In Lovely Blue

One effect of meditation, I find, is a drying up of the ideation–subtle and gross–that, I imagine, propels automatic response. Another way of saying this is that sitting seems to diminish impulsiveness. (“Impulse,” come to think of it, translates āsava, a central Buddhist technical term. I will add a post on this term later.) I experience this drying out as a natural evaporation of fanciful ideas about life, myself, and the world. How do I know they’re fanciful? When more carefully considered, they just don’t fit the facts on the ground. Through sitting practice, it simply becomes impossible to hold on to, to entertain or subscribe to, obvious narrative fashionings of my life’s unfolding. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to do so, it’s that I can’t. It just doesn’t happen, or, if it does, little sticks. There is, of course, always some degree of (non-obvious, preconscious) narrative framing of our experience; thus there is always some juice. I guess it’s like the sap in a tree, or the fluids surrounding joints. We need some for healthy functioning. Sometimes, life requires the translucent space of unimpeded imagination, the fresh, rolling brook of dreams, and a dollop of hope-for-a-non-existent-state-of-affairs.

So, as with everything else in life, this natural process of drying out the superfluous can go too far. For me, the sign that I need a transfusion of fresh sap is the presence of a kind of ennui. The Christian monastic concept of acedia seems to fit, too. Acedia is considered “the bane of solitaries.” It’s a listlessness, heaviness, desirelessness that stems from–well, who knows? Maybe a good modern term is simply “depression.” The important point is that in the clutches of this condition, I find myself saying “no” to life. It is quite unpleasant. So, what do I do? Well, besides my practice of allowing this raw feeling to be as it is, letting it breathe, so to speak, I visit my old friends William Blake (1757-1827) and Friedrich Hölderlin (1770-1843). Both of these men knew how to use their imaginations to enrich, rather than contort, reality. They knew how to wield the imagination to draw life-giving nectar from reality, and thereby fill their subjective experience with a resounding “yes!” I think so, anyway. At least that’s the impression I get from reading their poems and letters along with their biographies.

Most recently, I paid a visit to Hölderlin. I have spent the last year and a half in the presence of his strange, enrapturing poem called “In lieblicher Bläue.” I offer my translation of that poem below as “In Lovely Blue.” I am by no means the first, only or best, to translate this poem. I simply wanted to get as close to Hölderlin’s poem-world as I could. For me, the best way to do that is translation. Before I present the piece, a few words about the poet.

Hölderlin’s poems are typically of incredible, almost unfathomable beauty. It hurts to read them sometimes. Often, for me anyway, that’s all there is: just this beauty–of expression, image, rhythm, emotion, voice, tone, flow. Some commentators see him as naive and sentimental. Well, he himself had this to say about that: “The epic poem, naive in appearance, is heroic in its significance. It is the metaphor of great aspirations.” (See Georg Lukács, “Hölderlin’s Hyperion,” 1934. Here’s a copy). Lukács, certainly no sentimentalist, had this to say about the poet:

“He is neither an insipid optimist nor a despairing irrationalist pessimist. His style neither sinks into an academic classicistic objectivism nor into an amorphous, impressionist subjectivism; his poetry is neither dryly and didactically intellectual not atmospheric and void of thought.” (Ibid.)

One of the reasons I turn to Hölderlin when I find “no” on my lips, is that he, too, yearned daily and deeply for a more humane, satisfying world. He modeled this yearned-for world on romantic (though, I think, not Romantic) notions of ancient Greece. But he knew better than to be snookered by the longings born of his utopian fantasies.

“Hölderlin’s lyricism is a lyricism of ideas. Its point of departure is formed by the inner contradiction of the bourgeois revolution raised to the level of a Weltanschauung (and mystified, of course, in an idealistic manner). Both aspects of the contradiction exist in this poetry of ideas: the Jacobin Hellenic ideal and the ignoble bourgeois reality. The imperishable greatness of Hölderlin lies in his superb stylistic mastery of the insoluble contradiction which was basic to his social existence…

“His historical and personal tragedy, the fact that the heroic “illusions” of the bourgeoisie could no longer be the banner for real revolutionary heroism, but only that of the yearning for such heroism, constitutes precisely the stylistic presupposition of this (relative) success.” (Ibid.)

The point was the very yearning itself: vivifying, inspiring, exhilarating and exhausting, depressing, crushing.

I have heard people say that they don’t have the patience for Hölderlin–he’s too demanding, too cryptic. He certainly asks for your full attention. I encourage you to read the poem below out loud and slowly, taking care to discern where an accent or emphasis might best be placed on a word and line (doing so will require several readings of course.) Enjoy it as you would fine chocolate or wine, or, in my case the last remaining bottle of Guinness in the world.

__________________

In Lovely Blue
by Friedrich Hölderlin
(Translated by Glenn Wallis)

In lovely blue blooms the steeple with its metal
roof. Around the roof swirls the swallows’ cry,
surrounded by most touching blue. The sun rises high
above and tints the roof tin. But in the wind beyond, silently,
a weathercock crows. When someone comes forth from
the stairs of the belfry, it is a still life. And though the form
is so utterly strange, it becomes the figure of a
human being. The windows out of which the bells resound are as
gates to beauty. Because gates still take after nature
they resemble forest trees. Purity, too, is beauty. From within, out
of diverse things, a grave spirit emerges. So simple,
these images, so holy, that one often fears
to describe them. But the heavenly ones, always
good, possess, even more than the wealthy, virtue and
joy. Humans may follow suit. Might a person, when
life is full of trouble, look up and say: I, too,
want to be like this? Yes. As long as friendliness and purity
dwell in our hearts, we may measure ourselves not unfavorably
with the divine. Is God unknown? Is he manifest
as the sky? This I tend to believe. It is the measure
of the human. Deserving, yet poetically, we dwell
on this earth. The shadow of night with its stars,
if I may say so, is no purer than we
who exist in the image of the divine.

Is there measure on earth? There is none. For
the creator’s worlds can never contain the clap of thunder.
Because it blooms under the sun, a flower, too, is beautiful.
In life, the eye often finds creatures to call more beautiful
still than flowers. Oh! I know this well!
For to bleed in body and heart and cease to be whole—
does this please God? The soul, I believe, must remain
pure, or else the eagle will wing its way to the almighty
with songs of praise and the voice of so many
birds. It is substance and it is form. Beautiful little
brook, so touching you seem as you roll so clear,
like the eye of God, through the Milky Way. I know
you well. But tears stream from my eyes. A clear
life I see in the forms of creation that blooms around me
because I do not compare them unreasonably with the lonely pigeons
in the churchyard. People’s laughter seems
to grieve me—after all, I have a heart. Would I
like to be a comet? I believe so. For they have the quickness
of birds, they blossom in fire, and in their purity is as children’s.
To wish for more is beyond the measure of human nature.
The clarity of virtue also deserves praise from the grave
spirit that blows between the garden’s three pillars. A beautiful virgin must
garland her head with myrtle, for to do so is simply
her nature and her sensibility. But myrtle trees are found in Greece.

When a person looks into a mirror and sees
his image, as if painted, that is like the Manes.
The human form has eyes, but the moon has light.
Perhaps King Oedipus had an eye too many. This
man’s suffering seems indescribable, unspeakable,
inexpressible. When the drama presents it so, so it is. But how is it with me?
Am I thinking now of your suffering? Like brooks, the end of
Something as vast as Asia is carrying me toward it. Oedipus, of course, suffered like this, too;
and certainly for the same reason. Did Hercules suffer as well? Of course.
Did not the Dioscuri, too, in their friendship bear pain?
As Hercules fought with God—that is
suffering. And immortality in envy of this life—
to divide these two—that, too, is suffering. But it is also
suffering when a person is covered with freckles—
to be completely covered with freckles! The beautiful
sun does that, for it draws out everything. The path
seduces the young with the charm of its rays, like roses.
Oedipus’s suffering is like a poor man
wailing that he is deprived. Son Laios, poor
stranger in Greece. Life is death, and
death is also a life.

____________________________________

Hölderlin in 1792.

My translation is based on, and the form follows, Sattler’s Frankfurter Hölderlin Ausgabe, vol. 8, Σ285.

The young, aspiring Romantic poet Wilhelm Waiblinger (1804-1830) left a moving description of Hölderlin.

A source like Encyclopedia Mythica is helpful in reading Hölderlin.

Here’s the German text. If you have any suggestions for how I can improve (or correct!) my attempt, I’d love to hear from you. The poem originally appeared in Waiblinger’s novel Phaëthon (Stuttgart: Verlag von Friedrich Franckh, 1823). (At the homepage, click “Hoelderlin quellen edition,” and then scroll down to d.31.)

________________________

In lieblicher Bläue blühet
mit dem metallenen Dache der Kirchthurm. Den umschwebet
Geschrey der Schwalben, den umgiebt die rührendste Bläue.
Die Sonne gehet hoch darüber und färbet das Blech,
im Winde aber oben stille krähet die Fahne.
Wenn einer unter der Glocke dann herabgeht, jene Treppen,
ein stilles Leben ist es, weil,
wenn abgesondert so sehr die Gestalt ist,
die Bildsamkeit herauskommt dann des Menschen.
Die Fenster, daraus die Glocken tönen, sind wie Thore an Schönheit.
Nämlich, weil noch der Natur nach sind die Thore,
haben diese die Ähnlichkeit von Bäumen des Walds.
Reinheit aber ist auch Schönheit.
Innen aus Verschiedenem entsteht ein ernster Geist.
So sehr einfältig aber die Bilder, so sehr heilig sind die, daß
man wirklich oft fürchtet, die zu beschreiben.
Die Himmlischen aber, die immer gut sind,
alles zumal, wie Reiche, haben diese, Tugend und Freude.
Der Mensch darf das nachahmen.
Darf, wenn lauter Mühe das Leben, ein Mensch
aufschauen und sagen: so will ich auch seyn?
Ja. So lange die Freundlichkeit noch am Herzen, die Reine,
dauert, misset nicht unglücklich der Mensch sich
mit der Gottheit.
Ist unbekannt Gott? Ist er offenbar wie die Himmel?
dieses glaub’ ich eher. Des Menschen Maaß ist’s.
Voll Verdienst, doch dichterisch,
wohnet der Mensch auf dieser Erde. Doch reiner
ist nicht der Schatten der Nacht mit den Sternen,
wenn ich so sagen könnte,
als der Mensch, der heißet ein Bild der Gottheit.

Giebt auf Erden ein Maaß?
Es giebt keines. Nämlich
es hemmen den Donnergang nie die Welten des Schöpfers.
Auch eine Blume ist schön, weil sie blühet unter der Sonne.
Es findet das Aug’ oft im Leben
Wesen, die viel schöner noch zu nennen wären
als die Blumen. O! ich weiß das wohl!
Denn zu bluten an Gestalt und Herz,
und ganz nicht mehr zu seyn, gefällt das Gott ?
Die Seele aber, wie ich glaube, muß rein bleiben,
sonst reicht an das Mächtige auf Fittigen der Adler mit lobendem Gesange
und der Stimme so vieler Vögel.
Es ist die Wesenheit, die Gestalt ist’s.
Du schönes Bächlein, du scheinest rührend, indem du rollest so klar,
wie das Auge der Gottheit, durch die Milchstraße.
Ich kenne dich wohl,
aber Thränen quillen aus dem Auge. Ein heiteres Leben
seh’ ich in den Gestalten mich umblühen der Schöpfung, weil
ich es nicht unbillig vergleiche den einsamen Tauben auf dem Kirchhof.
Das Lachen aber scheint mich zu grämen der Menschen,
nämlich ich hab’ ein Herz.
Möcht’ ich ein Komet seyn?
Ich glaube. Denn sie haben Schnelligkeit der Vögel; sie blühen an Feuer,
und sind wie Kinder an Reinheit.
Größeres zu wünschen, kann nicht des Menschen Natur sich vermessen.
Der Tugend Heiterkeit verdient auch gelobt zu werden vom ernsten Geiste,
der zwischen den drei Säulen wehet
des Gartens. Eine schöne Jungfrau muß das Haupt umkränzen
mit Myrthenblumen, weil sie einfach ist
ihrem Wesen nach und ihrem Gefühl. Myrthen aber
giebt es in Griechenland.

Wenn einer in den Spiegel siehet,
ein Mann, und siehet darinn sein Bild, wie abgemahlt;
es gleicht dem Manne.
Augen hat des Menschen Bild,
hingegen Licht der Mond.
Der König Ödipus hat ein Auge zuviel vielleicht.
Diese Leiden dieses Mannes, sie scheinen unbeschreiblich, unaussprechlich,
unausdrücklich.
Wenn das Schauspiel ein solches darstellt, kommt’s daher.
Wie ist mir’s aber, gedenk’ ich deiner jetzt?
Wie Bäche reißt des Ende von Etwas mich dahin,
welches sich wie Asien ausdehnet.
Natürlich dieses Leiden, das hat Ödipus.
Natürlich ist’s darum.
Hat auch Herkules gelitten?
Wohl. Die Dioskuren in ihrer Freundschaft
haben die nicht Leiden auch getragen? Nämlich
wie Herkules mit Gott zu streiten, das ist Leiden.
Und die Unsterblichkeit im Neide dieses Lebens,
diese zu theilen, ist ein Leiden auch.
Doch das ist auch ein Leiden, wenn mit Sommerflecken ist bedeckt ein Mensch,
mit manchen Flecken ganz überdeckt zu seyn! Das thut die schöne Sonne:
nämlich die ziehet alles auf.
Die Jünglinge führt die Bahn sie mit Reizen ihrer Strahlen
wie mit Rosen.
Die Leiden scheinen so,
die Ödipus getragen,
als wie ein armer Mann klagt,
daß ihm etwas fehle.
Sohn Laios, armer Fremdling in Griechenland!
Leben ist Tod, und Tod ist auch ein Leben.

 

In lovely blue blooms the steeple with its metal

roof. Around the roof swirls the swallows’ cry,

surrounded by most touching blue. The sun rises high

above and tints the roof tin. But in the wind beyond, silently,

a weathercock crows. When someone comes forth from

the stairs of the belfry, it is a still life. And though the form

is so utterly strange, it becomes the figure of a

human being. The windows out of which the bells resound are as

gates to beauty. Because gates still take after nature

they resemble forest trees. Purity, too, is beauty. From within, out

of diverse things, a grave spirit emerges. So simple,

these images, so holy, that one often fears

to describe them. But the heavenly ones, always

good, possess, even more than the wealthy, virtue and

joy. Humans may follow suit. Might a person, when

life is full of trouble, look up and say: I, too,

want to be like this? Yes. As long as friendliness and purity

dwell in our hearts, we may measure ourselves not unfavorably

with the divine. Is God unknown? Is he manifest

as the sky? This I tend to believe. It is the measure

of the human. Deserving, yet poetically, we dwell

on this earth. The shadow of night with its stars,

if I may say so, is no purer than we

who exist in the image of the divine.

Is there measure on earth? There is none. For

the creator’s worlds can never contain the clap of thunder.

Because it blooms under the sun, a flower, too, is beautiful.

In life, the eye often finds creatures to call more beautiful

still than flowers. Oh! I know this well!

For to bleed in body and heart and cease to be whole—

does this please God? The soul, I believe, must remain

pure, or else the eagle will wing its way to the almighty

with songs of praise and the voice of so many

birds. It is substance and it is form. Beautiful little

brook, so touching you seem as you roll so clear,

like the eye of God, through the Milky Way. I know

you well. But tears stream from my eyes. A clear

life I see in the forms of creation that blooms around me

because I do not compare them unreasonably with the lonely pigeons

in the churchyard. People’s laughter seems

to grieve me—after all, I have a heart. Would I

like to be a comet? I believe so. For they have the quickness

of birds, they blossom in fire, and in their purity is as children.

To wish for more is beyond the measure of human nature.

The clarity of virtue also deserves praise from the grave

spirit that blows between the garden’s three pillars. A beautiful virgin must

garland her head with myrtle, for to do so is simply

her nature and her sensibility. But myrtle trees are found in Greece.

When a person looks into a mirror and sees

his image, as if painted, that is like the Manes.

The human form has eyes, but the moon has light.

Perhaps King Oedipus had an eye too many. This

man’s suffering seems indescribable, unspeakable,

inexpressible. When the drama presents it so, so it is. But how is it with me?

Am I thinking now of your suffering? Like brooks, the end of

Something draws me in. Oedipus, of course, suffered like this, too;

and certainly for the same reason. Did Hercules suffer as well? Of course.

Did not the Dioscuri, too, in their friendship bear pain?

As Hercules fought with God—that is

suffering. And immortality in envy of this life—

to divide these two—that, too, is suffering. But it is also

suffering when a person is covered with freckles—

to be completely covered with freckles! The beautiful

sun does that, for it draws out everything. The path

seduces the young with the charm of its rays, like roses.

Oedipus’s suffering is like a poor man

wailing that he is deprived. Son Laios, poor

stranger in Greece. Life is death, and

death is also a life.