F I S H I N G

Out of my big pains I make these little songs
They lift their tingling wings and take off towards her heart.

They do find the way to her,  but they come back and whine and wimper and don’t want to say what they saw in her heart.

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The German original:

Aus meinen großen Schmerzen
Mach ich die kleinen Lieder;
Die heben ihr klingend Gefieder
Und flattern nach ihrem Herzen.

Sie fanden den Weg zur Trauten,
Doch kommen sie wieder und klagen,
Und klagen, und wollen nicht sagen,
Was sie im Herzen schauten.

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Heine wrote poetry while he was dying, which took him very long, for he had an illness that kept him down with pain for years. At the time he was  poor and lived as a refugee in Paris. He called his place his mattrass grave, though he said it was not as good as a grave, because there was no silence ever. And this is where he wrote some of his greatest things, but I don’t think they can be translated.

What about those “tinkling wings?”  Pretty bad, but what would have been better? In German it is “klingend”, which is the ringing sound of  glass.

In English “sonorous” is too festive, “singing” too strange; resounding ?  reverberating ? ringing ? vibrating ? tingling ?

In a long poem,  defects of this kind would spoil the work.

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However, as an example of how he talks about his own death, look at this:

The curtain falls, the play is over and the people go home. I wonder whether they liked the show, and I think I heard the applause of an audience thanking their poet.

Now the house is silent; and the lights, the luxury have disappeared.
But listen! An ugly rattling sound comes from  the stage area. Maybe  the cord of an old violin is breaking. A few bitchy rats run around the parterre  and everything smells of  rancid oil.

Finally the last lamp groans and sizzles full of despair, and it goes out.  That poor light was my soul.

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The German original:

Der Vorhang fällt, das Stück ist aus,
Und Herrn und Damen gehn nach Haus.
Ob ihnen auch das Stück gefallen?
Ich glaub, ich hörte Beifall schallen.
Ein hochverehrtes Publikum
Beklatschte dankbar seinen Dichter.
Jetzt aber ist das Haus so stumm,
Und sind verschwunden Lust und Lichter.
Doch horch! ein schollernd schnöder Klang
Ertönt unfern der öden Bühne; -
Vielleicht, daß eine Saite sprang
An einer alten Violine.
Verdrießlich rascheln im Parterr’
Etwelche Ratten hin und her,
Und alles riecht nach ranz’gem Öle.
Die letzte Lampe ächzt und zischt
Verzweiflungsvoll, und sie erlischt.
Das arme Licht war meine Seele.

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