In German, virtually any two nouns can be combined to make a new word. Of course, this is how English (also a Germanic language!) coins words, too. We say lighthouse, not house of light. But we can’t so easily say sorrowhouse, lovehouse, waitinghouse, dreamhouse. And we say lighthouse keeper, where German omits the space and coins lighttowerkeeper (Leuchtturmwärter). This most wonderful feature of the German language is sometimes, ridiculously, called a fault—usually by reference to some bureaucratic monstrosity (Donaudampfschifffahrtsgesellschaftskapitän—Danube steamship company captain. Which, it’s worth pointing out, is exactly the same in English, just with spaces we don’t actually pronounce. Anyway, I wouldn’t want English judged on the basis of its legalese either).
Wordmaking is at the heart of these poems, beginning with the titles of the three collections excerpted here: Light-force (Lichtzwang); Time-homestead (Zeitgehöft); Snow-Part (Schneepart (“Part” in German is a part in music or theater)). Almost every one of these poems contains at least one such coinage:
needle-glances (Nadelblicken),
secret-stocking (Geheimnisstrumpf),
song-swarm (Liedschwarm),
lark-shadows (Lerchenschatten),
blossom-powers (Blütengewalten),
crown-flaws (Kronschäden),
silver-puddles (Silberpfützen),
self-kindling-flowers (Selbstzündblumen),
light-dung (Lichtdung),
whale-brow (Wahlstirn),
skull-splinters (Schläfensplittern),
tongue-uprooting (Zungenentwurzeln).
In combination, we get phrases like:
“sight-tunnels blown into speech-fog” (Sichttunnels, in / den Sprachnebel geblasen);
“drunken flight-scribes in the longing-hillside” (berauschte Flugschreiber im Sehnsuchtsgehänge);
“on meadows-edge the wing-hour picks the snow-grain” (an der Flurgrenze pickt / die Flügelstunde das Schneekorn).
In English, these poems are small beads of glass; in German, they are diamonds.