The Patient
The patient looks outs into the garden burning
With Christmas* stars of vermillion fire.
They flower, he feels, nicely on that bush together,
But he is no longer akin to himself.
Timidly he plumbs his inhalations night and day,
Sinking into that inner circle of being him.
Has he ever breathed without doubt?
How strange that now he thinks each breath.
People are so dear and ill-timed.
They offer their care, which lingers.
The patient is ashamed because of that stress
Which accentuates all talk of hope.
On his blanket lies the morning paper
With a giant headline screaming.
From the corner of his eye the patient reads
What already escapes his memory.
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poem by Franz Werfel
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Six Septets To Honor The Spring Of 1905
Maria Immisch was the springtime.
With feeling and reverence
I snatch her adored name from the underworld.
When I was fifteen in '05, that year
—they celebrated the big Schiller centennial
—and I saw her as heroine in his famous plays.
To this day my heart's still thankful.
The city park was already dense in leaf.
The lilacs beckoned. I was allowed
Entry into the Classical Theater.
I sat in the overpacked balcony.
She stood inflamed with her stage magic presence
While a storm of emotions raged through my fresh heart
As did the song of Schiller's iambs.
Her hair was black. Her eyes were blue.
She played girl, child, and lady
In peplum, petticoat, Stuart collar, cloak.
She spoke the words in a dark contralto.
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poem by Franz Werfel
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I'm Still Just a Child
O Lord, tear me to pieces.
I'm still just a child.
And dare to sing
And call upon you
And tell you about things:
We are.
I open my mouth
Before you unleash your agonies upon me.
I have my health
And have no idea how old men rust away,
I've never braced myself against the posts
The way women do for hours.
I never push myself through the tired night
Like truly august droshky nags
That long escaped their background,
(Amid that enchanting, dashing sound
Of lady's footsteps and all, something laughs) .
I never pushed myself like hacks trotting on ad infinitum.
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poem by Franz Werfel
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