Georg Trakl was an Austrian poet. He is considered one of the most important Austrian Expressionists.
Life and Work
Trakl was born and lived the first 18 years of his life in Salzburg, Austria. His father, Tobias Trakl (11 June 1837, Ödenburg/Sopron – 1910), was a dealer of hardware from Hungary, while his mother, Maria Catharina Halik (17 May 1852, Wiener Neustadt – 1925), was a housewife of Czech descent with strong interests in art and music.
Trakl attended a Catholic elementary school, although his parents were Protestants. He matriculated in 1897 at the Salzburg Staatsgymnasium, where he studied Latin, Greek, and mathematics. At age 13, Trakl began to ... more »
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Georg Trakl Poems
At evening the autumn woodlands ring With deadly weapons. Over the golden plains And lakes of blue, the sun More darkly rolls. The night surrounds
When snow falls against the window, Long sounds the evening bell... For so many has the table Been prepared, the house set in order.
There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls. There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here. There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts- - How sad this evening.
It is a light, that the wind has extinguished. It is a pub on the heath, that a drunk departs in the afternoon. It is a vineyard, charred and black with holes full of spiders. It is a space, that they have white-limed with milk.
Whispered Into Afternoon
Sun of autumn, thin and shy And fruit drops off the trees, Blue silence fills the peace Of a tardy afternoon’s sky.
Dreamless sleep - the dusky Eagles nightlong rush about my head, man's golden image drowned in timeless icy tides. On jagged reefs
Gone and passed is the gold of day, And the evening’s brown and blue: Silenced the shepherd’s tender flute And the evening’s brown and blue
The black snow runs down from the rooftops; A red finger dips into your brow; Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room, They are a lovers’ dying mirrors.
Kaspar Hauser's Song
He truly loved the purple sun, descending from the hills, The ways through the woods, the singing blackbird And the joys of green.
In the spirit’s solitary hours It is lovely to walk in the sun Along the yellow walls of summer. Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always sleeps
The wind, which moves purple treetops, Is God's breath that comes and goes. The black village rises before the forest; Three shadows are laid over the field.
The blueness dies out in my eyes tonight, the red gold of my heart. O how still the light burns! Your cloak of sadness encircles the long descent. Your red lips seal your friend’s unhinging.
Very bright tones in the thin winds, They sing the distant mourning of this day, That makes us dream after never-felt showers Completely filled with unimaginable smells.
At the Moor
Wanderer in the blackened wind. Dry reeds whisper in the stillness of the moor. A column of savage birds ensues in the dawning sky. Over murky waters they cross.
Comments about Georg Trakl
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
At evening the autumn woodlands ring
With deadly weapons. Over the golden plains
And lakes of blue, the sun
More darkly rolls. The night surrounds
Warriors dying and the wild lament
Of their fragmented mouths.
Yet silently there gather in the willow combe
Red clouds inhabited by an angry god,
Shed blood, and the chill of the moon.
All roads lead to black decay.
Under golden branching of the night and stars
A sister's shadow sways through the still grove
To greet the heroes' spirits, the bloodied heads.
And softly in the reeds Autumn's dark flutes ...