The OFF Poetry Corner

[Olham 164]

Lou, I do not understand at all, why I seem to have overlooked this last answer and offer of yours

last August, to my translation of Bäumer's poem. I guess I had probably travelled to my hometown.

 

After seeing Widowmaker's post about the entry of America into WW1, I searched and found this

all again. And of course, you are more than welcome to help with this. To give you the German text,

I will place a Jpeg of it here. It is written in a somehow old fashioned, and also rather lyric, dark and

uncommon style, which you may or may not sense from it.

So, I also add my translation again, with some added information about the meanings of the German

words. You are invited to put it in a better English way - perhaps you even still manage to keep the

strangely dark way he put it?

 

 

 

Midnight

 

We are long disowned more than three times. ( we are since a long time denied more than 3 times)

In our gestures all our aspirations fell together,

all those that were in our fathers and mothers...

(all our desires/aspirations/yearnings, which were already in our fathers and mothers also,

came/fell together in our gestures)

We stand by our biers

absorbing deaths, so we will come to end.

(we stand at our biers and catch up deaths, so that we may finish our development/growing)

 

Cause this is our reason:

We are children of a breed without reluctance,

of children against their breed. Spiritless.

We have the eyes, that grub in our own brains,

sucking pain.

We are long disowned more than three times

and have to benumb more than one god. (...and must make more than one god numb;

also given in the dictionary: to bemuse, to anesthetise, to daze, to deafen,

to stun, to drug, to stupefy)

 

For us, no return is blessed, and for our crying

no Amen from endearing mouths, (which were) once bursting

from sweetness...

 

Our mothers failed,

who mourned about us.

We wonder about those, who came the way

of mothers.

 

And this won‘t ever leave us. - Perhaps,

when we once (will) know that we are children

of error, and therefor Unmercifuls of time;

maybe then... What?... Insubstantial (or: strengthless; powerless)...

 

A land blanching far, and many fell (or: have fallen), and we

are longing for it‘s pillows.

 

Ludwig Baeumer

Edited April 6, 2011 by Olham

[RAF_Louvert 101]

.

 

Olham, this may be a bit closer to what the author actually intended:

 

Midnight

 

We are forever disowned, and three times more,

For all our actions, all our gathered hopes and dreams,

And for those that were our fathers' and mothers'.

We stand by our beers,

And drink in death, to better understand our own dying.

 

For this is our purpose.

We are children of a race that does not hesitate;

Of children who are against their own race. Souless.

Our eyes turn inward, searching our own minds, taking in the pain there.

We are forever disowned, and three times more.

And denouce the very Gods themselves.

For us there is no blessed return, and for our crying

no “Amen” from loving lips, once so full of sweetness.

 

Our mothers failed us,

who mourned about us.

We doubt those, those who claim to be

our mothers.

 

And this will never leave us. Perhaps,

when we finally know that we are the Children

of Error, and therefore lost to time;

Maybe then…perhaps…we will surrender.

 

To a land of white and far away, where many have gone, and we too

are longing for it’s comfort.

 

 

(Ludwig Baeumer)

 

.

[RAF_Louvert 101]

.

 

I might add Olham, it is a very, very sad poem Sir.

 

.

[Olham 164]

Lou, you rather seemed to have transposed it into a better modern understanding,

but then, a lot of the original words - as strange as their use may sound today - get lost.

 

They did definitely not stand by their "beers", Sir - I wrote "biers", which is another word for "stretchers";

the things you carry the wounded or dead soldiers on.

For this is our purpose: We are children of a race that does not hesitate;

Here it should not be "to hesitate", which expresses "to be uncertain" -

the word he uses must be one of these: to be reluctant, to resist, to writhe

 

...and denouce the very Gods themselves.

This is rather explaining the meaning, I think. In his dark prosa, he really said:

"...and must benumb more than one god." (must make them numb, must etherise them)

And this will never leave us. Perhaps,

when we finally know that we are the Children

of Error, and therefore lost to time;

Maybe then…perhaps…we will surrender.

This should be kept, although it is surely very unusual to be expressed this way:

...and therefor Unmercifuls of Time;

maybe then... What?... strengthless... (or: forceless - without any inner strength)

To a land of white and far away, where many have gone, and we too

are longing for it’s comfort.

Here, I find this picture more poetic really - "and we are longing for it's pillow."

or: "...wishing for it's pillow."

 

And yes - a very dark poem.

But after reading the part about Julius Buckler's youth, and the poverty they suffered

("Malaula! The Battle Cry of Jasta 17"), this poem is like an expressionistic painting

of many a German soul, as it may have been for (poor) people back then.

Edited April 6, 2011 by Olham

[Dej 17]

That's very good Lou. Made much more sense. I'll take closer look myself tonight. One thing I did wonder was whether the first line with 'we are more than thrice denied' is meant to echo Peter's denial of Christ? Would that make sense Olham? I don't know how that part of the New Testament looks in German

[Olham 164]

One thing I did wonder was whether the first line with 'we are more than thrice denied' is meant to echo Peter's denial of Christ?

Would that make sense Olham?

Yes, Dej, I am almost certain that he drew a parallel to the denial of Christ, who was also denied by his closest friends.

The whole poem is very much about the very hard and distant relationship of the sons (him) and their mothers,

who treated them hard, as to make them hard, and who let them go into a war without warm hands trying to

hold them back - as real warm and loving mothers would.

 

And maybe Lou's words make more sense today - but I think I was pretty close to his

dark poetry. It sounds even very uncommon and - yes, strange - to a modern German.

Edited April 6, 2011 by Olham

[RAF_Louvert 101]

.

 

Yes indeed Gents, I too was quite sure the first line was a reference to the denial of Christ by Peter. Also, interesting that the German word for 'beer' can also mean 'stretcher'. A bit of unintended double entendre there eh, especially when the next line is about 'absorbing' death.

 

.

[Olham 164]

Lou, you got it all totally mixed up and confused now, old boy.

The German word for the drink "beer" is indeed "Bier".

The English word "bier" is said to mean "stretcher", according to LEO Dictionary.

 

See the German original text - there is no mention of "Bier", but there you read:

 

"Wir stehen vor unseren Bahren" - "We are standing at (or: in front of) our stretchers".

[RAF_Louvert 101]

.

 

Aaaah, you see Olham, I thought you had inserted the word 'bier' as the German form, not the English. I had looked at the original and then your translation and assumed you had picked a more current form of the word that we non-German-speaking folks would understand. I see now that you instead used an archaic English word meaning 'stretcher'. Can't recall the last time I saw that word used in that way.

 

.

[Olham 164]

That's what I guessed, when I saw the confusion, Lou - no problem.

Difficult for a German to realise it, cause LEO Dict Org just listed it together with "stretcher" -

but not with the addition: very old word; not in use anymore.

 

But that is the problem even in the German version.

I read it to a friend via telephone, and he, who could not see the text, didn't understand it.

I had to read it three times to make him get the pictures, the prosaic expressions.

It is indeed written in a dull, strange prose - you need your phantasie to make it visible.

[Shiloh 12]

Here's my go at it:

 

Don't you know?

 

Shiloh roams the midnight sky,

with a sorry glint in his eye

Knowing he must kill

Until the darkened skies are still.

 

His wingmen by his side

He leaves at home a solemn bride

Hand upon his guns of death

Work in tandem with his breath.

 

His enemy appears above

Like a giant white dove

He brings not love

But grits his teeth and descends

With no time to defend.

 

I dive and shift from left to right

Desperate toward the moonlight

I feel his rage, like an animal in a cage

I am not new to this stage.

 

And with two short bursts

He unloads a world of hurt

Ripping canvas into shreds

I do not know how I'm not dead.

 

As I approach the grove of trees

He pursues as if to tease

I will not give in not yet

I have a trick or two I bet.

 

I draw him further down

His smile widens like a twisted clown

He moves in for the kill

But I must wait until -

 

I pull the stick with all my might

Altering the path of flight

He does the same but cannot match

My skill he's too late to catch.

 

I clip the trees with the slightest

He drives his plane with the mightiest

BOOM!

Into the ground

Earth enveloped into a mound.

 

I climb to match another foe

As he goes from life to woe

I am sorry it must be so

But this is war don't you know?

Edited April 6, 2011 by Shiloh

[RAF_Louvert 101]

.

 

Well done Sir. A drink! A drink I say, for our latest bard.

 

.

[Olham 164]

A much brighter and lighter mood here certainly, Shiloh - I'll drink to that! Prost!

[Dej 17]

Sorry to darken the tone once more but to return to the original question - and I should love to find a fitting translation for this poem because it is so powerful - are there any idiomatic uses of any of those phrases that strike a chord with modern Germans, Olham? That might help we native English speakers find an equivalent, or at least, an acceptable approximation?

[Shiloh 12]

.

 

Well done Sir. A drink! A drink I say, for our latest bard.

 

.

 

 

A much brighter and lighter mood here certainly, Shiloh - I'll drink to that! Prost!

 

Thank you gents - let's hope I fight was well as I write.

[Olham 164]

No, Dej - it is very, very original and the writer's special and slightly strange, but powerful language.

Nothing of this - not even one line - sounds like anything you would have heard like this or only

similarly before.

The three times denial is the only passage, that is definitely meant to remind one of the last days

of Jesus - when in the end he felt even left by god, his own father.

The rest is dark, original, very personal expressionist "word drawing". Sorry.

You can only try to do the same in English, I think - keep the original strong strangeness.

It is definitely meant to be irritating in every line.

Edited April 6, 2011 by Olham

[Dej 17]

Hmmm... think I'll go read 'The Waste Land' again... oho, back to school... Sorry, Mr. Pascoe, my dog ate it.

 

I have a, perhaps misplaced, feeling that it might put one 'in the groove' as it were. It's the immediate English poetic work that springs to my mind with very 'uncomfortable' language.

[Olham 164]

Is that a poem, Dej?

[Lewie 7]

I've got a snippet of the beginning my handwritten WWI pilot's fiction piece that's set in Bloody April. I've been working on this for about two years. It's about a special-ops RFC squad that flies leftover Sop Tripes and Pups from the RNAS. I have one of A.V. Roe's old early planes resurrected as an unusual special night ops kite that's part of the story. It's not poetry but it's a bit prose-ish.

 

 

___________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

"You don't dream much when in a war zone, especially if you're one of the participants. The stress of keeping your sanity and cheer can sap the most manic of chaps. When you do dream, it's not always generous with sunshine and a blue skies filled with puffy white clouds.

 

But this dream was sunny and warm, the clouds filling it's sky were well fluffed. It was a memory of my first long distance overland flight, Brooklands to Dover.

 

It's 1913, in early June, nearly high summer despite the recent cold and sodden months preceding it. I'm in the co-pilot's seat of one of Brookland's AVRO trainers, the eventual model 504. I'm at about 5400' in a level cruise, letting it have it's own rein, watching the ground below crawl past at a glacial rate. The Gnome rotary in it's nose is pushing a wall of white noise and hurricane force buffeting around the little rectangle of perspex I'm peering through, I occasionally look over the side through the tranluscent atmosphere, the details of the surrounding country softened, given lambency from the mid morning sunlight.

 

My instructor is in the cockpit behind me, pretending to be asleep, his control inputs either matching mine or he's really asleep. Serge was subtle in that way. He's the primary trainer CO of Brooklands, when he's not doing checkout flights. Rumor has it he used to fly with Cody and helped with the Cathedral, the first aircraft to fly in in Great Britain. One of the first to train new pilots when Bristol "acquired the rights" to build the Farman IV, and has had more firsts than most kite jockeys in the British Isles.

 

The constant chortling rasp of Gnome misses a couple of beats, then steadies, bringing me slightly out of my reverie. I tap the rev counter, which was holding steady at 1195 revs per minute, check the compass and change my attention back over the side, trying to get a fix on the level crossing and bridge at Ashford.

 

The engine suddenly silences, catches for a few revs and then silenced completely as the prop disc slows from translucency to indistinct blurs scything past the upper edge of the cowling. My mind was unprepared, I fumble around the cockpit, flipping the mag switches, I give the fuel tank hand pump a frantic twenty strokes. Turning around I look at Serge who is enjoying the view, a slight wistful smile on his face. He turns from his own contemplation and settles a bit in the wicker seat. He jiggles the joystick in my hand roughly and bellows "REG, NOSE DOWN!"

 

I snap out of my befuddlement to the shock of the softening of the wind in the rigging and the growing rumble of turbulence on the linen and framework. We are approaching a stall, the stick is already tremoring with the buffeting of the upper planes. My first instinctual response while mentally flailing about was to let the joystick drift rearwards.

 

I push the stick away from me almost too fast, as the seat is sucked out from beneath me. If it hadn't been for the harness I would have been left half out of the cockpit with my arm pulled down suddenly between my legs. The airspeed indicator rises as we gain airspeed and I level the stricken AVRO at about 58 mph.

 

I was glad that you could maintain a fair glide angle with this aeroplane, but it doesn't save your ass if you make bad decisions after the fact. A long uneventful glide from 5600' can still end up spitted on a church spire or get you not quite within 300 feet of the only level ground in a rough, rural landscape.

 

Minds in dreams also have a certain fascination with replaying past horrors..

 

I watch the altimeter drop past 4500', we're circling the South edge of Ashford, looking for a particular field below one of the downs edging the rail line from Dover, it's hilly with narrow swales engorged with swift freshets lined with trees, criss crossing the area we sail above. It's lovely and dangerous.

 

Memory replays the Bristol Boxkite wreck at Filton in April 1912. Will Severn, all of 22 years of age, ends his life struggling to right the boxkite from a catastrophic canard failure at 800' up. His finance watches mutely as his aircraft steadily angles steeper and steeper. The noise of the engine as it overspeeds will remain with me forever.

 

Serge and I have turned to the west, I've pinpointed a possible field that I marked months ago on my kneeboard's route map. Just a large "X" in pencil, no notes, typical.. we're at 3800'.

 

Mental horror show, same year, July, at the King's Air Trials. A Royal Air Factory Farman Experimental and a Bristol Monoplane two place collide in front of 12,000 gathered in perfect weather to watch. The juxtaposition of a group of young children playing behind the row of vehicles and temporary seating, oblivious to the crowd's sudden silence, outcry of alarm, and muted impact.

 

I think I see the field I've marked, from this distance it does appear to have a surrounding low stone fence interspersed with some smaller Elms and Populars, the approach will have to be made carefully. Below there's a knot of folks gathered in a yard near a house. Two children are pointing and trying to get their parents attention as we whisper overhead. Serge looks amused and gives the kids a big wave. Someone isn't too worried about having me at the controls. "

[Dej 17]

Here’s my take on it. Again, it’s an indirect translation, based on my comprehension and interpretation of the poem, but I’ve attempted to keep the English ‘attuned’ to the German.

 

Dear God, the man was utterly embittered... and not without some reason

 

Midnight

 

For a long time we have been more than thrice denied.

In our efforts came together all our dreams, our fathers’, our mothers’,

And fell.

Now we stand before our graves, sucking up Death, to bring our End.

 

Our reason is thus:

We are children of a race without resistance to its own breeding. Soulless.

With eyes that probe mind-inward, extracting pain.

Long time more than thrice denied... and more than one God must we sate.

 

For us there is no blessed return, no ‘Amen’ for our lamentation

In mouths that once were ripe with sweetness...

Our mothers failed us, that bewailed us,

Thus we mistrust their ‘motherhood’.

 

And that shall never leave us.

Maybe if we just acknowledge we are the children of a mistake

And therefore unforgivable by these days,

 Maybe then... WHAT? ... Soulless ...

 

A country fades away,

And many fell, and we long for their pillow.

 

Reasoning:

 

Line 1: In English, a ‘gesture’ can mean an ‘effort’ as in ‘a futile gesture’;

Line 4: I think ‘graves’ is appropriate for ‘Bahren’. The poet is waiting for Death, believing it preferable, emphasised in the last line;

Line 6: I think the poet is implying some kind of racial imperative or drive, which should have been resisted – but was not. Line 7 builds on this – alluding to a critical ‘macho’ self-image that lead to the wrong actions and was exacerbated by the attitude of the women (see Line 11);

Line 8: Gods demand sacrifices. German sacrificed her young men on the altars of War, Ambition and Expansionism. If this was written post-War then her land and her economy too, were sacrificed on the altar of Reparation. All of these seemed insatiable;

Line 9: I feel the ‘Amen’ warrants ‘lamentation’ for ‘Weinen’;

Lines 10 thru 12: The betrayal of womenfolk, those that raise men to feel they are weak if they do not fight and send them off to War with smiles and kisses... only to offer cold comfort when their exhausted men return.

Lines 11 thru 16: I think the poet is asking what it would be like if Germany just ‘took her lumps’; accepted she was to blame for the War and got on with life... and he concludes there is nothing to live for, hence the last line.

 

 

[Olham 164]

Better already - still some things were understood wrong/different to what he said.

In our efforts came together all our dreams, our fathers’, our mothers’,

And fell.

The efforts did NOT fall here. The efforts fell together (assembled; came together, into place).

 

Now we stand before our graves, sucking up Death, to bring our End.

They are sucking up deaths (plural) - the deaths of many - to become completed, to become the way they were meant to be

 

Our reason is thus:

We are children of a race without resistance to its own breeding. Soulless.

(missing:) Of children against their (own) breed.

With eyes that probe mind-inward, extracting pain.

with eyes that dig into the own brains; ...that rummage around in their own brains

Long time more than thrice denied... and more than one God must we sate.

"to sate" means to satisfy rather, to make content

What he wrote is, that they must make the gods numb, must sedate the gods,

so the gods won't see or feel the pain and terror of their deeds.

 

For us there is no blessed return, no ‘Amen’ for our lamentation

from fond / endearing / tender mouths that once were ripe with sweetness...

Our mothers failed us, that bewailed us,

Thus we mistrust their ‘motherhood’.

this line says in original, that they are really wondering or even worrying about

the ways of mothers - sounds open and uncommon, but that's what he wrote.

But yours contains the right meaning.

 

And that shall never leave us.

Maybe if we just acknowledge we are the children of a mistake

not of "a" mistake, but rather just "of Error", as if Error was a god, or person

And therefore unforgivable by these days,

can one say here: And therefor the Unforgivables by these days?

Cause he uses the word like a title, or the name of an alien race, or a tribe

Maybe then... WHAT? ... Soulless ...

 

A country fades away,

A country getting pale all over; paleness spreading over a country

And many fell, and we long for their pillow.

They were not longing for the pillows of the fallen, but for the pale country's big white pillow

 

 

It's getting close, and I hope you make "another run", Dej.

 

 

 

Edited April 7, 2011 by Olham

[Dej 17]

I shall, but first a question: 'die, die den Weg der Mutter kamen' would they be 'Mummy's Boys' in today's parlance, i.e. Overly attached to their mothers?

[Olham 164]

No, he does not mean the men or boys at all. He means the mothers themselves.

The mothers were coming or walking the ways of mothers, they were kind of pretending

or really believing they were mothers - but they were not, in his opinion.

He does not understand, why they had become mothers, when they had so little of

any motherlike nature.

[Lewie 7]

Has anyone here read "A Private Treason: A German Memoir" by Ingrid Greenburger? She has a keen view of the post WWI German psyche.

[Olham 164]

No, I haven't read this. I haven't even seen the film "The White Ribbon" yet,

which seems to be about the German family psyche short before WW1.