Mamacita says:  Heinrich Heine was the center of various controversies almost all of his adult life.  Born a Jew, he later converted to Catholicism: not for the right reasons, but for convenience’s sake. He has been quoted as such: “. . . (conversion) was ‘the ticket of admission into European culture.’”. and “As Henry IV said, ‘Paris is worth a mass’; I say, ‘Berlin is worth the sermon.’”  His writings covered many genres, but it is his poetry I like best.

Heine wallowed in his own sadness at times, and many of his poems are broken-hearted, frustrated, forbidden-love delights.  A lot of famous musicians of the time set his lyrics to music: Brahams, Strauss, Schumann, Mendelsohn. . . .

Poor Heine, a master of gallows humor. . . .  rejected and rebuffed, undersized, whiny, laughing his high-pitched falsetto laugh to hide his tears. . .   Heinrich Heine idolized Goethe, and sent the famous poet a copy of his first book of poems.  Goethe did not even acknowledge the book, least of all thank Heine.  Understanding a little of the poet himself almost always helps us understand the poem, because a poem will always have a little bit – or a lot – of the personality of the poet.

Good Fortune

Good Fortune is a giddy maid,

Fickle and restless as a fawn;

She smooths your hair, and then the jade

Kisses you quickly, and is gone.

But Madame Sorrow scorns all this;

She shows no eagerness for flitting,

But with a long and fervent kiss

Sits by your bed, and brings her knitting.

It’s one of my favorite poems. Some days, it’s almost a theme song.

Sarcastic to the end,  Heine’s last words were: God will forgive me. It’s his job.

Crane referred to his poems as “lines,” but I call them poems, and I like ‘em!  Most of them are short, but hardly sweet.

In The Desert

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter – bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

Once There Came a Man

Once there came a man
Who said,
“Range me all men of the world in rows.”
And instantly
There was terrific clamour among the people
Against being ranged in rows.
There was a loud quarrel, world-wide.
It endured for ages;
And blood was shed
By those who would not stand in rows,
And by those who pined to stand in rows.
Eventually, the man went to death, weeping.
And those who staid in bloody scuffle
Knew not the great simplicity.

God Fashioned The Ship of the World Carefully

God fashioned the ship of the world carefully.
With the infinite skill of an All-Master
Made He the hull and the sails,
Held He the rudder
Ready for adjustment.
Erect stood He, scanning His work proudly.
Then — at fateful time — a wrong called,
And God turned, heeding.
Lo, the ship, at this opportunity, slipped slyly,
Making cunning noiseless travel down the ways.
So that, forever rudderless, it went upon the seas
Going ridiculous voyages,
Making quaint progress,
Turning as with serious purpose
Before stupid winds.
And there were many in the sky
Who laughed at this thing.

I Stood Upon A High Place

I stood upon a high place,
And saw, below, many devils
Running, leaping,
and carousing in sin.
One looked up, grinning,
And said, “Comrade! Brother!”

Should the Wide World Roll Away

Should the wide world roll away,
Leaving black terror,
Limitless night,
Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand
Would be to me essential,
If thou and thy white arms were there,
And the fall to doom a long way.

War Is Kind

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because the lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom -
A field wher a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

And finally, the two Stephen Crane “lines” which are my favorites:

A Man Said to the Universe

A man said to the universe:
“Sir I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

I Saw A Man Pursuing the Horizon

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never -”

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.