Jacques Prévert Les feuilles mortes - art poetry, art song

photo : Flemming Christiansen 2008

Everyone loves the song "Autumn Leaves".  It's so famous that its origins are almost forgotten. The poem is by Jacques Prévert, set by Joseph Kosma.  Prévert was one of the great figures in French poetry in his time, and was also involved in the golden age of French cinema. He wrote scripts for Michel Carné, like Les enfants du Paradis, Le jour se lève, two classics whose quality trancends the genre of "movies" : films that are art in their own right.  Les enfants du Paradies help define me.  Prévert's poetry is so evocative that it also transcends cinema.  Prévert worked closely with Joseph Kosma, who studied with Hanns Eisler, who helped define music for cinema as art music in its own right, not just as sound track. Kosma  also worked with Jean Renoir : class ! Lots on Eisler on this site.  So now that autumn's setting in, a chance to indulge in the poem and the song it inspired.  This translation is much closer to the spirit of the poem than the usual English lyrics.

Oh, je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes,  Des jours heureux quand nous étions amis,  Dans ce temps là, la vie était plus belle,  Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui.

(Oh how I wish that you would remember the happy days when we were friends. At that time, life was beautiful, and the sun more golden than today) 

Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,  Tu vois je n'ai pas oublié. Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,  Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi, 
 
(The dead leaves were swept away by rakes, you see, I haven't fogotten.  Menories and regrets swept away, too)

 Et le vent du nord les emporte,  Dans la nuit froide de l'oubli. 
Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié, 
La chanson que tu me chantais. 
 
(And the north wind carries them away  into the cold night, where they're forgotten.  You see, I haven't forgotten  the song you sang to me.) 

C'est une chanson, qui nous resemble,  Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais.  Nous vivions, tous les deux ensemble, Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais. 

(It was a song that was like the two of us, you who loved me, I who loved you. We lived, two of us together , you who loved me, I who loved you) (notice how Prévert repeats linese as if they would fade away if he didn't, as if he were holding on to the precious memory before it slips away) 

Et la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment,  Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit.  Et la mer efface sur le sable,  Les pas des amants désunis. 

(Yet life separates those who love each other, so softly without making a sound, as the sea wipes away the footprints in the sand of lovers now apart).

Nous vivions, tous les deux ensemble,  Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais.  Et la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment,  Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit.
 
(We lived, the two of us together,  you who loved me, I who loved you. But life separates those who have loved,  gently making no noise).

Et la mer efface sur le sable  Les pas des amants désunis...  (and the sea wipes from the sand the traces of those torn apart)

 Please also see my translation of Prévert's Barbara, in Kosma's setting HERE
Recommended recording : Francis Le Roux and Jeff Cohen,  Please see what else I've written on Kosma, French poetry, Mélodie and art song of the period.

Schubert's star struck suicide song ?

J M W Turner : A Study in light

Franz Schubert Der liebliche Stern D861 (1825)  starts out simply enough. Short repeating figures in the introduction : do these suggest the twinkling of stars ?  "Ihr Sternlein, still in der Höhe". The pattern within that line repeats in the next: "Ihr Sternlein, spielend im Meer" So far so good.  Or is it ? The stair is in the heavens, but its image is  reflected upside down in the lake. Then the punchline:

Wenn ich von ferne daher 

So freundlich euch leuchten sehe, 

So wird mir von Wohl und Wehe 

Der Busen so bang und so schwer

(When I, from a distance, see you sparkling so cheerfully, you make my heart grow tense and anxious)

Es zittert von Frühlingswinden 

Der Himmel im flüssigen Grün; 

Manch Sternlein sah ich entblühn, 

Manch Sternlein sah ich entschwinden; 

Doch kann ich das schönste nicht finden,

Das früher dem Liebenden schien.


(Shivering Spring breezes from the Heavens  chill the water-soaked meadow. any times I've seen little stars twinkle like flowers. Many times I've seen them fade. So I can't find that most beautiful one that once shone for the one who loved it)  Again, notice the repeating patterns. Something's not right ! Why "one" star out of millions ?

Nicht kann ich zum Himmel mich schwingen, 

Zu suchen den freundlichen Stern; 

Stets hält ihn die Wolke mir fern!
Tief unten da möcht' es gelingen, 

Das friedliche Ziel zu erringen!
Tief unten da ruht' ich so gern!


(I can't fly up to Heaven to seek that joyful star. Clouds get in the way, trapping me.  Deep below I'd like to find that joyful goal, deep below that's my scene)

Was wiegt ihr im laulichen Spiele, 

Ihr Lüftchen, den wogenden Kahn? 

O treibt ihn auf rauhere Bahn 

Hernieder in's Wogengewühle! 

Laßt tief in der wallenden Kühle 

Dem lieblichen Sterne mich nahn!


(Why do the breezes play around, rocking my boat ? Sending me to rougher waters, even into a whirlpool !  As the cold waters swell round me, will I find that darling star beside me ?)

So what is this song about ? The central concept is reversal - everything in opposition, everything upside down. The little star is happy but the lover is not : spring breezes chill and send the barque into dangerous waters.  Hence the obsessive, almost demented piano part and phrases that keep repeating, not always in balance.  This instability may or may not reflect the instability of the poet Ernst Konrad Friedrich Schulze (1789-1817) : how much Schubert knew about Schulze's private life I do not know.  Schulze didn't commit suicide though, dying young but of natural causes.  

 

Uralte Wasser : Gesang Weylas Hugo Wolf

Du bist Orplid, mein Land!
Das ferne leuchtet;
Vom Meere dampfet dein besonnter Strand<
Den Nebel, so der Götter Wange feuchtet. Uralte Wasser steigen
Verjüngt um deine Hüften, Kind!
Vor deiner Gottheit beugen
Sich Könige, die deine Wärter sind 

You are Orplid, my land ! Shining in the distance, from the ocean rises your sunlit shores,  mists refreshing the cheeks of the Gods.  Primeval waters rise, rejuvenating around your hips, Child ! Before your Divinity kneel kings, who are your Guard of Honour. 

Gesang Weylas, Eduard Mörike (1804-1875).  In his student days, Mörike and his friends created visions of Orplid, a fantasy island in the South Pacific, rising from the ocean, shrouded in mists, which deposit life-giving moisture. A metaphor for creative renewal.  The island's remoteness is symbolic, too, for it exists in the imagination, its culture and history artistic invention. What little we know about it comes from fragments Mörike later used in his novel Maler Noten, started in 1830, published but never complete, continuing to inspire the poet to the end of his life.  Boxes within boxes. The Orplid themes occur in a play enacted by Noten the Painter and his friends, some of whom aren't true friends at all.  The novel deals with dreams, art, wandering, sexuality and betrayal. Everyone ends up mad and/or dead.  These themes connect to real events in Mörike's life. As a young man, he met a mysterious woman, whom he called Peregrina (a name which means wandering).  Possibly she was a gypsy, and seems also to have had some kind of religious mania.  She disappeared, leaving Mörike enthralled in abject fascination.  Thus the connections with Maler Noten where Noten is haunted by a mysterious curse : love and art, mixed with danger and delusion.

The introduction to Hugo Wolf's Gesang Weylas (1888) replicates the sounds of a harp,, an illusion to Classical Antiquity where gods moved among mortals in pristine landscapes.   The mood is noble : the voice rises on the word "land"as if a halo were glowing round it. Depth  and richness in the word "Uralte", the emphasis on "Ur", so ancient it's before recorded Time.  But emphasis on "Wasser" too, the life-giving force that continues, eternally.  "Uralte Wasser steigen". Three words in the phrases, each one significant, marked carefully.  The last king of Orplid is dead, bu the goddess Weyla, is eternal.  Even kings must kneel before "Deiner Gottheit" for Orplid, land and/or conceptual vision is greatest of all. 

Für den Graben, Mutter, für den Graben.

Mutter, wozu hast du deinen Sohn aufgezogen?
Hast dich zwanzig' Jahr mit ihm gequält? 

Wozu ist er dir in deinen Arm geflogen,
und du hast ihm leise was erzählt? 

 Bis sie ihn dir weggenommen haben.
Für den Graben, Mutter, für den Graben.

 Junge, kannst du noch an Vater denken?
Vater nahm dich oft auf seinen Arm.
Und er wollt dir einen Groschen schenken,
und er spielte mit dir Räuber und Gendarm.
Bis sie ihn dir weggenommen haben.
Für den Graben, Junge, für den Graben. 

Drüben die französischen Genossen
lagen dicht bei Englands Arbeitsmann.
Alle haben sie ihr Blut vergossen,
und zerschossen ruht heut Mann bei Mann.
Alte Leute, Männer, mancher Knabe
in dem einen großen Massengrabe. 

Seid nicht stolz auf Orden und Geklunker!
Seid nicht stolz auf Narben und die Zeit!
In die Gräben schickten euch die Junker,
Staatswahn und der Fabrikantenneid.
Ihr wart gut genug zum Fraß für Raben,
für das Grab, Kameraden, für den Graben! 

Werft die Fahnen fort!
Die Militärkapellen spielen auf zu euerm Todestanz.
Seid ihr hin: ein Kranz von Immortellen -
das ist dann der Dank des Vaterlands. 

Denkt an Todesröcheln und Gestöhne.
Drüben stehen Väter, Mütter, Söhne,
schuften schwer, wie ihr, ums bißchen Leben.
Wollt ihr denen nicht die Hände geben?
Reicht die Bruderhand als schönste aller Gaben
übern Graben, Leute, übern Graben 

Kurt Tucholsky (1890-1935) 

Mother, for what have you brought your son up? What have you done for him in 20 years ? Why has he flown from your arms, and you've gently reared him?  Until he was taken from you to the trenches. Mother, for the trenches. 

Young man, can you yet think of your father? You father who held you often in his arms and gave you a penny to spend and played Cops and Robbers with you.  Until you were taken away from him, to the trenches, Lad, to the trenches.

Over by the French buddies lay the English worthies, mown down together man by man.  Old guys, men in their prime, kids, all in a single mass grave. 

Don't be proud of Orders and Medals ! Don't be proud of  wounds and of time !  You were sent to the trenches by the Junkers, mad governments and greedy merchants of war.   You're now food for ravens. For the trenches ! Comrades ! For the trenches !

Chuck out the flags ! Military bands are playing your Dance of Death. There you have a wreath of immortelles. That's the thanks you get from your country.

Heed the death rattle and the groans. Over there stand others, fathers, sons, trying hard, like you to scrape a living. Don't  you want to help, them ?  the hand of brotherhood is the finest gift. Better than graves, folks, better than graves.

Mailied - Goethe, egotist

Wie herrlich leuchtet
Mir die Natur!
Wie glänzt die Sonne!
Wie lacht die Flur!

Es dringen Blüten
Aus jedem Zweig
Und tausend Stimmen
Aus dem Gesträuch

Und Freud' und Wonne
Aus jeder Brust.
O Erd', o Sonne!
O Glück, o Lust!

O Lieb', o Liebe!
So golden schön,
Wie Morgenwolken
Auf jenen Höhn!

Du segnest herrlich
Das frische Feld,
Im Blütendampfe
Die volle Welt.

O Mädchen, Mädchen,
Wie lieb' ich dich!
Wie blickt dein Auge!
Wie liebst du mich!

So liebt die Lerche
Gesang und Luft,
Und Morgenblumen
Den Himmelsduft,

Wie ich dich liebe
Mit warmem Blut,
Die du mir Jugend
Und Freud' und Mut

Zu neuen Liedern
Und Tänzen gibst.
Sei ewig glücklich,
Wie du mich liebst!

Goethe's Mailied, set by Beethoven  (op 52/4).  "How gloriously Nature shines for me ! How the sun shines, how the meadow smiles !  Blossoms burst from every branch and a thousand voices sing from every shrub ! Joy and delight in every breast, O Earth ! O Sun ! O Happniess ! O Hope ! O Life ! O Love !  How beautifully golden seem the morning clouds above the hilltops.  Gloriously blessed are the fertile fields. The whole world is haloed by blossom.  O maiden, maiden, how I love you, how your eyes shine, because you love me . The lark loves song and flight,  the flowers of morning the scents of Heaven. , How I love you. You make my blood warm with the vigour of youth, and happiness and courage. On to new songs and dances I go.  Be forever glad as you love me ! "

And that's the kick. The poem is All About Him. Nature exists to make him feel good (and horny). And may the beloved be lucky as long as she loves him, too.

  

Eduard Mörike - Karwoche

Eduard Mörike Karwoche (Holy Week)

O Woche, Zeugin heiliger Beschwerde!

Du stimmst so ernst zu dieser Frühlingswonne, 

Du breitest im verjüngten Strahl der Sonne

Des Kreuzes Schatten auf die lichte Erde, 

Und senkest schweigend deine Flöre nieder; 

Der Frühling darf indessen immer keimen, 

Das Veilchen duftet unter Blütenbäumen

Und alle Vöglein singen Jubellieder. 

O schweigt, ihr Vöglein auf den grünen Auen! 

Es hallen rings die dumpfen Glockenklänge, 

Die Engel singen leise Grabgesänge; 

O still, ihr Vöglein hoch im Himmelblauen! 

Ihr Veilchen, kränzt heut keine Lockenhaare!

Euch pflückt mein frommes Kind zum dunkeln Strauße, 

Ihr wandert mit zum Muttergotteshause,

Da sollt ihr welken auf des Herrn Altare. 

Ach dort, von Trauermelodieen trunken, 

Und süß betäubt von schweren Weihrauchdüften,

Sucht sie den Bräutigam in Todesgrüften, 

Und Lieb' und Frühling, alles ist versunken!

O week ! Witness of the Passion of Christ, you seem so grim in joyful Springtime. The sun's rays awaken new growth, but you cast the shadow of the Cross over the earth as it warms. 

You cast a silent shroud while Spring renews life all round.  Sweet violets waft their scent under trees laden with blossom, while birds sing songs of jubilation.    

Be still, you birds of the verdant meadow. Heed the muffled church bells ring. Angels are singing songs of mourning  Be still, you birds in the blue heavens ! 

Violets, don't display your lovely looks, or pious children will pick you for sorrowful wreaths.  You'll then be brought to the house of the Mother of God, and wither on the altar of the Lord.  

And there, intoxicated with tearful melodies, and suffocated by the heavy perfume of incense, you will seek your bridegroom in the vaults of the tomb. Life, and Spring , all forsaken !

Morgen kommt der Aschermittwoch

Ernst Hanfstängl (1840 Dresden 1897 Capri) Aschermittwoch aus unserer Rubrik

Am Aschermittwoch ist alles vorbei, die Schwüre von Treue sie brechen entzwei Von all deinen Küssen darf ich nichts mehr wissen Wie schön es auch sei dann ist alles vorbei Trink auf die Freude, denn heut ist heut das was erfreut, hat noch nie gereut fülle mit Leichtsinn dir den Pokal  Karneval, Karneval - Jupp Schmitz, popular song from the 50's.

Ash Wednesday is an important day in the liturgical calender.  Palm cRosses which marked the previous Holy Week are burned, preparing the way for the next, but the symbolism goes deeper.  "Dust to dust, ashes to ashes". So much for the vanities of this material world . We're all going to end up in smoke. Which is why Easter matters: it offers hope and some form of meaning.  In medieval  tradition, fasts were broken by feasting, drinking and excess. "Eat, drink and be merry while you can"  Because good times may not come again.  So excess and wild abadon are haunted. When you wake with a hangover, you know about Hell.  Perfect material for Heinrich Heine.

Dieser Liebe toller Fasching, Dieser Taumel unsrer Herzen,

 Geht zu Ende, und ernüchtert Gähnen wir einander an! 

 Ausgetrunken ist der Kelch, Der mit Sinnenrausch gefüllt war, 

Schäumend, lodernd, bis am Rande; Ausgetrunken ist der Kelch. 

Es verstummen auch die Geigen, Die zum Tanze mächtig spielten, 

 Zu dem Tanz der Leidenschaft; Auch die Geigen, sie verstummen. 

 Es erlöschen auch die Lampen, Die das wilde Licht ergossen 

 Auf den bunten Mummenschanz; Auch die Lampen, sie erlöschen.

 Morgen kommt der Aschermittwoch, Und ich zeichne deine Stirne 

Mit dem Aschenkreuz und spreche: Weib bedenke, daß du Staub bist.

(This lovely Fasching, this wild frenzy of our hearts. It's ending. Sobering up, we yawn at one another.  The cup's drained empty, which once intoxicated - foaming, flaming, overflowing the brim.  The violins are silent that once led the merry dance. (reference to the Devil)  The lamps are out, too, which gave light in the darkness for merry Mummenshanz (masked and costumed clown figures) .  Tomorrow it is Ash Wednesday and I'll mark your forehead with a cross of ash.  And whisper : Woman, think on it : You, too, are dust)

As far as I know this poem has only ever been set as a song once, by Wilhelm Killmayer, mentor of Wolfgang Rihm, part of Killmayer's eclectic and highly original traverse through Heine.  The piano introduction pounds, throbbing like a violent headache.  The vocal lines rise and break off suddenly into silence. The piano comments only in brief staccato flashes. A passage suggests a violin, playing in memory., and the vocal line is circular, like in a dance  The pace slows down, as f unwinding voice and piano alternating. The last strophe is striking. Like liturgical chant, it's dignified but plaintive, like an echo from the medieval past.  Killmayer substitutes the word "Menschen" for "Weibe". The last line is chant. Two phrases:  : "Mensch' bedenke"....."dass du Staub bist!"  Then the piano tolls single chords, like a funeral bell.  Get the CD here (Prégardien, Mauser)  and the score from Schott.

Goethe's März Lied

Es ist ein Schnee gefallen, 

denn es ist noch nicht Zeit, 

daß von den Blümlein allen 

wir werden hoch erfreut. 

 Der Sonnenblick betrüget

 mit mildem falschem Schein, 

die Schwalbe selber lüget,

 warum? Sie kommt allein! 

Sollt ich mich einzeln freuen, 

wenn auch der Frühling nah? 

Doch kommen wir zu zweien,

 gleich ist der Sommer da! 

Goethe

 Snow has fallen. It's not time yet for flowers to bring cheer.  The sun's rays seem mild but they're a trap.  Even the swallow is cheating. Why  Because he comes on his own !  When Spring is so close, could I ever be happy on my own  ?  Yet when the two of us are one, it will be Summer.forever.

For Belgium : Alphons Diepenbrock Die Nacht

For Belgium.  Alphons Diepenbrock (1862-1921) Die Nacht (1911) to a poem by Hölderlin, conducted by Bernard Haitink, soloist Janet Baker

My translation, slightly adapted for today's situation. Hölderlin is hard to translate at the best of times. The breaks above representing Diepenbrock's  setting of the poem. Note how Diepenbrock describes the violin, the traverse of the mood and the crowing cocks

The city is quiet, all around. The lights in the streets have gone dark.
Vehicles rush past, torches aflame.
The joys of the day forgotten, people go home,
Winners and losers, a thoughtful head wonders,
grateful for the day's work.
The market place lies empty, no grapes, no flowers, bereft of human activity.

But a lute (violin) sings from a
shining, amazed, garden far away. 
Perhaps the player is someone who loves,
 or some lonely person is thinking of lost friends
and of childhood days past and of fountains
ever-flowing and fresh, splashing onto beds of flowers,

In the dimming light, bells are heard, ringing  the numbers of the hours,
 like the Guardian of the Night.

Now comes a breeze, over the hilltops and groves.
Look !  the moon, a reverse image of our world, creeps
and the night falls full of stars : indifferent to our worldLy cares
Shining,  astonishing, the moon traverses the skies above mankind..
Yet, in the mountains beyond the city, cocks are crowing with the rising dawn.