Gull Song

CHRISTIAN MORGENSTERN Translated by

W. D. SNODGRASS and LORE GROSZMANN

GULL SONG

Every seagull looks the same:

As if Emma were its name.

They wear a great white paletot;

Buckshot will do to bring them low.

I never shoot the gulls down dead;

I think about that with abhorrence.

I feed seagulls with good rye bread

And little reddish currants.

O Man! The gull's flight, I believe,

Is one thing you won't quite achieve.

Content yourself, only as you're

Named Emma, to resemble her.

THE UNDERPANTS

Sacred are the underpants

In the wind and sunshine, freeing

Themselves from worldly circumstance,

Calling to mind their own true Being.

Joyous, rid of all shame and hate

For this, their fundamental state,

They seem decorative details

Puffed faintly on their lines like sails.

Painter, bring all tropes in your power

To glory them and nothing spare-Ah!

They are your most faithful flower,

Fall, summer, winter, primavera.