GermanySifting Through the Ruins

Randy MayerFall 2011

Table of Contents

Introduction 3

Volker Braum 6The Hill of the Dead 7Massacre of the Illusions 8

Uwe Kolbe 9The Water Near Which We Live 10Melancholy (The Crisis) 11

Thomas Kling 12Taunus Sample 13Serner 14

Silke Scheuermann 15Transformed Willow 16The Tattoo Artist 17

Peter Huchel 18Melpomene 19Answer 20

In the years following the fall of the Nazi regime there

was a period of great uncertainty and suffering for the

German people. Millions of Germans were forced from

their homes and land to wander aimlessly to other parts

of the world. In the worst period after the war there were

daily beatings and killings of the citizens of Germany.

There was also a huge wave of gang rapes by occupying

forces, mostly Russians, where girls as young as eight

were raped by as many as sixty men was very common.

Along with this there was a time of great food shortages .

There has been stories of human meat being sold as

meatballs in the main markets. The German people were

completely at the mercy of groups that wanted nothing

more than their absolute suffering and death as payback

for what their countrymen had done to them.

With occupation by different groups came a dividing of

the people who already didn’t know where to go

politically, individually or even as a country.

They also had a huge depression economically as Ralph

Keeling states in his book: “It’s difficult to imagine the

depth of German depression. When the United States

reached the bottom of 1932, industrial production had

fallen to sixty per cent of normal. The depression was so

severe , the losses so enormous, the unemployment so

widespread that it almost brought a revolution. Industrial

production in Germany a year after V-E Day was ten

percent of what used to be normal”(Keeling).

Over the years, life in West Germany, under the

direction of the United States, grew to be a very well off

entity. While their counterparts to the East stayed in a

very desperate situation under the direction of

Communist Russia. Their was widespread starving and

deaths in the winters due to freezing were very common.

In Death and Life of Germany, Eugene Davidson writes

about a group of German workers having a meeting

saying: “Another speaker took his

Place; he said he had spent five years in a concentration

camp under Hitler and would gladly spend ten years more

if it would bring freedom”(333). He was speaking about

how the Russians rules their country with a spiteful iron

fist. Through all this confusion and suffering their were a

few writers and poets that got their experiences and

feelings about this time period out. There were only a few

because most writings were suppressed as the Germans

were not allowed to express disapproval of their Russian

rulers.

The Germans had a lot of rebuilding to do as their

country was in ruins from the war . All cities with a

population of 50,000 or more were more than sixty percent

destroyed. And with what the Nazis did they had little to no

sympathy for their suffering.

Volker Braun (Germany, 1939)

Volker Braun was born in Dresden on the 7th of May 1939. After he finished school he was refused entry to university, he then worked in a printing firm, in civil engineering for the collective combine Schwarze Pumpe, and as a machine operator. From 1960 to 1964 he studied philosophy in Leipzig, in 1965 Helene Weigel called him to the Berliner Ensemble, where his first play Die Kipper was staged and then prohibited. From 1972 to 1977 he worked at the Deutsches Theater Berlin and from ’79 to ’90 again at the Berliner Ensemble. Volker Braun received numerous prizes, he lives as a writer in Berlin. Volker Braun is a political poet with very distinct aesthetic qualities, and the significance of his writing extends to all genres. He was one of the most exciting voices of the “dramatic” life in the GDR of the sixties and seventies. His novel Hinze-Kunze-Roman, a satirical description of GDR-reality, is a showpiece of German prose. When he was awarded the Büchner Preis in 2000, it was confirmed: “What Heiner Müller means for the history of German drama, Volker Braun means for the history of poetry.” His extensive oeuvre is many-faceted but centers around the question of political emancipation. In the GDR he criticized the way of “real socialism”, but he never gave up hope that some day - also by means of literature - much could be changed for the better within the GDR. His works were mostly published, censured and shortened, and with considerable delay. From 1975 on Braun was kept under permanent surveillance by the secret police. But despite his confrontation with the reality of the GDR, he considered this state to be the better one of the two German states. As far as the “growing together” of the two states is concerned, Volker Braun remains skeptical till today.

DER TOTENHÜGEL Cäsar sah fern vom Tumulus Der Seeschlacht zu Barbarenschiffe Angstschweiß Eines Großen der Geschichte macht Es kam dann Auf die Tapferkeit an und Sichelstangen Die die Rahen herunterrissen samt den Ledersegeln BELLUM GALLICUM der gewohnte Golfkrieg Vor den Augen des Landheers im Küstenkino Und die Windstille So entstehen Weltreiche / Ich sah sie fallen Auf seinen Knochen stehnd dem Führerbunker Grotewohlstraße im anderen Deutschland Der überraschende Landwind in den Korridoren Ein Lidschlag der Geschichte gegen die Verblendung Taumelzaudernd DER TANZ AUF DER MAUER Die Mauerspechte mit den kleinen Hämmern Die Volksarmee sah zu das Heer der Arbeitslosen Eine Minute in Meiner Zeit

The Hill of the Dead Ceasar wathed from his tumulus The distant sea battle Barbarian ships the maker of history Sweating with fear After that is was a quetsion Of sheer courage and billhooks Ripping down the yards and the leather sails BELLUM GALLICUM the usual Gulf War Played out before the eyes of the land army on the cliff top cinema And the sudden drop in the wind And that´s how empires are made / I´ve seem them fall Perched on his bones the Führer´s bunker Grotewohlstrasse in the other Germany The surprising onshore wind in the corridors History blinks its eyes not to be blinded Reeling THE DANCE ON THE WALL The wall peckers with their little hammers The Volksarmee looking on the army of the unemployed One minute of my time

Nach dem Massaker der Illusionen Guevara unter der Rollbahn mit abgehackten Händen, „der wühlt nicht weiter“ wie Wenn die Ideen begraben sind Kommen die Knochen heraus Ein Staatsbegräbnis AUS FURCHT VOR DER AUFERSTEHUNG Das Haupt voll Blut und Wunden Marketing GEHT EINMAL EUREN PHRASEN NACH BIS ZU DEM PUNKT WO SIE VERKÖRPERT WERDEN Waleri Chodemtschuk, zugeschüttet Im Sarkophag des Reaktors, kann warten Wie lange hält uns die Erde aus Und was werden wir die Freiheit nennen

Following the Massacre of the Illusions Guevara under the march route with severed Hands, „no more burrowing for him,“ When ideas are buried The bones emerge A state funeral FOR FEAR OF RESURRECTION The head marked with blood and wounds a design concept FOR ONCE FOLLOW UP YOUR PHRASES TO THE POINT WHERE THEY BECOME FLESH AND BLOOD Valeri Chodemtchuk, interred In the sarcophagus of the reactor to abide However long the earth can take us And what we will call freedom

Uwe Kolbe (Germany, 1957)

Uwe Kolbe is from Prenzlauer Berg, the GDR-Bohemian quarter of literature, rock-music, art, performance, and self-styled eccentrics. As opposed to the literary playfulness or language games of some of his contemporaries, Kolbe has placed himself in the tradition of the seemingly simple image right from the start. He constructs scenes which at first appear to be simple, but upon closer inspection allow a variety of interpretations and meanings. Kolbe’s texts search out the political and poetical implications to be found in everyday life. Uwe Kolbe was born on October 17, 1957 in East-Berlin; his father was a sailor on the inland waterways. After graduating from high school and completing military service, he managed to get by with an assortment of odd jobs. In 1976 he met the writer Franz Führmann, who was to become Kolbe’s most important mentor, providing him with the opportunity of publishing his first poems in the renowned journal Sinn und Form (Sense and Form). Shortly afterwards, Kolbe signed a contract for his first book Hineingeboren (Born Into). He has been working as a free-lance writer and translator ever since. Between 1980 and 1981, he completed a special course at the Johannes R. Becher Institute for Literature in Leipzig, the official school of poetry in the

Das Wasser, an dem wir wohnen für Peter Waterhouse Wir rappeln uns auf und spucken das modrige Wasser aus jungem Mund und husten das kratzende Naß aus unverdorbenem Halse. Die Augen sehen noch nicht und suchen den Helfer schon, der oben über uns steht auf niedrigem, trockenen Steg. Und gleich wird sein Arm da sein, uns Halt bieten, hieven. Noch hindert sein Lachen ihn, noch lacht er zu laut, um helfen zu können. Gleich stehen wir wieder neben ihm wie die begossenen Pudel.

The water near which we live for Peter Waterhouse We pull ourselves up and spit the muddy water out of a young mouth and cough the irritating water out of an innocent throat. The eyes don‘t see yet, and are already looking for the helper, who is standing above us on a low and dry footbridge. In a moment his arm will be there, giving us hold, lifting us. His laughing still impairs him, he is laughing too loud to be able to help. In a moment we will stand beside him again soaking wet and looking sheepish.

© 1998, Uwe Kolbe From: Die Farben des Wassers Publisher: Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main, 2001 ISBN: 3-518-41262-0

© Translation: 2001, Sapphire/Ramona Lofton From: Unpublished

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Melancholie (Die Krise) Das Maß ist falsch, und die Gefühle gehn aus, sich eins zu holen. Der Bruch immens, Parade geht das Stroh. Ach leck mich, Glockenton im Schnee.

Melancholy (The Crisis) Machines for measuring things have all gone bad. The emotions go out to find a better one. The rupture in this world has grown immense. Hollowness struts in triumph through the streets. Bell ringing out over snow: go fuck yourself.

© 2004, Uwe Kolbe From: Unpublished

© Translation: 2003, Luke Davies From: Unpublished

Thomas Kling, unquestionably one of the most important German-language poets of the current generation, died on April 1, 2005. At age 47, Kling was already more influential and formative in terms of style than almost any other poet of his generation. As a poet, he was one of the richest in his breadth of material and one of the most powerful in his use of language; on top of that, he was also one of the most controversial essayists in the German literary world of the last fifteen years. His writing ripped German poetry from the existentialist haze of the late 1970s.In Kling’s poems, we can watch an archeologist of language at work. But this archaeologist is also a magician: material from all genres is X-rayed to expose their historic, poetic, and political layers, deconstructed and recombined to form new structures of meaning and sound. “Ripping apart and reconfiguring individual appendages,” Kling calls this technique, “ – writing.”

Kling wrote with encyclopedias, etymological dictionaries at hand and paintings before him, but without sitting in the archive, gathering dust. A well-grounded knowledge of history, literature, geology, and art history fuses in his poetry by way of harsh treatment with writing techniques from the media age (multiple exposures, polyvalent line breaks, cut-ups, alienation of sound and writing) to form sensual ‘language installations’, as Kling called them, which remain gripping despite all the rich knowledge injected into them.

In ‘taunus sample’, for example, a description of a rowdy bar scene suddenly becomes a political poem, which sees the German past reemerging in a “stormland-”.

In the continuation of one of his most important poems, ‘Manhattan Mouthspace’, written after the September 11, 2001 attack (the first part was written in 1996), Kling dissolves perception and language into one another in the representation of their media transformation: the “continually looping eye”, the “little memoria machine” in combination ultimately turn the poem into an “eye-caricature”, a threnody to a formerly intact world, blast apart.

‘history painting’ is an early example of a painting poem – a genre highly treasured Kling – in which, inspired by the supposed static visual, a dialogue between image and beholder, form and writing is ignited. Here, interstices in interpretation become accelerators of meaning; art as a utopian space that always remains conscious of its precarious position, “a landscape in which it will prosper again.”

taunusprobe. lehrgang im hessischn “Ich deutete abwärts: sie das rätselgesicht” (Stefan George, 1922) ssauntz. grölende theke. ATEM-SCHUTZ-GERÄTE-TRÄGER-LEHRGANG was für ssauntz! unter pokalen, fuß- balltrophäen die azurminiträgerin the- knblond. -GERÄTETRÄGERLEHRGANG IN A. springt kajal, dringt vor im kajal, kajalflor zu heavy metal sounnz (vorher- sage: grölender stammtisch), gerekktes hinterzimmer-, jetzt gaststubn-“heil!!”. di theknmannschaft,pokalpokal, trägt 501 trägt wildleder-boots, drittklassiger western den sie hier abfahrn HEILHEILHEIL!!!! flaumblonde unterschenkel, es kajalt von gegnüber; di blonde matte. FUN! AUGN - FUNK. IN B: FUNKSPRECHBERECHTIGUNXLEHRGANG, IN C: FOLGT (fig. 3 ) DI MOTORKETTNSÄGE- UNTERWEISUN’, wies kajalt! hinpfeilnd aufs dartboard, gewitterland-, gewitterlandschaft im gesicht. die theknmannschaft (“1. preis im torwandschießn 1990”) verchromtes hufeisen im laredo-jeep, yosemety dschosmetti-

taunus sample. course in hessian “I pointed down: she the mystery face” (Stefan George, 1922) ssoundz. bawling boozer. MOUTH-FILTERING-EQUIPMENT-USER’S-COURSE what soundz! she wears an azure mini is barmaid-blonde. EQUIPMENT-USER’S-COURSE IN A. jumps row, thrusts forward in the row, row plush for heavy metal ssoundz (fore- cast: party bawling at the table), horizontal backroom, now saloon, “heil!!” the boozer’s own team, cupcup, wears 501s wears suede boots, third-rate western they’re putting on here, HEILHEILHEIL!!!! fluff-blond back of thigh, the row from opposite; the blonde hank. FUN EYE-RADIO IN B: RADIO SPEECH CERTIFICATE COURSE, IN C, NEXT (fig. 3) THE CHAINSAW LESSON, what a row! launching at the dartboard, stormland-, stormlandscape in their face, the boozer team (“1st prize in parlour goal shootouts 1990”) chromed horseshoe in the jeep laredo, yosemity josemity-sticker on their baja California trailer, stood outside bar door, fryingpan-shit over ailing pot plants, with horseshoes chromed they roll in the bear walk (almosttoo

serner, karlsbad wo in angesagter umgebun’ di zensur ihr sprudeln begann. zentralgranitmassn. geselchter schnee. nichts wußte ich, zweiundsiebzig, von einem haus edelweiß wo mattkaiserschrunde oder ocker- gestimmte, oder sonstwi-erinnerun’: “sprich deutlicher” in karlovy vary . . . di (mittags?)sonne, geschwächt, in spiegeln mitgeteilt wurd; wo der becherovka in geschliffenen gläsern und rede auf di marmor- helligkeit knallte, karlsbad-sounds: “o sprich deutlicher” in geselchtm schnee, und “jedes hauptwort ein rundreisebillet.” SERNER der ging von prag aus gemeinsam ins gas.

serner, karlsbad where even in posted areas the censors babbled. tall granite masses. smoky snow. I knew nothing, seventy-two, about edleweiss, ocher houses of the emperors’ realm, or an otherwise-remembrance: “speak more clearly” in karlovy vary. . . . the (midday?) sun, weakened, reflected by mirrors; where the schnapps served in cut glass and the talk bounced around the shining marble. karlsbad sounds: “o, speak more clearly” in smoky snow, “every noun a round trip ticket.” SERNER who left prague as well headed for the gas.

© 1996, Suhrkamp Verlag; Veröffentlichung mit freundlicher Genehmigung From: Thomas Kling: morsch. Gedichte Publisher: Suhrkamp, Frankfurt/Main, 1996 ISBN: 3-518-40798-8

Silke Scheuermann received the prestigious Leonce-und-Lena-Preis in 2001 for her debut collection Der Tag an dem die Möwen zweistimmig sangen (The Day on which the Sea Gulls Sang in Two Parts). She was quickly recognised as the promising talent of the young generation of German writers. Nor has there been any lack of subsequent prizes and words of praise. Alongside her collections of poetry Der zärtlichste Punkt im All (The Most Tender Place in the Universe, 2004) and Über Nacht ist es Winter (Winter has Come Overnight, 2007) she has also published the collection of short stories Reiche Mädchen (Rich Girls, 2005) and the much-praised novel Die Stunde zwischen Hund und Wolf (The Hour between Dog and Wolf, 2007). The fact that Scheuermann, originally a poet, also writes prose will come as no surprise to the reader, for her poems often feature an action and characters. Although there are no signs whatever of a strictly epic train of events. In her poetry, space and time exist in a continuous process of change, often with associative, fluid transitions. The borders between reality and fantasy world, dream and reality have likewise been suspended – they glide seamlessly into each other. The main motif of the poems is thus metamorphosis and transformation. Nothing seems to stand firm in the surreal world of the poems, where wolves change into humans, willows look for an anchorage but seemingly without success, the I-figure is first a compass, then a needle, which is trying to orientate itself in a vast snowy landscape that it is impossible to come to grips with and where finally the power of emptiness decides the issue. The anything but idyllic world that is described stands in stark contrast to the desire of the actors in the poems, who – almost against their better knowledge – seek for utopias or ‘simply’ for something to hold on to and some genuine closeness. This contrast is further underscored by the fact that Silke Scheuermann often allows such characters as fantastic beings or mythological figures such as Icarus, werewolves, witches, angels and nymphs to appear in her poems, who are no longer able to find their way in ‘our’ reality and are not their normal selves: nymphs leave the water and change into shoe-consumers, the animals of Noah’s ark refuse to go ashore, and Icarus, liberated from his existence as a wax figure at Madame Tussaud’s, ends up at other places, at annual fairs. In terms of tone, the poetry balances between melancholy and irony, and a surfeit of pathos is sabotaged by the frequently laconic tone of the poems. The ‘big’ themes, such as love, death and life pass in review, sometimes in the foreground, sometimes only very drily and cursorily, without all that much fuss – a principle that the poet strives for, as can be seen from her poetic lines in which poems ‘glitter/in utmost transitoriness’ and are ‘random/wilful/and of dazzlingly bright/obviousness’.

VERWANDELTE WEIDE Mein Halt im Boden war beinah vergessen Ich beugte mich tief Spöttisch inspizierte der Sturm den Widerstand meiner Zweige begann dann ernsthaft den Kampf Es war etwas am Wind das Gedanken freisetzte hindurch strich sie ausdünnte und etwas das mich ans Sterben erinnerte mir singend verriet das hier sei keine Welt im Gleichgewicht Es werde mal dieser Mal jener Platz nach nicht genauer bekannten Befehlen geräumt – leisen Befehlen gegeben in Stille Wo ich stand fand ich meine Angst wieder Sie leistete allen erdenklichen Widerstand Wollte sich nicht auf ein Anderswo richten Noch war sie Kontrolleur Lange noch? Letztlich war sie doch nur Anfängerin machte in Wolken Ich sah überall um mich Wagen mit schwarzen Scheiben als gäbe es nicht weit von mir ein unheimliches Unternehmen das ständig wuchs wie Holzhandel wachsen und Fäulnis Was genau würde es sein das ich als erstes losließ? Den Schmerz

Transformed Willow My grip in the ground was almost forgotten I stooped low Sardonically the storm inspected the resistance of my twigs and then the fight began in earnest There was something about the wind that freed thoughts brushed through them thinning them out and something that reminded me of dying That singing let me know that this here was no world in equilibrium Now one place now another was cleared in accordance with imperfectly familiar instructions – quiet instructions issued in silence Where I stood I found my fear again It resisted for all it was worth unwilling to make the adjustment to a different place It was still in charge How much longer? Finally it was only a beginner in the clouds All round me I saw cars with tinted windscreens as though not far from me there was an eerie undertaking that was steadily growing as it might be, a timber business or rot What would I let go of first? The pain that needed me less than I needed it?

DER TÄTOWIERER Alles in Haut eingeritzt Dunkel konturiert Selbst die plötzlich im Schulterblatt stehende Sonne wandert mit schwarzem Rand Keiner der Kunden weiß wie lang er nach dem besten Hersteller für flüssiges Schwarz suchen musste Zuweilen stand er sehr allein da mit seinem Irrsinn und seinem Lieblingsgetier Der Laden blieb offen doch keiner kam Sie verpassten die riesenäugige Seeschlange die sich über der Sehne abzeichnet den Troll der sich mit dem Schienbein anfreundet den kleinen Christus am Kreuz All die Adler Schwalben Initialen Tätowierers Rede während er die Skizzen zeigt Seht sagt er Genießt den Glanz Bin ein schwacher Mann einer der Seele stempelt auf solche wie dich da Doch was ist Leben sonst als umfunktionierte Verletzung jahrelanges Blättern in Entwürfen und dann tippt ein anderer Finger aufs beste Das Todesmotiv

THE TATTOO ARTIST Everything etched into the skin Edged in in black Even the sun abruptly risen on the shoulder blade is rimmed in black None of the customers knows how long he spent looking for superior black ink Sometimes he found himself very much alone with his craziness and his menagerie The shop was open but no one went in They missed the big-eyed sea-snake rippling over a sinew the troll making up to the shinbone the little crucified Christ All the swallows eagles initials The tattoo artist’s conversation while showing off his designs See he says Enjoy the lustre I’m a weakling someone who stamps a soul onto the likes of you But what is life if not transmutations of hurt years spent leafing through blueprints and then a different finger chooses the best one of all: Death

© 2007, Silke Scheuermann

© Translation: 2008, Michael Hofmann

Peter Huchel was born in Lichterfelde, near Berlin, in 1903, and died at Staufen, in 1981. He began publishing poetry in 1924, but a first volume was only to appear, in Berlin, in 1948, to be followed by another in Karlsruhe a year later. Following his release from a Soviet war prison he returned to East Germany, where he served as editor of Sinn und Form, published by the East Berlin Academy of Arts. Thereafter, he lived under house arrest, unable to work or publish in his own country, until he was allowed to emigrate to the West in 1971.

Melpomene by Peter Huchel The forest bitter, spiky, no shore breeze, no foothills, the grass grows matted, death will come with horses' hooves, endlessly over the steppes' mounds, we went back, searching the sky for the fort that could not be razed. The villages hostile, the cottages cleared out in haste, smoked skin on the attic beams, snare netting, bone amulets. All over the country an evil reverence, animals' heads in the mist, divination by willow wands. Later, up in the North, stag-eyed men rushed by on horseback. We buried the dead. It was hard to break the soil with our axes, fir had to thaw it out. The blood of sacrificed cockerels was not accepted.

ANSWER

Between two nightsthe brief day.The farm is there.And in the thicket, a snarethe hunter set for us.

Noon’s desert.It still warms the stone.Chirping in the wind,buzz of a guitardown the hillside.

The slow matchof withered foliageglows against the wall.Salt-white air.Fall’s arrowheads,the crane’s migration.

In bright tree limbsthe tolling hour has faded.Upon their clockworkspiders laythe veils of dead brides.

WORKS CITED

German Poetry. WEB. 14 November 2011. <germany.poetryinternationalweb.org>

Lyrikline. WEB. 18 November 2011 <www.lyrikline.org>