PARTISAN REVIEW
633
Kunze is master of the minimal poem; not telegraph style, but Morse code.
The remaining pages are devoted to poets born in the 1930s. Of these,
Wolf Biermann is the best known, though by no means the most interesting.
Interesting is the fact that although he has not been allowed to perform or
publish since 1965, he declares himself a citizen of the DDR, and would want
to live nowhere else.
The most obviously engage of these poets is Volker Braun, who identifies
with the youth of his country and speaks their language. His tone is provoca–
tive, aggressive.
In
East Germany he is regarded as a kind of miniature
Mayakovsky. Ironically enough, despite his continued declarations of loyalty,
he has continued difficulties with the regime. His most interesting poem, in its
use of traditional material to make contemporary statements, is "Prometheus,"
where he reverses the order of things to have man carry fire up to
the sky in a socialist statement of people power.
Altogether it is striking to consider the preoccupation of these poets with
the past, not in any nostalgic sense, but in a never-ending dialectic exchange.
The very writing of poetry becomes more and more problematical with the
younger poets. What should the function of a poem be in a socialist society?
In
his introduction, the editor says of the translators, "it was their job to
present as close a rendering as possible of each poet's manner of writing," and
that "poetry as austere as most of this. . . calls for a corresponding austerity
on the translator's part."
In
most cases, this high ideal was lived up to (a large
number of the translations are by Michael Hamburger himself), and the
results are translations of unusual quality. Only some of the younger poets
seem a bit too elegant in English, as where Volker Braun's "Das schiesst ins
Kraut," a very earthy proverb, is translated as "This proliferates." But these
are minor lapses.
Through this volume a significant gap in contemporary literature has
been narrowed for the English-speaking reader. With it, the old question is
raised again: in what climate does poetry thrive? At what point does con–
straint mute, or smug freedom extinguish, the lyric voice?
Betty Falkenberg
