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Zwischen Ekstase, Klarheit und Ironie Emily Dickinson unternahm weitere Reisen als so mancher Dichter ihrer Zeit, doch ihre Reisen führten sie in die belebte Stille ihres Gartens und in die Ruhe ihres sonnigen Zimmers, wo sie auf das Leben der amerikanischen Provinz blicken oder in der Ferne die Natur beobachten konnte. In dieser Abgeschiedenheit entstanden poetische Selbsterkundungen, zugleich ekstatisch und nüchtern, ironisch und ernsthaft. Diese Auswahl lädt dazu ein, die Poesie der wohl einflussreichsten amerikanischen Lyrikerin im Original und in deutscher Übersetzung zu entdecken.
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Seitenzahl: 114
Emily Dickinson
Poems/Gedichte
Reclam
1970, 2022 Philipp Reclam jun. Verlag GmbH, Siemensstraße 32, 71254 Ditzingen
Gesamtherstellung: Philipp Reclam jun. Verlag GmbH, Siemensstraße 32, 71254 Ditzingen
Covergestaltung: zero-media.net
Coverabbildung: shutterstock.com/holaholga
Made in Germany 2022
RECLAM ist eine eingetragene Marke der Philipp Reclam jun. GmbH & Co. KG, Stuttgart
ISBN978-3-15-961973-6
ISBN der Buchausgabe 978-3-15-011396-7
www.reclam.de
Poems
Gedichte
Zu dieser Ausgabe
Literaturhinweise
Nachwort
Ich stehe gern vor dir,
Du Fläche schwarz und rau,
Du schartiges Visier
Vor meines Liebsten Brau’,
– – –
Vorhang am Heiligtume,
Mein Paradiesestor,
Dahinter alles Blume,
Und alles Dorn davor!
Annette von Droste-Hülshoff aus »Die Taxuswand«
A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer’s morn –
A flask of Dew – A Bee or two –
A Breeze – a caper in the trees –
And I’m a Rose!
ca. 1858
Adrift! A little boat adrift!
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?
So Sailors say – on yesterday –
Just as the dusk was brown
One little boat gave up it’s strife
And gurgled down and down.
So angels say – on yesterday –
Just as the dawn was red
One little boat – o’erspent with gales –
Retrimmed it’s masts – redecked it’s sails –
And shot – exultant on!
ca. 1858
Nobody knows this little Rose –
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it –
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey –
On it’s breast to lie –
Only a Bird will wonder –
Only a Breeze will sigh –
Ah Little Rose – how easy
For such as thee to die!
ca. 1858
Before the ice is in the pools –
Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow –
Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!
What we touch the hems of
On a summer’s day –
What is only walking
Just a bridge away –
That which sings so – speaks so –
When there’s no one here –
Will the frock I wept in
Answer me to wear?
ca. 1858
I robbed the Woods –
The trusting Woods.
The unsuspecting Trees
Brought out their Burs and mosses
My fantasy to please.
I scanned their trinkets curious –
I grasped – I bore away –
What will the solemn Hemlock –
What will the Oak tree say?
ca. 1858
Could live – did live –
Could die – did die –
Could smile upon the whole
T[h]rough faith in one he met not,
To introduce his soul.
Could go from scene familiar
To an untraversed spot –
Could contemplate the journey
With unpuzzled heart –
Such trust had one among us,
Among us not today –
We who saw the launching
Never sailed the Bay!
1858
If I should die,
And you should live –
And time sh’d gurgle on –
And morn sh’d beam –
And noon should burn –
As it has usual done –
If Birds should build as early
And Bees as bustling go –
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with Daisies lie –
That Commerce will continue –
And Trades as briskly fly –
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene –
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!
ca. 1858
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory
As he defeated – dying –
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
ca. 1859
A something in a summer’s Day
As slow her flambeaux burn away
Which solemnizes me.
A something in a summer’s noon –
A depth – an Azure – a perfume –
Transcending extasy.
And still within a summer’s night
A something so transporting bright
I clap my hands to see –
Then vail my too inspecting face
Lest such a subtle – shimmering grace
Flutter too far for me –
The wizard fingers never rest –
The purple brook within the breast
Still chafes it’s narrow bed –
Still rears the East her amber Flag –
Guides still the Sun along the Crag
His Caravan of Red –
So looking on – the night – the morn
Conclude the wonder gay –
And I meet, coming thro’ the dews
Another summer’s Day!
ca. 1859
These are the days when Birds come back –
A very few – a Bird or two –
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old – old sophistries of June –
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee –
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear –
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze –
Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake –
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!
ca. 1859
Besides the Autumn poets sing
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the Haze –
A few incisive Mornings –
A few Ascetic Eves –
Gone – Mr Bryant’s »Golden Rod« –
And Mr Thomson’s »sheaves«.
Still, is the bustle in the Brook –
Sealed are the spicy valves –
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The Eyes of many Elves –
Perhaps a squirrel may remain –
My sentiments to share –
Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind –
Thy windy will to bear!
ca. 1859
At last, to be identified!
At last, the lamps upon thy side
The rest of Life to see!
Past Midnight! Past the Morning Star!
Past Sunrise!
Ah, What leagues there were
Between our feet, and Day!
ca. 1860
If I should’nt be alive
When the Robins come,
Give the one in Red Cravat,
A Memorial crumb.
If I could’nt thank you,
Being fast asleep,
You will know I’m trying
With my Granite lip!
ca. 1860
Come slowly – Eden!
Lips unused to Thee –
Bashful – sip thy Jessamines –
As the fainting Bee –
Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums –
Counts his nectars –
Enters – and is lost in Balms.
ca. 1860
I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro endless summer days –
From inns of Molten Blue –
When »Landlords« turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door –
When Butterflies – renounce their »drams« –
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun –
ca. 1860
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers –
Untouched by Morning –
And untouched by Noon –
Lie the meek members of the Resurrection –
Rafter of Satin – and Roof of Stone!
Grand go the Years – in the Crescent – above them –
Worlds scoop their Arcs –
And Firmaments – row –
Diadems – drop – and Doges – surrender –
Soundless as dots – on a Disc of Snow –
1861
Blazing in Gold and quenching in Purple
Leaping like Leopards to the Sky
Then at the feet of the old Horizon
Laying her spotted Face to die
Stooping as low as the Otter’s Window
Touching the Roof and tinting the Barn
Kissing her Bonnet to the Meadow
And the Juggler of Day is gone
ca. 1861/1866
I held a Jewel in my fingers –
And went to sleep –
The day was warm, and winds were prosy –
I said »’Twill keep« –
I woke – and chid my honest fingers,
The Gem was gone –
And now, an Amethyst remembrance
Is all I own –
ca. 1861
Wild Nights – Wild Nights!
Were I with thee
Wild Nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile – the Winds –
To a Heart in port –
Done with the Compass –
Done with the Chart!
Rowing in Eden –
Ah, the Sea!
Might I but moor – Tonight –
In Thee!
ca. 1861
I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes –
Each – with a Robin’s expectation –
I – with my Redbreast –
And my Rhymes –
Late – when I take my place in summer –
But – I shall bring a fuller tune –
Vespers – are sweeter than Matins – Signor –
Morning – only the seed of Noon –
ca. 1861
You see I cannot see – your lifetime –
I must guess –
How many times it ache for me – today – Confess –
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film –
But I guess guessing hurts –
Mine – get so dim!
Too vague – the face –
My own – so patient – covets –
Too far – the strength –
My timidness enfolds –
Haunting the Heart –
Like her translated faces –
Teazing the want –
It – only – can suffice!
ca. 1861
If I’m lost – now –
That I was found –
Shall still my transport be –
That once – on me – those Jasper Gates
Blazed open – suddenly –
That in my awkward – gazing – face –
The Angels – softly peered –
And touched me with their fleeces,
Almost as if they cared –
I’m banished – now – you know it –
How foreign that can be –
You’ll know – Sir – when the Savior’s face
Turns so – away from you –
ca. 1861
Put up my lute!
What of – my Music!
Since the sole ear I cared to charm –
Passive – as Granite – laps My Music –
Sobbing – will suit – as well as psalm!
Would but the »Memnon« of the Desert –
Teach me the strain
That vanquished Him –
When He – surrendered to the Sunrise –
Maybe – that – would awaken – them!
ca. 1861
A solemn thing – it was – I said –
A Woman – white – to be –
And wear – if God should count me fit –
Her blameless mystery –
A hallowed thing – to drop a life
Into the purple well –
Too plummetless – that it return –
Eternity – until –
I pondered how the bliss would look –
And would it feel as big –
When I could take it in my hand –
As hovering – seen – through fog –
And then – the size of this »small« life –
The Sages – call it small –
Swelled – like Horizons – in my vest –
And I sneered – softly – »small«!
ca. 1861
Many a phrase has the English language –
I have heard but one –
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue –
Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide’s a’ lull –
Saying itself in new inflection –
Like a Whippowil –
Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep –
Thundering it’s Prospective –
Till I stir, and weep –
Not for the Sorrow, done me –
But the push of Joy –
Say it again, Saxon!
Hush – Only to me!
ca. 1861
The Drop, that wrestles in the Sea –
Forgets her own locality –
As I – toward Thee –
She knows herself an incense small –
Yet small – she sighs – if All – is All –
How larger – be?
The Ocean – smiles – at her Conceit –
But she, forgetting Amphitrite –
Pleads – »Me«?
ca. 1861
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Dont tell! they’d advertise – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
ca. 1861
Of Bronze – and Blaze –
The North – Tonight –
So adequate – its forms –
So preconcerted with itself
So distant – to alarms –
An Unconcern so sovreign
To Universe, or me –
Infects my simple spirit
With Taints of Majesty –
Till I take vaster attitudes –
And strut upon my stem –
Disdaining Men, and Oxygen,
For Arrogance of them –
My Splendors, are Menagerie –
But their Competeless Show
Will entertain the Centuries
When I, am long ago,
An Island in dishonored Grass –
Whom none but Beetles – know.
ca. 1861
How the old Mountains drip with Sunset
How the Hemlocks burn –
How the Dun Brake is draped in Cinder
By the Wizard Sun –
How the old Steeples hand the Scarlet
Till the Ball is full –
Have I the lip of the Flamingo
That I dare to tell?
Then, how the Fire ebbs like Billows –
Touching all the Grass
With a departing – Sapphire – feature –
As a Duchess passed –
How a small Dusk crawls on the Village
Till the Houses blot
And the odd Flambeau, no men carry
Glimmer on the Street –
How it is Night – in Nest and Kennel –
And where was the Wood –
Just a Dome of Abyss is Bowing
Into Solitude –
These are the Visions flitted Guido –
Titian – never told –
Domenichino dropped his pencil –
Paralyzed, with Gold –
ca. 1861
The Soul selects her own Society –
Then – shuts the Door –
To her divine Majority –
Present no more –
Unmoved – she notes the Chariots – pausing –
At her low Gate –
Unmoved – an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat –
I’ve known her – from an ample nation –
Choose One –
Then – close the Valves of her attention
Like Stone –
ca. 1862
He fumbles at your Soul
As Players at the Keys
Before they drop full Music on –
He stuns you by degrees –
Prepares your brittle Nature
For the Etherial Blow
By fainter Hammers – further heard –
Then nearer – Then so slow
Your Breath has time to straighten –
Your Brain – to bubble Cool –
Deals – One – imperial – Thunderbolt –
That scalps your naked Soul –
When Winds take Forests in their Paws –
The Universe – is still –
ca. 1862
The nearest Dream recedes – unrealized –
The Heaven we chase,
Like the June Bee – before the School Boy,
Invites the Race –