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Gedichte
Testo tedesco a fronte.
86 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1930
1 person is currently reading
179 people want to read
About the author
Stefan George
106 books42 followersStefan Anton George was a German poet, editor and translator.
He spent time in Paris, where he was among the writers and artists who attended the Tuesday soireés held by the poet Stéphane Mallarmé. He began to publish poetry in the 1890s. George founded and edited an important literary magazine called Blätter für die Kunst. He was also at the center of an influential literary and academic circle known as the Georgekreis, which included many of the leading young writers of the day, (e.g., Friedrich Gundolf and Ludwig Klages). In addition to sharing cultural interests, the circle reflected mystical and political themes.
Stefan George died near Locarno in Switzerland. Although identified with an extreme conservatism in politics, George refused honors from the National Socialist regime, and following his death was interred before a delegation from the National Socialist government could attend the ceremony.[1]
He spent time in Paris, where he was among the writers and artists who attended the Tuesday soireés held by the poet Stéphane Mallarmé. He began to publish poetry in the 1890s. George founded and edited an important literary magazine called Blätter für die Kunst. He was also at the center of an influential literary and academic circle known as the Georgekreis, which included many of the leading young writers of the day, (e.g., Friedrich Gundolf and Ludwig Klages). In addition to sharing cultural interests, the circle reflected mystical and political themes.
Stefan George died near Locarno in Switzerland. Although identified with an extreme conservatism in politics, George refused honors from the National Socialist regime, and following his death was interred before a delegation from the National Socialist government could attend the ceremony.[1]
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Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews
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July 9, 2019meraviglia o sogno portavo da lontano
fino al confine della mia terra
e aspettavo finché la parca grigia
ne trovasse il nome nella sua fonte
allora potevo afferrarlo, stringerlo con forza
ora fioriva e splendeva attraverso la frontiera.
una volta tornai dopo un buon viaggio,
con un gioiello ricco e tenero.
Lei cercò a lungo e dichiarò:
"non dorme niente di simile giù in fondo".
Al che esso sfuggì dalla mia mano
e mai la mia terra conquistò il tesoro.
Così io triste imparai la rinuncia:
che nulla è dove la parola si infrange.
è così bella questa poesia di Stefan George e io non posso coglierla nell'originale, ma mi sembra di sentire la sua pena; questo disagio di traduzione, questa barriera contro cui si infrange la parola, la mia e la sua parola, impenetrabile come una specie di alto muro; pianto cosmico, solitudine estrema, vertigine kafkiana. Mi vengono in mente anche quelle parole così evocative di Matthew Arnold quando dice: sotto la corrente di superficie, sottile e leggera, di ciò che diciamo di sentire - sotto la corrente, ugualmente leggera di ciò che pensiamo di sentire, - scorre con un flusso potente e silenzioso, oscuro e profondo, la corrente centrale di ciò che sentiamo davvero.
eppure, io quando sono solo mi rivolgo ai poeti, alla musica, a tutte quelle cose che hanno il potere di scuotere quella corrente centrale che sta sotto le altre correnti, ed è da queste come camuffata, e rivelarla. io non posso dimenticare i miei poeti, perché mi hanno dato il dono più grande, la più grande consegna nella vita, qualunque cosa faranno, qualunque cosa saranno o diventeranno, secondo le leggi umane, io non li tradirò. come disse Yeats, quando Dante parlava del suo maestro, Virgilio, non si sentiva cantare nessun gallo. Proprio così sarà per me.
fino al confine della mia terra
e aspettavo finché la parca grigia
ne trovasse il nome nella sua fonte
allora potevo afferrarlo, stringerlo con forza
ora fioriva e splendeva attraverso la frontiera.
una volta tornai dopo un buon viaggio,
con un gioiello ricco e tenero.
Lei cercò a lungo e dichiarò:
"non dorme niente di simile giù in fondo".
Al che esso sfuggì dalla mia mano
e mai la mia terra conquistò il tesoro.
Così io triste imparai la rinuncia:
che nulla è dove la parola si infrange.
è così bella questa poesia di Stefan George e io non posso coglierla nell'originale, ma mi sembra di sentire la sua pena; questo disagio di traduzione, questa barriera contro cui si infrange la parola, la mia e la sua parola, impenetrabile come una specie di alto muro; pianto cosmico, solitudine estrema, vertigine kafkiana. Mi vengono in mente anche quelle parole così evocative di Matthew Arnold quando dice: sotto la corrente di superficie, sottile e leggera, di ciò che diciamo di sentire - sotto la corrente, ugualmente leggera di ciò che pensiamo di sentire, - scorre con un flusso potente e silenzioso, oscuro e profondo, la corrente centrale di ciò che sentiamo davvero.
eppure, io quando sono solo mi rivolgo ai poeti, alla musica, a tutte quelle cose che hanno il potere di scuotere quella corrente centrale che sta sotto le altre correnti, ed è da queste come camuffata, e rivelarla. io non posso dimenticare i miei poeti, perché mi hanno dato il dono più grande, la più grande consegna nella vita, qualunque cosa faranno, qualunque cosa saranno o diventeranno, secondo le leggi umane, io non li tradirò. come disse Yeats, quando Dante parlava del suo maestro, Virgilio, non si sentiva cantare nessun gallo. Proprio così sarà per me.
September 16, 2023
einige der gedichte georges, wie sein berühmtestes, "komm in den totgesagten park", bestechen durch präzise poetische beobachtungen und ebensolche metaphern, doch viele andere scheinen mehr sich selbst zu gefallen. george, der stark von den französischen symbolisten um mallarmé und von den blumen des bösen von baudelaire beeinflusst war, scheint nicht nur das l'art pour l'art zu übernehmen, sondern gleichzeitig ein motto zu verfolgen, dass in etwa lautet: der künstler schreibt für den künstler. der befremdliche kult um seine person äußert sich ebenfalls in zahlreichen religiös verrätselten texten, die vor allem langweilen.
July 28, 2008
The layout of this book's a nightmare. It's very difficult to tell where one poem ends and another begins if a poem on one page gets anywhere near the bottom of the page. The translation seems awkward. And why are there superfluous exclamation points thrown in every few poems towards the end? For excitement? I'm sure this book is better than two stars but I couldn't muster up the least bit of excitement for it.
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June 26, 2022》Im windes-weben
War meine frage
Nur träumerei.
Nur lächeln war
Was du gegeben.
Aus nasser nacht
Ein glanz entfacht -
Nun drängt der mai •
Nun muss ich gar
Um dein aug und haar
Alle tage
In sehnen leben.《
War meine frage
Nur träumerei.
Nur lächeln war
Was du gegeben.
Aus nasser nacht
Ein glanz entfacht -
Nun drängt der mai •
Nun muss ich gar
Um dein aug und haar
Alle tage
In sehnen leben.《
May 21, 2025
Stefan George’s life and poems are so super-refined and esoteric, he makes fellow “Symbolist” artists like Rilke, Mallarme and Dutchman Albert Verwey seem positively commonplace. For native English speakers, even his name seems pretty inaccessible. It’s pronounced not like a British King’s name but instead like some kind of queer ritual: “Gay Orga”.
Few people seem to have heard of him in Britain - and even fewer have read him. I’m proudly in that exclusive little club. But for a rather shameful and not at all intellectual reason. Generally I don’t get on with poetry, preferring novels instead. So when I had to read some German poetry as a student, I decided to find out who wrote the shortest verses.
And Stefan George came up trumps! Some of his poems are positive haikus compared to other more verbose German poets. For example, his epigrammatic appreciation of Rembrandt (“Nordischer Meister”) comprises just 27 polished and perfected words (describing sublimely the way Rembrandt captures light and dark in his painting).
George also insisted on a big, fat typeface (specially designed for him, how exclusive is that!) which make his exquisitely chosen few words even easier on the eye. Printed on classy paper with beautiful bindings and small print-runs. He also avoided commonplace things like titles for his poems, and content lists, which he thought banal but I notice a fellow reviewer found both baffling and irritating from a practical perspective.
So why isn’t George more well known today? I suspect it could be because he doesn’t fit neatly, or safely, into the categories we prefer these days. He straddles extremes in a way that makes us rather uncomfortable. And he presents us with numerous paradoxes:
- His verse is sensuous, voluptuous, even ecstatic, in its yearning and melancholic beauty. Yet it’s also imperious, chiselled, cold, and slightly inhuman in its perfection.
- He uses experimental techniques that are pretty Avant Garde. For example, in one of his earliest poems from 1891 (“Die Spange”) punctuation is at a minimum and there are no capital letters (positively discombobulating in German). His weird choice of words and radical syntax, all very Modernist, suggest this is a metaphorical “clasp”, a new experimental way of “fixing” language with meaning. Yet George hated Modernism and the Avant Garde, worshipping instead the structure and discipline of the Classical Age.
- As an intellectual atheist he detested the Church with its soggy beliefs and banal rituals. Yet he was fascinated by pagan religions, enjoyed dressing up as Greek gods and heroes, and inspired a select cult with “disciples” who followed him as their “Master”. He saw poetry as a sacred mission and his verse is full of words like pilgrimage, hymn, sacrifice and divine - but with an entirely post-Christian meaning.
- He had no truck with political systems and institutions. Yet he was accused of being reactionary and authoritarian, and a generation of young solders marched to war enthusiastically quoting his verse (just as British officers went to the trenches with copies of AE Housman’s “A Shropshire Lad”).
- As a “Poet-Priest”, aloof and solitary, aching with loneliness, his poetry is intensely introvert and individualistic. One of his poems (typically untitled) has just 12 short lines all of which begin with the words “Ich bin” - placing himself firmly in the centre of his own universe. Yet he inspired a brotherhood of shared values and had a far-reaching and loyal following.
- He’s a passionate advocate of same-sex communities and intense male friendships. He has life-changing experiences through his idolisation of young male “soulmates”. These included the 15 year old Maximin who George (then in his mid 30s) venerated as a kind of young deity. Yet his yearnings are celibate and monastic. And though his obsession with youthful male beauty seems a bit dodgy today, such intense, non physical, literally “Platonic” obsessions were regarded as pretty normal in upper-class European circles (think EM Forster, Thomas Mann and, of course, Oscar himself).
- George’s poetry and philosophy could seem pompous, pretentious and even a bit creepy, with his fixation on youth, purity, and aristocratic artists saving civilisation. Yet there are also flashes of humanity, humility and touching vulnerability. One of his very last poems (“Seelied”) has the lonely poet standing on the dunes at sunset, watching a child “with golden hair” laughing and singing on the beach - a sudden epiphany of perfect, simple joy.
I think perhaps my favourite George poem is “Die blume die ich mir am fenster hege” from the late 1890s. In just 12 lines of rhyming verse that work gloriously when read aloud, it channels a soul-sapping sense of weariness, disappointment and emptiness - all through the symbolic simplicity of a humble pot plant on a window sill. The poet lovingly tends the flower and it fills his heart with joy. But then the bloom fades and dies - and we feel the poet’s loss and melancholy in the slide into the gloomy subjunctive and the pathos of the open-vowel sounds. He prunes back the flower with a sharp, vengeful “snip” of the scissors and realises he now hates the dead bloom for causing him such heartbreak. Even the memory of the flower that once brought joy now brings bitterness. Just like Oscar Wilde’s bleak surmise that we all end up killing the thing we love …
Few people seem to have heard of him in Britain - and even fewer have read him. I’m proudly in that exclusive little club. But for a rather shameful and not at all intellectual reason. Generally I don’t get on with poetry, preferring novels instead. So when I had to read some German poetry as a student, I decided to find out who wrote the shortest verses.
And Stefan George came up trumps! Some of his poems are positive haikus compared to other more verbose German poets. For example, his epigrammatic appreciation of Rembrandt (“Nordischer Meister”) comprises just 27 polished and perfected words (describing sublimely the way Rembrandt captures light and dark in his painting).
George also insisted on a big, fat typeface (specially designed for him, how exclusive is that!) which make his exquisitely chosen few words even easier on the eye. Printed on classy paper with beautiful bindings and small print-runs. He also avoided commonplace things like titles for his poems, and content lists, which he thought banal but I notice a fellow reviewer found both baffling and irritating from a practical perspective.
So why isn’t George more well known today? I suspect it could be because he doesn’t fit neatly, or safely, into the categories we prefer these days. He straddles extremes in a way that makes us rather uncomfortable. And he presents us with numerous paradoxes:
- His verse is sensuous, voluptuous, even ecstatic, in its yearning and melancholic beauty. Yet it’s also imperious, chiselled, cold, and slightly inhuman in its perfection.
- He uses experimental techniques that are pretty Avant Garde. For example, in one of his earliest poems from 1891 (“Die Spange”) punctuation is at a minimum and there are no capital letters (positively discombobulating in German). His weird choice of words and radical syntax, all very Modernist, suggest this is a metaphorical “clasp”, a new experimental way of “fixing” language with meaning. Yet George hated Modernism and the Avant Garde, worshipping instead the structure and discipline of the Classical Age.
- As an intellectual atheist he detested the Church with its soggy beliefs and banal rituals. Yet he was fascinated by pagan religions, enjoyed dressing up as Greek gods and heroes, and inspired a select cult with “disciples” who followed him as their “Master”. He saw poetry as a sacred mission and his verse is full of words like pilgrimage, hymn, sacrifice and divine - but with an entirely post-Christian meaning.
- He had no truck with political systems and institutions. Yet he was accused of being reactionary and authoritarian, and a generation of young solders marched to war enthusiastically quoting his verse (just as British officers went to the trenches with copies of AE Housman’s “A Shropshire Lad”).
- As a “Poet-Priest”, aloof and solitary, aching with loneliness, his poetry is intensely introvert and individualistic. One of his poems (typically untitled) has just 12 short lines all of which begin with the words “Ich bin” - placing himself firmly in the centre of his own universe. Yet he inspired a brotherhood of shared values and had a far-reaching and loyal following.
- He’s a passionate advocate of same-sex communities and intense male friendships. He has life-changing experiences through his idolisation of young male “soulmates”. These included the 15 year old Maximin who George (then in his mid 30s) venerated as a kind of young deity. Yet his yearnings are celibate and monastic. And though his obsession with youthful male beauty seems a bit dodgy today, such intense, non physical, literally “Platonic” obsessions were regarded as pretty normal in upper-class European circles (think EM Forster, Thomas Mann and, of course, Oscar himself).
- George’s poetry and philosophy could seem pompous, pretentious and even a bit creepy, with his fixation on youth, purity, and aristocratic artists saving civilisation. Yet there are also flashes of humanity, humility and touching vulnerability. One of his very last poems (“Seelied”) has the lonely poet standing on the dunes at sunset, watching a child “with golden hair” laughing and singing on the beach - a sudden epiphany of perfect, simple joy.
I think perhaps my favourite George poem is “Die blume die ich mir am fenster hege” from the late 1890s. In just 12 lines of rhyming verse that work gloriously when read aloud, it channels a soul-sapping sense of weariness, disappointment and emptiness - all through the symbolic simplicity of a humble pot plant on a window sill. The poet lovingly tends the flower and it fills his heart with joy. But then the bloom fades and dies - and we feel the poet’s loss and melancholy in the slide into the gloomy subjunctive and the pathos of the open-vowel sounds. He prunes back the flower with a sharp, vengeful “snip” of the scissors and realises he now hates the dead bloom for causing him such heartbreak. Even the memory of the flower that once brought joy now brings bitterness. Just like Oscar Wilde’s bleak surmise that we all end up killing the thing we love …
January 17, 2022
Those with any investment in German intellectual history don't need to be persuaded of George's importance.
That being said I can't really vouch for the quality of this anthology. The ordering was often confusing and clunky, and from a cursory look online it seems like there are better / more recent translations available for a price.
This edition is redeemed by Morwitz's introduction; as it often goes, reading about the poetry may have been more valuable than reading the poems themselves in translation.
That being said I can't really vouch for the quality of this anthology. The ordering was often confusing and clunky, and from a cursory look online it seems like there are better / more recent translations available for a price.
This edition is redeemed by Morwitz's introduction; as it often goes, reading about the poetry may have been more valuable than reading the poems themselves in translation.
September 3, 2025
die problematischen gedichte + die ersten die so langweilig waren, dass ich mir die kugel geben wollte
(nicht du der mensch und der drud🫶🫶)
(nicht du der mensch und der drud🫶🫶)
September 5, 2013
good selection of George's poetry, even Reclam used a sans-serif font similar to the original font in George's works
April 17, 2019
La raccolta più bella letta quest'anno. Capolavoro.
Displaying 1 - 9 of 9 reviews