an unfamiliar, silent place

but i must interrupt myself to introduce you to quite an amazing, and growing, image source. in keeping with our exploration of turn-of-the-century vienna, wiener werkstatte, ver sacrum, et al, i tried to find some of the poetry that had been published in that magazine. but i failed. so here we have poems from poets who were in ver sacrum, if not necessarily with these poems.

LOVESONG

How shall I withhold my soul so that
it does not touch on yours? How shall I
uplift it over yours to other things?
Ah, willingly would I by some
lost thing in the dark give it harbor
in an unfamiliar, silent place
that does not vibrate on when your depths vibrate.
Yet, everything that touches us, you and me,
Takes us together as a bow's stroke does,
That out of two strings draws a single voice.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what player has us in his hand?
O sweet song.

Rainer Maria Rilke
trans. M.D. Herter Norton, from Translations from the Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, 1938, 1966. 1

AN EXPERIENCE

What wondrous flowers had bloomed there,
cups of colors darkly glowing! And a thicket
Amidst which a flame like topaz rushed, Now
surging, now gleaming in its molten course.
All of it seemed filled with the deep swell
Of a mournful music. This much I knew,
Though I cannot understand it – I knew
That this was Death, transmuted into music,
Violently yearning, sweet, dark, burning,
Akin to deepest sadness.

Hugo von Hofmannsthal
translation. D. McClatchy? 3

HUNTING LASSES

My soul is sick to-day;
my soul is sick with absence;
my soul has the sickness of silence;
and my eyes light it with tedium.

I catch sight of hunts at a standstill,
under the blue lashes of my memories;
and the hidden hounds of my desires
follow the outworn scents.

I see the packs of my dreams
threading the warm forests,
and the yellow arrows of regret
seeking the white deer of lies.

Ah, God! my breathless longings,
the warm longings of my eyes,
have clouded with breaths too blue
the moon which fills my soul.

Maurice Maeterlinck 3

no. i don't really love those last two poems, but i think i'm a translation snob. but it doesn't take snobbery to recognize treasure.

all of these images are but a particle of what awaits you at mattia moretti's photosets on flickr.

included are not only two complete volumes of ver sacrum, which is 40% of the total run, but stunning secessionist buildings throughout europe (mostly), decorative objects, and much more. don't miss his blog, either: http://www.szecesszio.com/.

her parrot accomplice

MAY COLVEN

False Sir John a wooing came
To a Maid of beauty fair,
May Colven was
this Ladys name,
Her Fathers only Heir.

He woo'd her butt,
he woo'd her ben,
He woo'd her in the Ha';
Until he got
this Lady's consent,
To mount and ride awa'.

He went down to
her Father's bower,
Where all the Steeds
did stand;
And he's taken one of
the best Steeds,
That was in her Father's hand.

He's got on, and she's got on,
And fast as they could flee,
Untill they came to a lonesome part,
A Rock by the side of the Sea.

Loup off the Steed says false Sir John,
Your bridal bed you see;
For I have drowned Seven Young Ladies,
The Eight one you shall be.

Cast off, Cast off, my May Colven,
All and your silken Gown,
For it's o'er good, and o'er costly,
To rot in the Salt Sea foam.

Cast off, Cast off,
my May Colven,
All and your
embroider'd shoen,
For they are o'er good,
and o'er costly
To rot in the Salt Sea foam.

O turn you about
O false Sir John,
And look to the leaf
of the Tree;
For it never became
a Gentle Man,
A naked Woman to see.

He turnd himself straight round about,
To look to the leaf
of the Tree;
So swift as
May Colven was,
To throw him
in the Sea.

O help, O help my May Colven,
O help, or else
I'll drown;
I'll take you home to your Father's bower
And set you down safe and sound.

No help, no help you false Sir John,
No help nor pity thee;
Tho' seven Kings Daughters you
have drown'd
But the Eight
shall not be me.

So she went on her Fathers Steed,
As swift as
she could flee;
And she came home to her Father's bower
Before it was
break of day.

Up then spoke
the pretty Parrot,
May Colven where
have you been,
What has become of
false Sir John,
That woo'd you
so late the streen.

He woo'd you butt,
he woo'd you ben,
He woo'd you in the Ha',
Until he got your own consent
For to mount and gang awa'.

O hold your tongue my pretty Parrot,
Lay not the blame upon me,
Your Cup shall be of the flowered Gold,
Your Cage of the Root of the Tree.

Up then spake
the King himself,
In the Bed Chamber
where he lay,
What ails the Pretty Parrot,
That prattles so long or day.

There came a Cat
to my Cage Door
It almost a worried me,
And I was calling
on May Colven,
To take the Cat from me.

(there are many versions of this, all anonymous)