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Best Poems From
ERHARD HANS JOSEF LANG
(January 8,1957)
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77.
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The Giant's Plaything (transl. and its original in German)
Castle Nideck of Alsace is well-known in legends,
the very heights, where, times ago, a castle stood of the giants,
it lies now in ruins,
the old homestead deserted, empty;
ask anyone about the race of the giants,
you shall find them no more.
Once upon a time a virgin maiden of the giants
came out of the castle,
enjoying herself, she was playing,
with no one to guard her outside the gates,
and she climbed down a slope right into the valley,
curious to explore into how things might have been down there.
Quick in a few steps
she has crossed through the woods near Haslach;
soon she has reached the habitat of men,
and the towns and villages and tilled acres there
appear to her eyes, indeed,
a very strange world.
As she glances down to her feet,
she now notices a farmer tilling his field;
to her, someone creeping to and fro,
a little creature, so very gay,
a plough glistening there in the sunlight as blank and clear.
'Oh! what a wonderful plaything! ' she exclaims,
'this I shall take with me home! '
Kneeling down, swiftly she spreads her handkerchief out,
and sweeps by her hands
everything there in motion,
up into a heap and onto her piece of cloth,
and, folding it,
with joyous leaps off she's rushing,
just the way we know that kids are,
she's hurrying back to her castle, looking fast for her father:
'Oh father, dear father, a plaything so wonderful!
As endearing as this,
I've never seen any thing up on our hills.'
The old man sat at his table drinking his freshly got wine;
the pleasure of his eyes,
he asked his little daughter:
'What squirmish things are these,
That you are carrying with you there,
inside your cloth?
You are full with joy
gamboling and prancing;
let me see, what you've got.'
And she's spreading out her small handkerchief
carefully taking to
putting up in one row,
the farmer, the plough and all the array;
everything set up tidy and neat on top of the table,
she starts clapping her hands
jumping and jubilating aloud.
But the old man turns a serious face to her,
as he is wiggling his head, and speaks:
'What have you done there?
This is not a thing to play with.
Whence you have come to have taken it,
there you shall go and return it to;
a farmer is not a toy for playing with,
what had come over your mind?
Do fast as I bid you,
without any grumbling;
if not for the farmer,
you'd have no bread;
our tribe of giants is
sprouting on the farmers' saplings,
a farmer is not a toy for playing with,
God beware you.'
Castle Nideck in Alsace is well-known in legends,
the very heights, where, times ago, a castle stood of the giants,
it lies now in ruins,
the old homestead deserted, empty;
ask anyone about the race of the giants,
you shall find them no more.
written in the year 1836 by Albert von Chamisso
(1781 - 1838 / Germany)
DAS RIESENSPIELZEUG
Burg Nideck ist im Elsaß der Sage wohlbekannt,
die Höhe, wo vorzeiten die Burg der Riesen stand;
sie selbst ist nun verfallen, die Stätte wüst und leer,
du fragest nach den Riesen, du findest sie nicht mehr.
Einst kam das Riesenfräulein aus jener Burg hervor,
erging sich sonder Wartung und spielend vor dem Tor
und stieg hinab den Abhang bis in das Tal hinein,
neugierig zu erkunden,
wie's unten möchte sein.
Mit wen'gen raschen Schritten durchkreuzte sie den Wald,
erreichte gegen Haslach das Land der Menschen bald,
und Städte dort und Dörfer und das bestellte Feld
erschienen ihren Augen gar eine fremde Welt.
Wie jetzt zu ihren Füßen sie spähend niederschaut,
bemerkt sie einen Bauer, der seinen Acker baut;
es kriecht das kleine Wesen einher so sonderbar,
es glitzert in der Sonne der Pflug so blank und klar.
'Ei! artig Spielding! ' ruft sie, 'das nehm' ich mit nach Haus! '
Sie knieet nieder, spreitet behend ihr Tüchlein aus
und feget mit den Händen, was sich da alles regt,
zu Haufen in das Tüchlein, das sie zusammenschlägt,
und eilt mit freud'gen Sprüngen, man weiß, wie Kinder sind,
zur Burg hinan und suchet den Vater auf geschwind:
'Ei Vater, lieber Vater, ein Spielding wunderschön!
So Allerliebstes sah ich noch nie auf unsern Höh'n.'
Der Alte saß am Tische und trank den kühlen Wein,
er schaut sie an behaglich, er fragt das Töchterlein:
'Was Zappeliges bringst du in deinem Tuch herbei?
Du hüpfest ja vor Freuden; laß sehen, was es sei.'
Sie spreitet aus das Tüchlein und fängt behutsam an,
den Bauer aufzustellen, den Pflug und das Gespann;
wie alles auf dem Tische so zierlich aufgebaut,
so klatscht sie in die Hände und springt und jubelt laut.
Der Alte wird gar ernsthaft und wiegt sein Haupt und spricht:
'Was hast du angerichtet?
Das ist kein Spielzeug nicht!
Wo du es hergenommen, da trag es wieder hin,
der Bauer ist kein Spielzeug,
was kommt dir in den Sinn?
Sollst gleich und ohne Murren erfüllen mein Gebot;
denn wäre nicht der Bauer, so hättest du kein Brot;
es sprießt der Stamm der Riesen aus Bauernmark hervor,
der Bauer ist kein Spielzeug,
da sei uns Gott davor.'
Burg Nideck ist im Elsaß der Sage wohlbekannt,
die Höhe, wo vorzeiten die Burg der Riesen stand;
sie selbst ist nun verfallen, die Stätte wüst und leer,
du fragest nach den Riesen, du findest sie nicht mehr.
* * *
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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78.
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The Idea Of Rituals (One Example Of An Ancient Traditional Vedic Ritual)
Satyakama the son of Jabala explained this
Doctrine of the prana (breath of life) to
Gosruti, the son of Vyaghrapada and said:
If one should tell this to a dry stump,
Branches would grow and leaves spring forth.
Now, if a man wishes to attain greatness,
He should perform the initiatory rite
On the day of the new moon and
Then on the night of the full moon
He should stir a paste of all the herbs
With curds and honey and offer it
As a libation in the fire
Where the melted butter is offered, saying:
Svaha to the oldest (jyashtha) and greatest (sreshtha) !
Then let him throw the remainder
Adhering to the ladle into the paste.
In the same manner he should offer a libation in the fire
Where the melted butter is offered, saying:
Svaha to the most excellent (vasishtha) !
Then let him throw the remainder adhering to the ladle into the paste.
In the same manner he should offer a libation in the fire
Where the melted butter is offered, saying:
Svaha to firmness (pratishthi) ! and
Then throw the remainder adhering to the ladle into the paste.
In the same manner he should offer a libation in the fire
Where the melted butter isoffered, saying:
Svaha to prosperity (sampad) ! and
Then throw the remainder adhering to the ladle into the paste.
In the same manner he should offer a libation into the fire
Where the melted butter is offered, saying:
Svaha to the abode (ayatana) ! and
Then throw the remainder adhering to the ladle into the paste.
Then, moving away a little from the fire
And holding the paste (mantha) in his hands,
He recites: Thou (prana) art ama by name,
For all this rests in thee.
He (i.e. the paste, which is the same as the prana) is the oldest,
The greatest, the king and the sovereign.
May he make me the oldest, the greatest, the king and the sovereign.
May I be all this!
Then he recites the following Rik-mantra,
Swallowing the paste (mantha) each time he utters a foot of the mantra:
We desire, of the great progenitor (i.e. the sun) -
Here he swallows a little-of the luminous, the food -
Here he swallows a little- the best and all-supporting -
Here he swallows a little -
We meditate quickly on the nature of the sun -
Here he swallows the whole.
Having cleansed the vessel made of metal or wood,
He lies down behind the fire,
On a skin or on the bare ground,
Controlling his speech and self-possessed.
If he sees a woman in a dream,
Then let him know that
His work (rite) has been a success.
If during rites performed with
A view to fulfilling certain desires,
He sees a woman in his dream,
Let him know of his success
From this vision in a dream, yea,
From this vision in a dream.
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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79.
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The Laurel Wreath (translation)
Across the shores of the five continents
the winds went carrying the messages:
The power of a mighty one does not go down,
the clan of our pioneering forefathers is still alive!
In its name again
was done a new harvest
of unforgetful fame.
This is why the nation's gratitude on this day
will bind foreheads in laurel leaves.
But too scantily this triumphant people would be thanking its elite
as supple as warriors,
if a twig of laurel leaves were to be enough for them.
No - your wreath should be one that's not fading
on the temples of your heroes' faces,
land of our birth! -
Can we make this gift? -
Yes, we can -
remembering that not in the tremor of sounding horns,
but only with each one's labour ready to serve,
we can tie the wreath.
Our own endeavour for achieving the capacity
rendered noble by an outstanding deed,
look, there this wreath is.
Let also us do as they do!
Again and again thus new names would impress
on our stone-tough chest
the reputation of a rock,
thus into times far and away
moving over a wreath not fading.
(written by Finnish poet
Uuno Kailas (1901 - 1933) for the planned wreath coronation festivity
for Finnish winners of the Olympic Games in Helsinki of 1928, transl. by
Erhard Lang, submitted on July 6,2006, the day the border station
between India & China, Nathu La, has been re-opened, after having
been closed in 1962 due the Indo-Chinese war)
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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80.
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The Legend Of The Clocks (translation)
Oh those clocks, those!
It is as if the ore were alive
and ringing like the crying of a man!
Thus said a teenager who was drinking beer.
And the alert keeper of the pub
knew something to say about it: -
In them there is flesh and blood.
A certain madman founded them once,
a man who arrived from over the mountains,
a sad fellow, who only drank pure water,
who only nibbled dry bread.
Since he repented for sins, took to suffering.
'Conscience, ' he exclaimed, 'brought me here;
I came to found clocks;
the handicraft trust had been looking for a foundery blacksmith.'
He got the work,
arranged for a shop, for the moulds.
Until late at night he wrestled in his shop.
And clocks he did found.
He founded many clocks - bad ones, all not ticking.
What could have been lacking, only heaven knew.
He melted the clocks - again to be founding mute ones.
Deep pain came to burn in his eyes.
His mouth was heard babbling strange things:
'No sound of clocks will be carrying up to heaven,
to where the Father is,
unless you give the weightiest of sacrifice; '
thus spoke the Master in the night, verily.'
The man melted his pieces of metal ore;
there, in front of the shop,
his lovely-haired daughter was playing,
a golden child, her father's only treasure on earth.
And when his dear one's laughter rang out,
it gave the man a jolt, as if hit by lightning,
that went into his soul
and paralyzed it by the loading of sin.
In pain he shouted:
'I can't do this! I can't do this! '
The silent clocks to the melting oven he took,
made new ones founded.
A fire, like mad burnt in his eyes.
The clanking of the bronze didn't come alive,
no, it just didn't.
Facing the Holy Virgin the man was,
praying fervently,
staying up all night, until morning.
Had left speaking loudly in delirium:
'Oh mother, with the clock clinking,
I shall not go down to a hell of trouble,
but, enveloped by heaven,
with its sin washed away,
my soul may ring.'
The man melted his pieces of ore;
at the door of the shop sat the lovely-haired daughter,
a golden child, her father's only treasure on earth.
Like snakes of fire the oven glowed.
The father turned his eyes to the child,
hurt, love exhausted his mind.
Like in a dream the hapless man was walking.
Pulled onto his lap his daughter and kissed her,
covered her eyes -
threw her into the molten bronze.
That one devoured the dear one,
hizzing.
Heaven only knows, how in that way,
that day the ore began to be alive.
You may hear how it is ticking.
By nightfall that man was a crazy man.
by Finnish poet Uuno Kailas (1901-1933) ,
transl. by Erhard Lang
note: in the year 1978, in the holy city of Rishikesh, India,
I vowed by myself never again to wear
a time-piece on my body; a vow I kept until now.
Erhard Hans Josef Lang
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