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The site is also available in several languages. Please use the dropdown buttons to set your preferred options, or use the checkbox to accept the defaults. No fewer than twenty-five were composed in the month between 22 February and 23 March, and all fifty-three were completed by 26 November.

Of the whole collection, only one song took more than a day to compose— Auf einer Wanderung , which he began on 11 March and finished on 15 March. These are songs that glow on the page. The first is his ability to inflect the vocal line with an unprecedented freedom, giving great naturalness to the vocal delivery. Implicit in this is the other essential development, which gives the piano part far greater independence, and a crucial responsibility not only for the musical structure, but for much of its melodic content.

Not surprisingly, the pianist in these songs is often required to conjure up a formidable array of orchestral sounds, from the brooding double basses that open the very first song Der Genesene an die Hoffnung to the cataclysmic tutti of Der Feuerreiter. Two other features of this musical language are worth mentioning.

This can be anything from the tiniest of cells to a longer phrase, but the effect is invariably to give unity and coherence to an apparently free-flowing train of thought. Snow-geese had never come so far the local papers claimed. When I leant out the passage window there they were, guzzling behind the shack left empty and sore the year they looped the northbound track around the wayside platform. In vain I hunt for them now among the flocks of big grey birds. Is that all you want to say? How casual too, is your tone. But I am blind to everything else as the down of your letter flutters from my hand.

Mehr hast du mir nicht zu sagen? So unverbindlich auch dein Ton. Anuradha Majumdar Change of Guard: Tracking Vyasa The kingdom falls off the summit of heaven, the flute player warms the wind. Great behemoths shudder teetering off cliffs where the white-sun plays with a summer solstice eve. Another man killed, another pinnacle falls, dust to dust, this, once the first of sovereigns. But the flute player plays a straight melody that every kingdom, born or dying, must recognize.

Even the wide lipped lies, white tipped at the edges, for none can fail the heartbeat of time, its long reciprocal silence. The harlequins play to the gallery again, but the wheel spins to a circle and stops till the eye of empire opens within. Charles Simic. Wiedergabe mit freundlicher Genehmigung des Autors.

I, innocent witness of his misdeeds, when he exchanged eggs for bottled beer at the back entrance of the Edeka store, while grandma fed her sickly hens twice the amount of laying supplement. How he received the last ointment one night and got up the next morning to hang bird houses.

With his tobacco-stained finger tips he would extinguish birthday candles, snuffing out the flames one by one. His workshop where just enough daylight filtered in through a cracked window. Translator's note: All in all, this poem proved to be quite difficult to translate. This was partially due to Walle Sayer's deliberate use of Swabian linguistic elements, which deviate from standard German in some ways.

This is something that cannot possibly be rendered in a translation to another language.

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Translation by Johannes Beilharz by kind permission of Walle Sayer. Oliver, nachtrandspuren , Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt Autumn can last a lifetime. There can never be enough blue and black. Wandering has a passion of its own. A suffering without direction. There is only one month. There is only one large death. The country opens onto its unploughed fields. A short lyric is one who passes.

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Made of earth and coarse poetry. No longer ears and eyes. No longer indignance and inclination. What sort of desire is unreasonable? What sort of living? Landscapes occur as if they were limits. Repentance seeps from the body in breath.


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Winds have speech with shadows. Paths break into the infinity along their sides. Autumn again after the last Autumn. He is always walking away.

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He turns many times to glimpse his executions. The world is empty of him. Only time is filled to the brim with his unending selves. Everywhere they vanish like fallen snow.


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  • From: MTC Cronin, the flower, the thing. Reprint by kind permission of the author.

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    Der Herbst kann ein Leben lang dauern. Blau und schwarz kann es nie genug geben. Das Wandern hat seine eigene Leidenschaft. Ein Leiden ohne Richtung. Nur einen Monat gibt es. Einer der vorbeigeht ist ein kurzes Lied. Aus Erde und grobem Dichtmaterial gemacht. Keine Ohren, keine Augen mehr. Welche Art Leben? Landschaften treten auf wie Grenzen. Winde sprechen mit Schatten. Wieder ein Herbst nach dem letzten Herbst.

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    Die Welt ist leer von ihm. Aus: MTC Cronin, the flower, the thing. Translation by Johannes Beilharz by kind permission of Martin von Arndt. Jessica Grant Bundschuh What is as wrong as the uninstructed heart There was no repair.

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    Jessica Grant Bundschuh Was irrt so sehr wie das ungebildete Herz Sie hatte sich selbst jahrelang auf eine Weise gekannt und mochte sich jetzt nicht neu kennen lernen. Es gab keinen Ausweg. Der Stachel blieb, und der Mann wusste, dass er zwar seine Wut enger umklammern, niemals aber in seinem Herzen einen Makel ewig verbleiben lassen konnte.