Selected Poetry

FRIEDRICH HÖLDERLIN

SELECTED POETRY

translated by David Constantine

Poetry Book Society Recommended Translation

Friedrich Hölderlin was one of Europe’s greatest poets. The strange and beautiful language of his late poems is recreated by David Constantine in these remarkable verse translations. This is a new expanded edition of Constantine’s widely-praised Hölderlin Selected Poems (1990/1996), containing many new translations as well as the whole of Hölderlin’s Sophocles (2001), in which he sought to create an equivalent English for Hölderlin’s extraordinary German recreations of the classic Greek verse plays.

David Constantine won the European Poetry Translation Prize in 1997 for his translations of Hölderlin. This new volume presents a substantial selection from the work of a poet who, writing around 1800, addresses us ever more urgently two centuries later.

‘Hölderlin is a poet we can read with our own atrocious times in mind. He is a deeply religious poet whose fundamental tenet is absence and the threat of meaninglessness. He confronted hopelessness as few writers have, he was what Rilke called exposed; but there is no poetry like his for the constant engendering of hope, for the expression, in the body and breath of poems, of the best and most passionate aspirations’

– David Constantine

‘Constantine goes for an equivalence of spirit in a more familiar idiom. This is at once a bold and humble undertaking, and has produced poetry of a remarkable luminosity and intensity, written in rhythms and cadences which recreate, both in their extremities of grief and their urgent hope, the immediacy of the original’

– Karen Leeder, Oxford Poetry

Cover portrait: Friedrich Hölderlin (1792) by Franz Hiemer

PASTEL DRAWING (DEUTSCHES LITERATURARCHIV MARBACH)

Pencil drawing by Johann Georg Schreiner and Rudolf Lohbauer

27 July 1823 (Deutsches Literaturarchiv, Marbach)

FRIEDRICH HÖLDERLIN

SELECTED POETRY

TRANSLATED BY

DAVID CONSTANTINE

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

INTRODUCTION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Greece

The oak trees

To Diotima (‘Come and look at the happiness…’)

Diotima (‘Heavenly Muse of Delight…’)

‘The peoples were silent…’

Empedocles

To the Fates

To her good angel

Plea for Forgiveness

To the Sun God

Hyperion’s Song of Fate

‘When I was a boy…’

Achilles

‘Once there were gods…’

‘If I heeded them warning me now…’

Parting

The Zeitgeist

Evening fantasy

Morning

The Main

That which is mine

‘Another day…’

‘The sun goes down…’

Peace

Heidelberg

The Gods

The Neckar

Home

Love

Course of life

Parting, second version

Diotima (‘You are silent, you suffer it…’)

Return to the homeland

Encouragement, second version

Sung under the Alps

The calling of poetry

Voice of the people, second version

The blind singer

Poetic courage, first version

Poetic courage, second version

The fettered river

Chiron

Tears

To Hope

Vulcan

Timidity

Ganymede

Half of life

Ages of life

Hahrdt Nook

Menon’s lament for Diotima

A walk into the country

Stuttgart

Bread and Wine

Homecoming

The Archipelago

Those sleeping now

As when on a holiday…

To Mother Earth

At the source of the Danube

Celebration of Peace, first version

Celebration of Peace, final version

The journey

The Rhine

Germania

The only one, first version

The only one, ll. 50-97 of the second version

The only one, third version

Patmos

Patmos, fragments of a later version

Patmos, ll. 136-195 of work on a final version

Remembrance

The Ister

Mnemosyne, second version

Mnemosyne, third version

‘As birds slowly pass over…’

‘As upon seacoasts…’

Home

‘For when the juice of the vine…’

‘On pale leaves…’

‘When over the vineyard…’

To the Madonna

The Titans

‘Once I asked the Muse…’

‘But when the heavenly powers…’

‘But formerly, Father Zeus…’

The Eagle

Nearest and best, third version

Tinian

‘And to feel the lives…’

‘Where we began…’

…the Vatican…

Greece, first version

Greece, ll. 13-21 of the second version

Greece, third version

‘Severed and at a distance now…’

‘I have enjoyed…’

‘When out of heaven…’

Spring (‘When new joy quickens…’)

A happy life

The walk

The churchyard

Not all days…

Spring (‘How blessed to see again…’)

Autumn (‘The stories that are leaving earth…’)

Spring (‘The new day comes…’)

View (‘To us with images…’)

‘In a lovely blue…’

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK

Chorus from Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus

From Euripides’ Bacchae

Chorus from Sophocles’ Antigone

From Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus

From Sophocles’ Ajax

Pindar Fragments

HÖLDERLIN’S SOPHOCLES

INTRODUCTION

Sophocles’ Oedipus the King

Sophocles’ Antigone

TRANSLATOR’S NOTES

GLOSSARY

COPYRIGHT

INTRODUCTION

Hölderlin was born in 1770, as were also Wordsworth, Hegel and Beethoven. That generation grew up believing the world – ‘the very world, which is the world/ Of all of us’ – could be changed for the better, and that love, reason and justice would prevail in it, here and now. They were disappointed. But disappointment does not annul hope. What we can still get from Hölderlin, as from Wordsworth, is a passionate and generous hope. That hope survives, in the teeth of every disappointment. Hölderlin, writing his best poems after things had gone badly wrong in France and after the possibility of improvement in Germany had been erased, constantly offers images and visions of fulfilled humanity. True, the poems demonstrate the absence of fulfilment; but their project is utopian and it is their drive towards fulfilment which lingers in the blood after reading them. That feeling is an equivalent of what it was like to be alive then, when ‘the whole earth / The beauty wore of promise’. The excitement and the faith revive.

Hölderlin was born into the so-called Ehrbarkeit, the Respectability, who administered Church and State. He was brought up by an anxious mother; his father, and then his stepfather, had died before he was nine. He was brought up in and never quite escaped from a condition of dependence. First on his mother: though in fact comfortably off and with a large inheritance to pass on to her eldest son, she kept him throughout his life in want of funds and he never broke free. Secondly on the State: he was put through a church education free, on condition that he serve the State (through its Church), once educated. He spent his life resisting that obligation. He was schooled in theology, but also in philosophy and the classics. He took all three very seriously, and the tensions that engendered were hard to manage. He entered the seminary in Tübingen in 1788 and suffered there, with his eyes on France, as though it was the oppressive and anachronistic State in miniature. He had Schelling and Hegel with him as allies in republicanism.

Hölderlin was born in Lauffen, north of Stuttgart, but grew up in Nürtingen, also on the Neckar but south of the city. All his education was in Swabia – in Denkendorf, Maulbronn and Tübingen – and it was to Tübingen, to the clinic, that he was forcibly returned, and all the latter half of his life he spent in a tower in the town walls with a view of the river and the meadows and hills beyond. Swabia was his homeland. He sought employment outside it (he had to, or the Church would have claimed him) but when those employments failed, he returned. He idealised the homeland as the paradise of childhood and as the location for the New Republic; but in fact, until his collapse, he was debarred from settling in it. That fact, like so much in Hölderlin’s life, is intrinsically figurative.

Hölderlin imagined his ideal largely in Greek terms. Quite simply, the civilisation of Periclean Athens seemed to him the best the human race had ever achieved and he wanted an equivalent of it for his own day and age and even believed the French Revolution might bring it about. Once disappointed, he risked becoming merely nostalgic, for an ideal sited irretrievably in the past. He countered that by committing himself to the present, to present time and to present place, and by imagining an ideal future for them. He created, poem by poem, a world having two poles: Greece, and what he called Hesperia. And the heart of Hesperia was his own homeland Swabia. He celebrates the world north of the Alps, his own world, its towns and hills and above all its rivers, as a land fit for the ideal, once realised in Greece, to be welcomed into; and again and again he connects Greece, now lost, with Hesperia, still to come. That way of thinking – an ideal past, an unsatisfactory present, an ideal future – was characteristic of Hölderlin’s age; but the expression he gave to it was peculiarly concrete and precise. He embodied his poetic thinking in landscapes: in those he knew well (having walked through them), and in others, the Greek, which he had only read about in publications by French and English travellers. A similar luminousness lies over both zones.

When Hölderlin finished his education in 1793 he took immediate steps to avoid being drafted into the Church. He went ‘abroad’, that is, outside Swabia, and became a house-tutor. In all he had four such jobs. It was the usual thing for a young man to do if he wished to earn a living whilst chiefly to be furthering his own intellectual and artistic life; but it was a compromise and not a happy one. His task was to educate the children of the well-to-do. In that paid capacity he was a domestic, and liable always to be treated accordingly. But by his talents and his sensibility he was, very often, the superior of his employers. The predicament of the house-tutor was in epitome the predicament of artists and intellectuals altogether in Germany at that time: marginalised and dependent. They added culture to a household, as ornament and extra. In that they were allied naturally with the women, whose role also was subordinate and ornamental. Hölderlin’s first post, in Waltershausen, on the remote estate of Schiller’s friend and confidante Charlotte von Kalb, ended badly. He fell in love with and had a child by a young woman called Wilhelmine Kirms who had left her elderly and abusive husband and become Frau von Kalb’s lady-companion. The baby died of smallpox one year old. His second post was in Frankfurt, the bankers’ city. There he saw the spirit denigrated and pushed to the periphery. He saw money triumphant. His employer was Jakob Gontard, whose motto, despite being married to an intelligent, cultivated and beautiful woman, was ‘Business first’. Susette was the mother of four young children; Hölderlin looked after the eldest, the one boy, aged eight. She became the Diotima of his poems and proof to him that ideal life was possible on earth. Her existence in Frankfurt, in the very city of mercantile dreadful night, seemed miraculous. Loving and being loved by her he was, for a time, in a condition of fulfilled humanity. She was Greece recovered and restored to life, she was the woman fit for the New Age. When in France the attempt to change the institutions failed, bringing a new tyranny, many idealists put their hopes in a change of hearts and minds instead. Susette in herself seemed to Hölderlin a guarantor of what humanity had been like and might be like again. The ideal was realised – then lost. They were severed, she died, his mind collapsed.

Hölderlin found his own poetic voice when he met Susette. Prior to that he had been much under the influence of other writers, notably Schiller (whom he adulated). He was writing a novel, Hyperion, when he came to Frankfurt; he re-wrote it when he met her. Its heroine is called Diotima. Forgive me, he said, giving her the second volume, that Diotima dies. The book was dedicated to Susette Gontard, in the words ‘Wem sonst als Dir’ [To whom else but you]. Forced out of her house in September 1798 Hölderlin moved to nearby Homburg and there, for a while, lived on his earnings and tried to make his own way. He reflected on his art and began to write the poems for which he is best known. And he worked at a tragedy, The Death of Empedocles, pushing it through three versions, to no completion. Away from Susette, in Nürtingen, Switzerland and Bordeaux, he wrote the elegies, ‘Bread and Wine’, ‘Homecoming’, ‘Menon’s lament for Diotima’ and the great hymns in Pindar’s style, ‘The Rhine’, ‘The journey’, ‘Germania’ and, later, ‘Patmos’. A whole unique oeuvre was produced. There cannot have been many days during his brief maturity when he was not writing at poems among the very best in German literature. It is a tremendous work, like nobody else’s, his in every line and in its large project.

In the winter of 1801-02 Hölderlin walked to Bordeaux, over the Auvergne. He took up a job as house-tutor there, his last; but left in May and went home, via Paris (where he saw the classical statues Napoleon had stolen from Italy). Susette died in June, of German measles caught whilst nursing her children. When Hölderlin showed himself in Stuttgart and Nürtingen his friends and family thought him out of his mind. But it is not known for certain whether or not he had already learned Susette was dead.

Thereafter, for four years until his incarceration in the clinic, he struggled against fatigue and distraction, and wrote marvellous poems – ‘Patmos’, for example, ‘Mnemosyne’ and ‘Remembrance’. He held a sinecure in Homburg, as librarian to the Landgraf, and it was from there that he was transported in September 1806, having become, so it was said, too difficult to manage in that little town. He had eight months in the clinic, and was discharged then as incurable with ‘at most three years’ to live. He lived another thirty-six, half his life, in good hands, in the loving and sensible care of a carpenter’s family, his own wanting little or nothing to do with him. He became a celebrity, sightseers visited him and asked him for verses, which he readily gave. They are rhyming verses, and he signed them with strange names. Yes, he was much visited, by the ghoulish and by the truly devoted. He died peacefully in 1843.

Hölderlin is the poet of absence. His gods have departed, presence has been lost. There is no poet more honest and uncompromising in the depiction of absence and loss. Reading Hölderlin we know what bereavement, in its widest sense, is like. But we know also, with an equal or greater force, what fulfilment would be like, what it would be like to live lives full of love and joy; and the injunction of his poetry, always there, is to believe in the possibility of that fulfilment and to seek to make it real.

This new volume of my translations of Hölderlin’s works supersedes the previous two (1990, 1996). I have added more than sixty poems and completed the ‘Pindar Fragments’ (till now represented solely by ‘Concerning the dolphin’). Also included here, in my English, are Hölderlin’s translations of Sophocles’ Oedipus and Antigone (first published by Bloodaxe in 2001) and a few more important passages of Sophocles and Euripides. Still this is nothing like a complete edition of Hölderlin’s work. For something closer to that – most of the poems and the second and third versions of his verse tragedy Empedocles, in German and in English – I am glad to direct readers to Michael Hamburger’s Friedrich Hölderlin: Poems and Fragments (Anvil Press Poetry, 2004).

Hamburger thought of himself as a ‘mimetic’ translator; that is, he reproduced very closely not only the sense but also the forms – the stanzas, the lines, the metrics – of the originals. I have kept close, but not so close. In translating the odes (‘To the Fates’, for example, or ‘Plea for Forgiveness’) I adopted their syllabic count but not their metres; for the elegies, such as ‘Homecoming’ and ‘Bread and Wine’, and for the long poem ‘The Archipelago’ I attempted quite near but not exact equivalents of hexameters and pentameters; for the hymns and the hymnic fragments I imitated Hölderlin’s rhythms, which are free, and allowed myself only as many lines as he used; in the last poems I rhymed, not always as strictly as he did. Beyond that, to use (roughly) Ewald Osers’ distinction, I went for equivalence of effect rather than exact reproduction of the means of the effects.

I translated the poems as they appear in Volumes 1i and 2i of the Sämtliche Werke, edited by Friedrich Beissner and Adolf Beck (Stuttgart 1943-85); but for this third and greatly enlarged edition I have made more use than I did before of the rival Complete Works edited by D.E. Sattler and others, published in Frankfurt (1975-2008), and also of Dietrich Uffhausen’s Hölderlins hymnische Spätdichtung (Stuttgart 1989). Beissner, a classical philologist and an extraordinarily fine and scrupulous reader of Hölderlin’s manuscripts, worked always towards establishing a ‘finished text’ and this, along with any finished or at least distinct versions of a poem, he published in 1i and 2i. Everything else, all the undecided, inconclusive and abandoned possibilities, he conscientiously presented in the accompanying volumes (1ii and 2 ii), for readers to study alongside the texts in 1i and 2i, if they wished and were able to. Sattler and Uffhausen both thought this editorial philosophy and practice improper; and in their editions they supply facsimiles of the manuscripts themselves, followed by typographical equivalents of those facsimiles, and finally a readable text as it were physically coming out of the often very convoluted drafts and revisions. I feel more inclined this time, having done more poems, and particularly more of the late hymns and fragments, to admit that a ‘truer’ translation would be one which followed exactly the genesis, progress and, quite often, failure of a poem on its way (we assume) to a final form. The ‘truest’ translation then would be one of all the words on every manuscript page exactly in their places relative to one another, a method which would tend to undermine the whole concept of linear progression since Hölderlin frequently began his poems in Keimworte [seed-words] scattered across a sheet of paper and out of them he released, like a series of starbursts, the life and shape of the poem. Often also he left variants – different epithets, for example – standing till a very late stage of composition; and in poems he did not finish, there they remained, as possibilities. And if you believe, as I do, that any alteration even of a single word, or a choosing one from two or three, affects more or less palpably and significantly the workings and sense of the whole poem, you may see in a Hölderlin poem in progress an abyss of co-existent possibilities, quite dizzying. Making a translation of such a phenomenon with its different inks, different thicknesses of nib, different layers of work (intermingled sometimes with stray elements from other poems), the earliest still visible through the latest – the translator would have to follow the creating mind itself, and to do that exactly and truthfully would take far longer than I’ve got. So I have translated Beissner’s finished-looking texts and don’t with these few remarks mean to impugn them in any way. But studying the work of Sattler and Uffhausen I have come closer to a sense of the fearful undertow beneath Hölderlin’s strictly beautiful classical forms, the maelstrom of chaos which may actually be the same thing as creation at its highest pitch. And aware of that, I love and admire him ever more for his heroic struggle against the threat of dissolution inherent in his undertaking, and for his many triumphs.

For the most part I have ordered the poems according to the chronology of the Stuttgart edition, the chief exception being that I brought the nine ‘Night Songs’ together as a group and in the order in which they were first published in 1805.

Finally (since it may seem rather an eccentric exercise), a word on my translations of some of Hölderlin’s translations. His, chiefly those from Greek, are central to, and an integral part of, his whole poetic oeuvre. He came into his own poetic language by doing them – a language that is uniquely his, thoroughly German, uand beautifully haunted by Greek. Anyone wishing to read into the heart of Hölderlin’s poetry will be helped by his translations. So I have ‘Englished’ some – not the great Pindar translations of 1800, but others (including Oedipus and Antigone) less extreme in their procedure which could, I thought, be usefully ‘brought across’.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This edition has been expanded from Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books, 1990) and its second, expanded edition (1996), with the addition of a substantial number of new translations as well as incorporating the whole of Hölderlin’s Sophocles: Oedipus & Antigone (Bloodaxe Books, 2001).

A part of my translation of Hölderlin’s Oedipus first appeared in Comparative Criticism, 20 (1998), and a few of the poems in Modern Poetry in Translation.

A large part of this new volume has been closely read for me by Helen Constantine, Sasha Dugdale and Charlie Louth. I am deeply grateful to them for many corrections and improvements and much helpful discussion.

 Pencil drawing by unknown artist, probably a fellow-student.

(Württembergische Landesbibliothek, Cod.poet.et.phil.fol.63,V.b.3)

Greece

(for Stäudlin)

Had I found you under shady plane trees

Where through flowers the Cephissus’ waters flowed

Where the young men dreamed the ways to glory

Where Socrates was heard and hearts were swayed

Where Aspasia strolled through groves of myrtle

Where my Plato set the vision free

Where from the noisy agora the people

Raised the glad shouts of fraternity

Where the spring was spiced with festive singing

Where the rivers of inspiration

Poured from Athene’s sacred hilltop giving

Thanks and praise for her protection,

Where by a thousand hours of poetry

Dreaming like gods, they stayed the fleeting years

Oh had I found you there and loved you dearly

As I have loved you in this age of ours

How different then would have been our embraces –

You’d have sung me the dead at Marathon

In your eyes, smiling on me in those days,

Lovely wild enthusiasm would have shone,

Your heart made young again by victories

Your spirit too, among the laurel leaves,

There would have felt the joyous cooling breezes

Stinted in our close oppressive lives.

Has your star of love been clouded over?

And youth’s rosy-fingered dawning too?

Oh in the dance of Hellas’ golden hours

The fleeing of the years would not touch you.

There in every heart eternally

Love and courage burned like Hestia’s flame

There like the garden of the Hesperides

Always youth’s proud pleasures were in bloom.

Oh your heart would not have beaten vainly

For the people in those better days.

In your loving strong fraternity

Joy would have brought the tears to your eyes.

Wait a while – the hour will come for certain

And set free the gods from where they’re pent.

Die! You seek in this earth’s habitation

In vain your noble spirit’s element.

Attica, the heroine, has fallen

Where the children of the gods are lain

In the city’s marble halls in ruin

Stands the crane in mourning now alone.

Spring returns, the smiling spring, the gracious

But she’ll find her brothers never more

In the holy valley of the Illisus –

Under thorns and rubble: seek them there!

Let me cross into the distant country

To Alcaeus and Anacreon

In the narrow house I’d sleep more gladly

Among the holy shades of Marathon.

Oh, for Greece, beloved land, let these be

The last of all the tears I ever shed

Sever now my thread of life, o Parcae

For my heart is given to the dead.

The oak trees

Out of the gardens I come to you, sons of the mountain!

Out of the gardens where Nature lives patient and homely

Caring and cared for together with hard-working women and men.

But you like a race of Titans stand in a world that is tamer

Splendid, belonging only to yourselves and the heavens

Who nourished and raised you and to the earth, your mother.

None of you ever was put through the schools of humans

Each among all, joyously, freely, from vigorous roots

Forces upwards and seizes, as eagles their prey

Space with your powerful arms and towards the clouds

Large and serene you lift up your sunlit crowns.

Each of you is a world, you live like the stars in the sky

Each one a god, in a free confederacy.

If I could bear my servitude never would I envy these trees

But to the social world I would fit myself gladly.

Were I no longer shackled to the social world by my heart

That cannot stop loving, how gladly I’d live among you!

To Diotima

Come and look at the happiness: trees in the cooling breezes

Are tossing their branches

Like dancers’ hair and with sunshine and rain the sky

Is playing on the earth

As though joy had hands and were raising a music

And light and shadows

Pass in succession and harmony over the hills

Away like the myriad

Notes that swarm in a loving quarrel

Over a lute.

Gently the sky has touched his brother the river

With silvery drops

And now he is near and he empties wholly the fullness

Held in his heart

Over the trees and the river and…

And verdant copses, the sky’s own face on the river

Fades and we lose them,

The head of the mountain, alone, the little houses, the rocks

He hides in his lap

And the hills that assemble around him like lambs

Clothed in blossom

As soft as wool and that suck on the clear cold

Springs of the mountain,

The misting floor with its seed and flowers,

The garden here,

Close things and distant leave us and wane in a happy confusion,

The sun goes out.

But now with a rush the floods of heaven have passed

And purer, younger,

The earth with her lucky children steps from the bath.

In livelier joy

The green of the leaves shines forth and brighter the gold of the flowers,

White as the sheep that the shepherd has flung in the dip,

Diotima

Heavenly Muse of Delight, who once reconciled the elements

Come now, quieten for me the chaos of the times,

Settle the furious fighting with