foudebassan (foudebassan) wrote in gedichte, @ 2008-04-26 21:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | kaestner |
Erich Kästner
(1899-1974)
came from a rather modest family. His mother was a servant turned hairdresser and her husband was a cobbler. It is not impossible that his father should have been the family doctor, a Dr. Zimmerman, but there is no positive proof of that. He did have an extremely close relationship to his mother, to whom he wrote at least once a day each time there were separated.
He was drafted in 1917 and served until the end of the war. After that he managed to put himself through university by writing articles for the local newspaper. They eventually fired him for having published erotic poems but he secretly continued to write for them under an alias (it turned out he actually had several different sockpuppets). He moved to Berlin and wrote a lot - articles of all kinds, but also the children's book Emil and the detectives that has been a huge success ever since, and his masterpiece, the novel Fabian. In 1933 he was one of Germany's most prominent intellectuals, and as such was kind of expected to go into exile. He didn't, which he justified by the need to stay close to what was happening so as to report about it. It is not impossible that he should have been reluctant to leave his Mummy for an indefinite period of time.
His books were burned under his very eyes by the Nazis, he was arrested several times and was forbidden to publish anything (he still went on writing articles though - sockpuppets really rule - and of course he could publish everything he wanted in Switzerland). His political engagement wasn't as much anti-nazi than it was pro-freedom and pro-pacifism: after the war he was very vocal in his opposition of remilitarisation and of censorship, in the press or elsewhere.
He was never married but he did have a son out of wedlock, for whom he wrote his two last children's books. He died in 1974.
You can listen to today's poem here (careful, it starts playing as soon as the page opens).
Kennst du das Land, wo die Kanonen blühn? Du kennst es nicht? - Du wirst es kennenlernen. Dort stehn die Prokuristen stolz und kühn in den Büros, als wären es Kasernen. Dort wachsen unterm Schlips Gefreitenknöpfe, und unsichtbare Helme trägt man dort. Gesichter hat man dort, doch keine Köpfe, und wer zu Bett geht, pflanzt sich auch schon fort. Wenn dort ein Vorgesetzter etwas will, - und es ist sein Beruf, etwas zu wollen - steht der Verstand erst stramm und zweitens still, die Augen rechts und mit dem Rückgrat rollen. Die Kinder kommen dort mit kleinen Sporen und mit gezog'nem Scheitel auf die Welt. Dort wird man nicht als Zivilist geboren, dort wird befördert, wer die Schnauze hält. Kennst du das Land, es könnte glücklich sein, es könnte glücklich sein und glücklich machen. Dort gibt es Äcker, Kohle, Stahl und Stein, und Fleiß und Kraft, und andre schöne Sachen. Selbst Geist und Güte gibts dort dann und wann, und wahres Heldentum - doch nicht bei vielen. Dort steckt ein Kind in jedem zweiten Mann, das will mit Bleisoldaten spielen. Dort reift die Freiheit nicht, dort bleibt sie grün. Was man auch baut, es werden stets Kasernen. Kennst du das Land, wo die Kanonen blühn? Du kennst es nicht? - Du wirst es kennenlernen. |
Do you know the land where guns blossom ? You don’t ? – You will get to know it. There bureaucrats stand, bold and proud, In their offices, as if they were caserns. There uniform buttons (1) grow under the neckties, And people were invisible helmets there. There people have a face, but no head, And when they go to bed, they procreate right away. There, when a hierarchical superior wants something – And it is a full-time job to want things – Common sense is taut at first, and then goes silent: The eyes are straight, and the body bends over (2). There children come to the world With their own little spurs and their hair neatly parted. There one isn’t born a civilian; There only those who keep their mouths shut get promoted. Do you know this land? It could be happy, It could be happy and make others happy. There are fields, coal, steel and rocks there, And effort and energy, and other pretty things. There is even spirit and charity there, every now and then, And true heroism – but not for many. There is a child hidden in every other man there, That wants to play with leaden soldiers. Freedom does not grow there, it remains green. And whatever one builds, it always turns out to be a casern. Do you know the land, where guns blossom? You don’t? – You will get to know it. |