#georg trakl poetry

[lforlimbo]

“So quiet are the green woods Of our homeland, The crystalline wave Dying away by the ruined wall, And we wept in sleep; Wandering with timid steps Down past the thorny thicket, Singers in summer's eve, In the sacred peace Of the far resplendent vineyard; Shadows now in the cool womb Of night, grief-stricken eagles. As gently does a moonlit beam close The scarlet scars of melancholy.”

[derangedrhythms]

Peace of the soul. Lonely winter evening,

Georg Trakl, Surrender to Night: Collected Poems of Georg Trakl: Sebastian in Dream; from 'Sebastian in Dream', tr. Will Stone

[mournfulroses]

Georg Trakl, from Gods & Mortals: Modern Poems on Classics; "Passion,"

[beguilingcorpse]

Psalm I.1.2 (after Sean Bonney in the voice of Anita Berger after George Trakl), 2022

[exhaled-spirals]

« Wayfarer in black wind; softly whispers the withered reed In the stillness of the moor. Against grey skies A flight of wild fowl passes; Cross-wise over dark waters.

Turmoil. In a decayed hut The spirit of putrescence flutters with black wings. Crippled birches sigh in the wind.

Evening in the deserted inn. The gentle melancholy Of grazing herds enshrouds the way home, Apparition of night: toads dive from silvery waters. »

— Georg Trakl, Surrender to Night: Collected poems

[con-alas-de-angeles]

…her shadow feels its way along cold walls, surrounded by fairytales and holy legends.

Georg Trakl, Poems and Prose; Psalm I

[sictransitgloriamvndi]

Desolation

There is nothing left to disturb the silence of desolation. The clouds sail above the dark masses of ancient trees and are reflected in the greenish-blue waters of the tarn which seems to be bottomless. And the surface rests, day in, day out, sunken in a mournful submissiveness. In the middle of the silent tarn stands the castle, rearing its pointed, crumbling roofs and towers towards the clouds. Rank weeds grope across the blackened, shattered walls, and the sunlight breaks on the round, dull windows. Doves fly around the dark, gloomy courtyards, seeking a hiding place in the cracked masonry. They seem to fear something for they constantly fly, startled and agitated, past the windows. The fountain splashes in the courtyard below, gently, delicately. And the thirsty doves intermittently drink from the bronze basin. Now and then a breath of febrile decay wafts throught the dusty corridors of the castle; the bats fly up terrified. Nothing else disturbs the deep silence. The rooms are black with dust. They are high, and bare, and cold, full of dead things. Occasionally a tiny beam of light enters the clouded windows, but the darkness swallows it up again. The past has died here. It froze here one day, petrified into a single twisted rose. Now time, impervious, passes over its insubstantiality. And the silence of desolation suffuses all. - Georg Trakl

[the-witch-of-cedar-and-bone]

All Saints' Day

Georg Trakl (1887-1914)

The little men, little women, sad creatures,

today they strew flowers blue and red

on their graves, barely lit.

They act like poor dolls in the face of Death.

O! How they seem fearful and humble here

like shadows that lurk behind the black bushes.

In the autumn wind wails the cry of the unborn,

And one sees lights bobbing wildly.

The sighing of lovers dies off into the breeze

and there rots the mother with her child.

The living dance looks unreal

and strangely scattered to the evening wind

Their life is so confused, full of dim troubles.

God take pity on the ladies Hell and Torment

and on this hopeless wailing for the dead.

Lonely wandering silent in the starry hall.

Die Männlein, Weiblein, traurige Gesellen,

Sie streuen heute Blumen blau und rot

Auf ihre Grüfte, die sich zag erhellen.

Sie tun wie arme Puppen vor dem Tod.

O! wie sie hier voll Angst und Demut scheinen,

Wie Schatten hinter schwarzen Büschen stehn.

Im Herbstwind klagt der Ungebornen Weinen,

Auch sieht man Lichter in die Irre gehn.

Das Seufzen Liebender haucht in Gezweigen

Und dort verwest die Mutter mit dem Kind.

Unwirklich scheinet der Lebendigen Reigen

Und wunderlich zerstreut im Abendwind.

Ihr Leben ist so wirr, voll trüber Plagen.

Erbarm' dich Gott der Frauen Höll' und Qual,

Und dieser hoffnungslosen Todesklagen.

Einsame wandeln still im Sternensaal.

[putah-creek]

ALWAYS DARKER

The wind, which moves purple treetops, Is God's breath that comes and goes. The black village rises before the forest; Three shadows are laid over the field. Meagerly the valley dusks Below and silent for the humble. A seriousness greets in garden and hall, That wants to finish the day, Piously and darkly an organ-sound. Marie is enthroned there in blue vestment And cradles her babe in hand. The night is starlit and long.

GEORG TRAKL, 1887-1914

[kitchen-light]

Georg Trakl "Summer", translated by Keith Waldrop

[vasfasan]

"In the East"

Like the wild organ-grinding of the winter storm, Is the people's dark anger, The purple wave of the battle, Leafless stars. With shattered brows, silver arms The night waves to dying soldiers.

In the shade of the autumn ash Sigh the spirits of the slain.

Thorny wilderness girds round the city. From bleeding steps the moon chases The frightened women. Wild wolves broke through the door.

"Im Osten" Georg Trakl, 1940

[lforlimbo]

“Your body is a hyacinth, Into which a monk dips his waxy fingers. Our silence is a black cavern, From which a soft animal steps at times And slowly lowers heavy eyelids. On your temples black dew drips, The last gold of expired stars”

[derangedrhythms]

Georg Trakl, Poems and Prose: Poems from Der Brenner 1914/5; from 'The Thunderstorm', tr. Alexander Stillmark

[smakkabagms]

The still house and the lore of the forest, / Measure and law and the lunar paths of the solitary

Georg Trakl

[ardent-reflections]

"The quiet of the night is astonishingly beautiful."

Georg Trakl

[caenthos]

Delirium

The black snow runs down from the rooftops; A red finger dips into your brow; Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room, They are a lovers’ dying mirrors. Heavy and torn to pieces the mind muses, Follows the shadow in the mirror of blue snow flakes, The cold smile of a deceased harlot. The evening’s wind weeps in the scent of carnations. Georg Trakl