# 80. Modern Poetry

#### I

Dear reader, I cannot find the words to describe to you the impression that the poems that came to me today have made on me. Listen to the poet himself:

> Year after year...  
> In the park  
> I tease the young girls,  
> who no longer blush, no longer smile.  
> Don't make a bad face!  
> They just keep quiet, look past me.
> Cross their arms.  
> The distant sound of  
> chattering happiness.
> Here,  
> where my sweetheart fell into my arms,  
> loud
> Love sobbed  
> the red mouth of a flower is silent,  
> it was quiet around me.  
> My mother's coffin collapses under the earth!

And if you still haven't had enough, dear reader, I'll give you a second sample:

> This morning I sang three love songs  
> over the melting snow  
> into the soft air.
> At noon I was so hungry;  
> my dreams almost fell into my peas.  
> I stuffed.
> Now the moon is shining.
> From my heart  
> three hundred cats are screaming.

But now I won't bring you another sample. I love you too much, dear reader. But I had to tell you about the latest volume of poetry, “Neues Leben” by *Georg Stolzenberg*, which has just been published in Berlin by Johann Sassenbach. If you think it is intended to compete with the “Kladderadatsch”, which contains many a cheerful stylistic experiment in its “Correspondence of the Editorial Office”, you are mistaken. It is really and truly serious “modern poetry”, and the booklet is dedicated to no less a person than Mr. Stolzenberg's “friend” *Arno Holz*.

Mr. Georg Stolzenberg has truly discovered the new lyricism with his singing. On May 7, 1898, he announced this in the “Zukunft”, which is so suitable for “self-advertisements”. He says that he has been searching for many years to be able to put his feelings into the appropriate form. “Then I read some of the newest poems by Arno Holz. As soon as I grasped their essence, it was clear to me what had held back the development of a truly contemporary art of verse for so long: the thick tangle of words that even those of our poets who have long since been beyond criticism had to stuff by the cartload into their verse buildings so that there were no too large cracks, the compulsion to twist the reluctant thread of thought through the rhyme ear each time, the necessity to constantly make the word dance. With the technique created by Arno Holz, in which, as he himself puts it, ultimate simplicity is the highest law and [possible] naturalness seems to be the most intense form of art, lyric poetry is beginning anew, as it were.” And now enough. Stolzenberg's prose is worthy of his ‘poetry.’

#### II

Poetry is now blossoming in new ways. The editors of this journal have not yet reformed their tastes enough to be able to pass judgment on this latest artistic direction. Therefore, without passing judgment, they present readers with a few samples of these latest achievements. However, it should be noted that these lyrical creations are meant to be taken seriously by their creators.

The master, *Arno Holz*, leads the way. In his latest collection, “Phantasus” (Berlin, Sassenbach. Second issue 1899) contains:

> I ride my winged steed  
> I whip my winged steed.  
> through!
> Beyond shattered planetary systems, beyond glaciated  
> primeval suns, behind deserts of night and nothingness  
> shimmering new worlds grow - trillions of crocus flowers!

Now the students: Georg Stolzenberg, “Neues Leben” (Second Issue. Berlin 1899):

> Spring wind  
> touches the skirts.  
> All the girls are beautiful.  
> They buy little bunches of violets  
> and laugh for no reason.  
> I  
> twirl my beautifully curled  
> Maikaterbart! [ruffled]

*

*Robert Hess* writes in his “Fables” (Berlin 1899):

> The evening sky is shining metallic.  
> Under dark branches  
> a shepherd is blowing.  
> The goats are still gambolling.  
> mosquitoes dance.  
> A sheep looks at the setting sun.  
> Yuck!

*Rolf Wolfgang Martens* “Befreite Flügel” (Berlin 1899) contains:

> In water boots,  
> with rolled-up sleeves,  
> he roams the primeval forests.  
> His gaze  
> measures the giant trees.  
> On the summit of Gaurisankar  
> he proudly builds himself a castle.  
> There he carouses with Ramses, Timur and Alexander the Great. I approach  
> I approach him and show him a colorful, shimmering  
> Indignant [meadow flowers]  
> he throws me down the stairs!