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Oppressive Light: Selected Poems by Robert Walser
Oppressive Light: Selected Poems by Robert Walser represents the first collection of Robert Walser's poetry in English translation and an opportunity to experience Walser as he saw himself at the beginning and at the end of his literary career––as a poet. The collection also includes notes on dates of composition, draft versions the printed poems represent, which volume of the Werkausgabe the poems were first published in, and brief biographical information on characters and locations that appear in the poems and may not be known to readers.
- GenresPoetryGerman Literature
200 pages, Paperback
First published February 14, 2012
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241 people want to read
About the author
Robert Walser
220 books850 followersRobert Walser, a German-Swiss prose writer and novelist, enjoyed high repute among a select group of authors and critics in Berlin early in his career, only to become nearly forgotten by the time he committed himself to the Waldau mental clinic in Bern in January 1929. Since his death in 1956, however, Walser has been recognized as German Switzerland’s leading author of the first half of the twentieth century, perhaps Switzerland’s single significant modernist. In his homeland he has served as an emboldening exemplar and a national classic during the unparalleled expansion of German-Swiss literature of the last two generations.
Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.
Walser’s writing is characterized by its linguistic sophistication and animation. His work exhibits several sets of tensions or contrasts: between a classic modernist devotion to art and a ceaseless questioning of the moral legitimacy and practical utility of art; between a spirited exuberance in style and texture and recurrent reflective melancholy; between the disparate claims of nature and culture; and between democratic respect for divergence in individuals and elitist reaction to the values of the mass culture and standardization of the industrial age.
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
November 29, 2020
I made the grave error of promising I would quote some of these poems in full in my review. Now I have to hold up my end of the bargain. I have reasons for each, but I don't want these few poems to overshadow the rest. Each is good, most are exceptional. And if I could plant a translator in your head so that you could read and understand the poems in the original German, I would. The translations are well-done for the most part, but miss some of the subtleties, the innuendos and shadings contained in the German. If you have even a rudimentary grasp of German, take that Langenscheidt off the shelf and dig into the words and phrases Walser so expertly weaves. I promise you, there are hidden rewards there.
Oppressive Light
Two trees stand in the snow,
the sky, tired of light,
moves home, and nothing else
but gloom close by.
And behind the trees
dark houses tower up.
Now you hear something said,
now dogs begin to bay.
And the dear, round lamp-
moon appears in the house.
And the light goes out again,
as a wound yawns open.
How small life is here
and how big nothingness.
The sky, tired of light,
has given everything to the snow.
The two trees bow
their heads to each other.
Clouds cross the world's
silence in a circle dance.
Joy of Life
How beautiful it is when you're silent,
when you stop talking to yourself.
There you see happy and beautiful
people, charmingly joined into a circle,
enjoying their conversations beneath
the trees, cute dancers who move
to the rhythm of a concert. Nature
is a sugar baker's confection; costumes,
elegant gestures! On the water
those who rock in boats delight
in their gliding over a mirror,
the landscape seems painted,
life, you imagine, is eternal,
and an unpleasant parting from these
gracious, flowered pastures, impossible.
How difficult it is to dress death
and his harsh suffering in fertile words.
Now, lest you feel that Walser's poems all reflect some inner nihilism or that his dark corners are only the misgivings of a mentally-troubled man, I share with you the defiant poem "Self-Reflection". I am reminded of Henley's Invictus, but with a less grim, much more mischievous bent. Walser is a trickster with the kind of attitude I find often resonating in the halls of my own skull and heart. If I were ever to get an entire poem tattooed on my body (not bloody likely, but if), this would be it:
Self-Reflection
Because they didn't want me to be young, I became young.
Because i should've been a sufferer, many pleasures flattered me.
Because they tried their best to put me in a bad mood,
I sought and found ways into moods more welcome than any I ever
could've wished for.
Since they impressed fear on me, courage cheered and laughed with
me.
They abandoned me, so I learned to forget myself,
which allowed me to bathe in my inspired soul.
When I lost much, I realized losses are winnings,
because no one can find something he didn't first lose,
and to discover what's lost is worth more than any safe possession.
Because they didn't want to know me, I became self aware,
became my own understanding, friendly doctor.
Because I found enemies in my life, I attracted friends,
and friends dropped away, but enemies, too, stopped being hostile,
and the tree that bears the most beautiful fruits of luck is called
misfortune.
On life's path, we lift all the peculiarities given to us
by our birth, our family home and our schools,
and only those who couldn't help but strain themselves need to be
rescued.
No one who's content with himself ever needed help,
unless he happened to be in an accident and needed to be carried to the
hospital.
Probably too many letters for a headstone engraving, huh?
We'll see . . .
Oppressive Light
Two trees stand in the snow,
the sky, tired of light,
moves home, and nothing else
but gloom close by.
And behind the trees
dark houses tower up.
Now you hear something said,
now dogs begin to bay.
And the dear, round lamp-
moon appears in the house.
And the light goes out again,
as a wound yawns open.
How small life is here
and how big nothingness.
The sky, tired of light,
has given everything to the snow.
The two trees bow
their heads to each other.
Clouds cross the world's
silence in a circle dance.
Joy of Life
How beautiful it is when you're silent,
when you stop talking to yourself.
There you see happy and beautiful
people, charmingly joined into a circle,
enjoying their conversations beneath
the trees, cute dancers who move
to the rhythm of a concert. Nature
is a sugar baker's confection; costumes,
elegant gestures! On the water
those who rock in boats delight
in their gliding over a mirror,
the landscape seems painted,
life, you imagine, is eternal,
and an unpleasant parting from these
gracious, flowered pastures, impossible.
How difficult it is to dress death
and his harsh suffering in fertile words.
Now, lest you feel that Walser's poems all reflect some inner nihilism or that his dark corners are only the misgivings of a mentally-troubled man, I share with you the defiant poem "Self-Reflection". I am reminded of Henley's Invictus, but with a less grim, much more mischievous bent. Walser is a trickster with the kind of attitude I find often resonating in the halls of my own skull and heart. If I were ever to get an entire poem tattooed on my body (not bloody likely, but if), this would be it:
Self-Reflection
Because they didn't want me to be young, I became young.
Because i should've been a sufferer, many pleasures flattered me.
Because they tried their best to put me in a bad mood,
I sought and found ways into moods more welcome than any I ever
could've wished for.
Since they impressed fear on me, courage cheered and laughed with
me.
They abandoned me, so I learned to forget myself,
which allowed me to bathe in my inspired soul.
When I lost much, I realized losses are winnings,
because no one can find something he didn't first lose,
and to discover what's lost is worth more than any safe possession.
Because they didn't want to know me, I became self aware,
became my own understanding, friendly doctor.
Because I found enemies in my life, I attracted friends,
and friends dropped away, but enemies, too, stopped being hostile,
and the tree that bears the most beautiful fruits of luck is called
misfortune.
On life's path, we lift all the peculiarities given to us
by our birth, our family home and our schools,
and only those who couldn't help but strain themselves need to be
rescued.
No one who's content with himself ever needed help,
unless he happened to be in an accident and needed to be carried to the
hospital.
Probably too many letters for a headstone engraving, huh?
We'll see . . .
July 28, 2012
`I'm not here to write, I'm here to be mad.' Some last words of Robert Walser
Robert Walser's poetry comes from a mind that perceived the world in a manner different from others. His life (1878 - 1956) is worthy of a great biography, and in a sense that is what the opening Introduction by American poet Carolyn Forché provides in a brief but sensitive way. She provides a survey of the Swiss born, German speaking poet's progress from birth through his early work as a banker, an unsuccessful actor, a military man, and ultimately a writer and poet. The presence of mental illness in his family seemed to make Walser more aware of the transience of life - the vanishing life he observed and described in his poetry - and his final years found him confined to a mental hospital where he continued to write `from the pencil area' (he wrote poems and prose in a diminutive Sütterlin hand, the letters of which measured about a millimeter of height by the end of that very productive phase.) Highly regarded by such literary luminaries as Christian Morgenstern, Franz Kafka, Walter Benjamin, and Hermann Hesse. He has exerted a considerable influence on various contemporary writers, including J.M Coetzee, Ror Wolf, Peter Handke, WG Sebald, and Max Goldt.
Walser's poems are usually rather brief and condense and distill much emotion in a very few words, carefully placed without nodding to design fad on the page:
TRYST
Here it's quiet, here it feels good,
here the meadows are fresh and pure,
and a spot in shade and sunshine
like well-behaved children.
Here the strong desire
that is my life dissolves,
I no longer know desire,
here my will dissolves.
I'm so still, so warmly moved,
I don't know, it's all confused,
yet everything's been proven wrong.
I no longer hear any complaints,
yet there's complaining in the room
of such a soft kind, so white, so dreamy,
and again I'm left knowing nothing.
I only know that it's quiet here,
stripped of all needs and doings,
here it feels good, here I can rest,
for no time measures my time.
A particularly poignant poem that offers insight into Walser's way of thinking is obvious in his poem that follows:
AND LEFT
He quietly waved his hat
and left, they say of the wayfarer.
It tore the leaves off the tree
and left, they say of the harsh autumn.
Smiling, she shared her mercy
and left, they say of her Majesty.
At night it knocked on the door
and left, they say of heartbreak.
Crying, he pointed at his heart
and left, they say of the poor man.
And in a poem that whispers of his final days Walser wrote the following:
CONTEMPLATION
All the books had already been written,
the deeds had seemingly all been done.
Everything his beautiful eyes saw
dated back to earlier efforts.
The houses, bridges, and the railroad
had something quite remarkable about them.
He thought of the impetuous Laertes,
of Lohengrin and his gentle swan,
and everywhere great art had already
been achieved in times long past.
You saw him ride lonely across the fields.
Life lay by the riverside like a boat
no longer able to sway, to drift.
Robert Walser loved long, lonely walks. On the 25th of December 1956 he was found, dead of a heart attack, in a field of snow near the asylum. The photographs of the dead walker in the snow are almost eerily reminiscent of a similar image of a dead man in the snow in Walser's first novel, Geschwister Tanner. This book honors the memory and the artistry of a great poet: the poetry is beautifully translated and edited by Swiss poet Daniele Pantano. It is a remarkable book and one that every lover of poetry should read - repeatedly.
Grady Harp
Robert Walser's poetry comes from a mind that perceived the world in a manner different from others. His life (1878 - 1956) is worthy of a great biography, and in a sense that is what the opening Introduction by American poet Carolyn Forché provides in a brief but sensitive way. She provides a survey of the Swiss born, German speaking poet's progress from birth through his early work as a banker, an unsuccessful actor, a military man, and ultimately a writer and poet. The presence of mental illness in his family seemed to make Walser more aware of the transience of life - the vanishing life he observed and described in his poetry - and his final years found him confined to a mental hospital where he continued to write `from the pencil area' (he wrote poems and prose in a diminutive Sütterlin hand, the letters of which measured about a millimeter of height by the end of that very productive phase.) Highly regarded by such literary luminaries as Christian Morgenstern, Franz Kafka, Walter Benjamin, and Hermann Hesse. He has exerted a considerable influence on various contemporary writers, including J.M Coetzee, Ror Wolf, Peter Handke, WG Sebald, and Max Goldt.
Walser's poems are usually rather brief and condense and distill much emotion in a very few words, carefully placed without nodding to design fad on the page:
TRYST
Here it's quiet, here it feels good,
here the meadows are fresh and pure,
and a spot in shade and sunshine
like well-behaved children.
Here the strong desire
that is my life dissolves,
I no longer know desire,
here my will dissolves.
I'm so still, so warmly moved,
I don't know, it's all confused,
yet everything's been proven wrong.
I no longer hear any complaints,
yet there's complaining in the room
of such a soft kind, so white, so dreamy,
and again I'm left knowing nothing.
I only know that it's quiet here,
stripped of all needs and doings,
here it feels good, here I can rest,
for no time measures my time.
A particularly poignant poem that offers insight into Walser's way of thinking is obvious in his poem that follows:
AND LEFT
He quietly waved his hat
and left, they say of the wayfarer.
It tore the leaves off the tree
and left, they say of the harsh autumn.
Smiling, she shared her mercy
and left, they say of her Majesty.
At night it knocked on the door
and left, they say of heartbreak.
Crying, he pointed at his heart
and left, they say of the poor man.
And in a poem that whispers of his final days Walser wrote the following:
CONTEMPLATION
All the books had already been written,
the deeds had seemingly all been done.
Everything his beautiful eyes saw
dated back to earlier efforts.
The houses, bridges, and the railroad
had something quite remarkable about them.
He thought of the impetuous Laertes,
of Lohengrin and his gentle swan,
and everywhere great art had already
been achieved in times long past.
You saw him ride lonely across the fields.
Life lay by the riverside like a boat
no longer able to sway, to drift.
Robert Walser loved long, lonely walks. On the 25th of December 1956 he was found, dead of a heart attack, in a field of snow near the asylum. The photographs of the dead walker in the snow are almost eerily reminiscent of a similar image of a dead man in the snow in Walser's first novel, Geschwister Tanner. This book honors the memory and the artistry of a great poet: the poetry is beautifully translated and edited by Swiss poet Daniele Pantano. It is a remarkable book and one that every lover of poetry should read - repeatedly.
Grady Harp
February 7, 2019
SENSATION
What was for so long before my eyes,
what made me cheer up, and yet what
could not calm me, nature,
will very soon be far, far outside.
I will do without it and with delight
sing the praise of its brilliance, this earsplitting
of sounds and colors. Somehow
I will miss it and so redouble my love,
as if it were still a riddle to me.
It's beautiful everywhere,
as long as we see beauty from within ourselves.
Don't listen to false insistence.
Something you enshrine will always be with you.
August 15, 2012
I bought this book with some trepidation. I absolutely love Walser's works, but translating him is a tricky matter of simultaneously capturing his whimsy and melancholy; a joy that feels alternatively genuine, forced, or compulsory, yet--even when genuine--masks a profound sadness. Nuance is the key, and Susan Bernofsky and Christopher Middleton have mastered it in translating Walser. I'm happy to say that Daniele Pantano joins their ranks. These poems are beautiful and, despite their being written nearly a century ago (1897-1933) feel utterly contemporary. Here is "But Why?" in its entirety:
Now as such a clear
day came rushing back,
full of calm, true determination,
he spoke slowly:
Now it shall be different,
I'll join the battle;
like so many others,
I want to help rid the world of misery,
want to suffer and walk
until the people are free.
Never again shall I rest my tired head;
something must
happen; then a consideration caught up with him,
a nap: oh, forget it.
(Bernofsky, who seems deeply involved in the Occupy! movement, must surely appreciate this poem.)
All I can say is, More, please!
Now as such a clear
day came rushing back,
full of calm, true determination,
he spoke slowly:
Now it shall be different,
I'll join the battle;
like so many others,
I want to help rid the world of misery,
want to suffer and walk
until the people are free.
Never again shall I rest my tired head;
something must
happen; then a consideration caught up with him,
a nap: oh, forget it.
(Bernofsky, who seems deeply involved in the Occupy! movement, must surely appreciate this poem.)
All I can say is, More, please!
November 11, 2021
Robert Walser has the ability to aprehend the uniqueness of the present moments. His poems might not be the most complex in terms of structure, they might even seem naive at some point, but they express an acute awareness of the fleeting nature of time and life. I really enjoyed reading this book
January 31, 2015
Walser never fails to delight me with his words, even when sadness reigns. His observations of nature in all its forms are original, captivating and enduring.
September 24, 2024
Though the themes and simplicity of structure of Walser’s short stories or micro-fictions are here, for me these don’t have the resonant power of his prose, which I love. These for me are like notes.
November 5, 2025
I was listening to HNDRXX front to back while reading this
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews