Winter Journey

It is ten years since the untimely death of W. G. Sebald and earlier this month there was a special event to celebrate his work and launch Across the Land and the Water: Selected Poems, 1964-2001. There were contributions from Iain Sinclair, A. S. Byatt, Andrew Motion and others who knew him (like poet Will Stone, whose recollections of studying with Sebald were particularly poignant).  It was sad to reflect that the last time I had seen translator Anthea Bell on stage it was next to Sebald himself, reading from the recently-published Austerlitz.  The crumbling Victorian Wilton's Music Hall was a particularly resonant setting for the readings, and for the performance of songs from Schubert's Winterreise by Ian Bostridge.  Hearing the Winterreise in this context prompted thoughts of all the journeys and sadness in Sebald's writings.  

There are many clips online of Ian Bostridge performing the Winterreise - the one I've included above is the opening song in the sequence.  I thought it would be interesting to provide here short summaries of the cycle's twenty-four songs, to show how many of them start with some aspect of the winter landscape - the rustling sound of linden trees, ice on a frozen river, a tree's last few leaves trembling in the wind.  Many of these natural elements are evoked in Schubert's piano score (for example, in 'Der Lindenbaum', 'the piano’s fluttering triplet figuration in E major which opens the song evokes the gentle breezes and whispering leaves of summer: the figure returns later, altered with chromatic harmonies, to depict the cold wind and eerie rustling of the tree in winter, and the young man’s growing sense of delusion'.)  Rather than do a plain synopsis I've turned the Winterreise below into a set of tanka-style verses - I know this is a complete travesty (as Mrs Plinius was quick to point out when she saw what I was doing) but I just found it more fun than writing a set of bullet points... I've based this on the English translation at the Lied, Art Song and Choral Text Archive, using Arthur Rishi's titles; you can follow the link to read proper translations, or the original German poems by Wilhelm Müller. 

Good Night

I leave, a stranger -

Remembering the flowers

And the talk of love

As I walk this path in snow

And write “Good Night” on the gate.

The Weathervane

The weathervane blows

Whistling at this fugitive.

In that house, the wind

Plays quietly with people’s hearts.

What is my suffering to them?

Frozen tears

Frozen teardrops fall

Like morning dew turned to ice

But spring from a heart

That’s burning hot enough to

Melt all the ice of winter.

Numbness

No trace of her now

Walking on this once green field.

Pale turf, dead flowers.

And if my dead heart should thaw,

Her image would melt away.

The linden tree

By a fountain, near the gate:

A linden tree. Though it’s dark

I try not to see

The words of love we carved there.

Still, I hear the tree rustling.

Torrent

The snow drinks my tears,

But when the grass starts to grow

And the ice breaks up

A brook will carry them through

The town’s streets and past her house.

On the stream

Wild stream, with a hard

Solid crust of ice on which

I carve her name, and

A broken ring.  Underneath

There is a surging torrent.

Backward Glance

I’ll not pause until

The town is out of sight where

Once the windows shone,

The linden trees were blooming

And a girl’s eyes were glowing.

Will-o'-the-wisp

A will-o'-the-wisp

Led me astray. Now I walk

Down a stream’s dry course.

Every stream will find the sea,

Every sorrow finds its grave.

Rest

Too cold to stand still

I’ve walked this desolate road.

Sheltering now in

A coal burner’s narrow hut

I cannot rest, my wounds still burn.

A Dream of Springtime

Dreaming of flowers

And the song of birds in May,

I wake in the dark

With ravens shrieking above.

When will all these leaves turn green?

Loneliness

A dark cloud passing

Through clear skies, I make my way

Through bright, joyful life.

When the tempests were raging

I was not so miserable.

The post

What makes my heart leap

At the sound of a posthorn

Coming from the street?

Why would I want to look there?

There is no letter for me.

The grey head

My frost coated hair

Soon thaws and leaves me grieving,

Sad to think that death

Is still far off.  This journey

Has still not turned my hair to grey.

The crow

A crow is circling.

It’s been with me since the town

And won’t leave until

The end.  Not much further now.

Fidelity to the grave.

Last hope

A few coloured leaves

Are visible on the trees.

If that one I choose

Is caught and blown to the ground

I too will sink down and weep.

In the village

The hounds are barking

Whilst men sleep and dream of things

They do not have. Bark

Me away, you waking dogs.

I am finished with all dreams.

The stormy morning

Weary shreds of cloud

Flit across a storm-torn sky,

Red flames among them.

This morning is to my taste -

It is nothing but winter.

Deception

Before me a light…

I follow it eagerly

Through the ice and night

Imagining a warm house…

But it is all delusion.

The signpost

I search hidden paths

Over cliff tops and wastelands -

One sign before me,

My eyes fixed upon the road

From which no one returns

The inn

I reach a graveyard,

Its death wreaths tempting to

The weary traveller.

But all the rooms are taken

And I must go further on.

Courage

Snow flies in my face.

I shake it off.  My heart cries,

But I sing brightly.

I have no ears for laments

And stride on against the wind.

The phantom suns

Three suns in the sky –

They seem to stare down at me.

Gone, the best two suns,

And I do not need the third:

I’m better left in darkness.

The hurdy-gurdy man

Barefoot on the ice,

An old hurdy-gurdy man.

Nobody listens.

Shall I go with him and let

Him play along to my songs?