One of my favourite poets of all time is Erich Fried, an Austrian who emigrated to England because of the Nazis, and has written the most tender love poems and some of the most aggressive political poems I know. He also translated all of Shakespeare into German (not the only one who did that, but the only one imo who really managed to capture Shakespeare’s tone).
One of his poems about love is this (original title: “Fragen und Antworten”):
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
Where she lives?
Next door to desperation
To whom she is related?
To death and fear
Where she’ll go when she leaves?
Nobody knows this
From where she has come from?
From quite near or quite far
How long she will stay?
If you are lucky, as long as you live
What does she require of you?
Nothing, or everything
What does that mean?
That it is one and the same
What does she give you
- or me, as well – for it?
Exactly as much as she takes.
She holds nothing back
Does she hold you
- or me – captive
or does she free us?
It can happen to us
that she gives us freedom
To be free from her
is it good or bad?
It is the worst
that can happen to us
What is she in fact
and how can you define her?
It is said that God has said
he was her.
By another German poet/singer/songwriter I very much adore, Konstantin Wecker. Original title “Über die Zärtlichkeit”. Translated by me.
Something tender I would so much love to
write.
Barely palpable
something
that can only just be perceived.
Like the look of a loved one you
feel on the skin.
Thankfullness
even when it is only thought
even when it is briefly only,
and in passing, thought.
Plainness
(plain people enlarge a room
when stepping through the door).
Children you feel
even the quiet children
with whom you always have the feeling
you have to shut up
because they already know everything.
Warmness
above all, warmness
(I know people
who with a matter of course
take you into their hearts
that you become dizzy).
About all that I would so much love to
write.
Another poem by the cynical Heinz Rudolf Kunze, from the same book as From That Day. I am a Roman Catholic, but I like how he respectfully makes fun of the idea of an Old Man in Paradise. Heinz Rudolf Kunze, “Alltag im Paradies”. Translation by me. Enjoy.
The dear God makes notes to himself on red, heart-shaped slips of paper.
On the attempt to build up his music stand
the dear God asks himself every time
how he could be creating such a shit mud.
The dear God wears long underpants till May
and learns Portuguese at community college.
The dear God still gets a lot of fan post,
mostly from quite young girls.
They want to know which music he prefers to hear
and when he will come to Germany once again.
The dear God seriously tries
to answer every letter, but repeatedly there is
so much to do and some he has already
displaced, like the one recently from Vatican
with the invitation for dinner.
The dear God thinks every night before falling asleep
concentrated about why he has not yet been
divorced. Then he finds out regularly
that he still likes coming home even if it also
draws him out noticeably more often to where ladies wait for him,
give books of poetry to him and dolls and request
Him to stay. His woman is
an atheist, which is good, because this makes sure
that he never gets off too loudly.
The dear God makes notes to himself on red,
heart-shaped slips of paper and calls off for the duration
of the football world championship
all appointments.
