Leben, blaue Stille. Wilder Vgel Wanderfahrten; Kahler Baum in Herbst und Stille. Sonnenblume, sanftgeneigte ber Sonjas weies Leben. Wunde, rote, niegezeigte Lt in dunklen Zimmern leben Wo die blauen Glocken luten; Sonjas Schritt und sanfte Stille. Sterbend Tier grt im Entgleiten, Kahler Baum in Herbst und Stille. Sonne alter Tage leuchtet ber Sonjas weie Brauen, Schnee, der ihre Wangen feuchtet, Und die Wildnis ihrer Brauen. Sonja, Georg Trakl Na pjesnikovom grobu, Mhlau 2011.

Nad kosturnicom se neujno otvaraju zlatne oi 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 colorsthey 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 doesnt 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 poemsfirst 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 Trakls 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 Trakls 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 Trakls poems very slowly. I believe that patience is the clue to the understanding of Trakls 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 ones 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 roadsthose 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. Trakls 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 ones 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 groves 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 souls 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 rosecolored 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 boys 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 princes court of autumn, Black fir trees broken In the nights 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 sisters 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.