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Satis Shroff's CATMANDU CHRONICLES
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Goethe: Fragments of a Big Confession (Satis Shroff)
Related to country: Germany

Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

Walking Along Goethe’s Path in Ilmenau (Satis Shroff)

Subtitle: Fragments of a Big Confession

It was on the evening of September 6,1780. Johann Wolfgang Goethe was writing one of his beautiful lyrical works with a pencil on the inner wall of the hunting-hut on the Kickelhahn. This particular verse was published in an anthology 35 years later.

A day before his last birthday, he went to the small hut, which was nailed together with planks, to recall the lines that he’d written in his younger days. That was in August, 27, 1831.

Today, you certainly will not find the inscription written with his hand, because the original hut was devoured by flames in the year 1870. But forty years later, the hut was rebuilt on the old foundation. In the year 1999, which was celebrated as the Goethe Year, the members of an international conference of Goethe-translators met at Goethe’s favourite hut to recite his verse in their respective languages. The translations were financially supported by the Stiftung Weimarer Classic and the Goethe Society. I’ve translated Goethe’s poem into Nepali, a language which is derived from Sanskrit and uses the Devnagari script.

The small, lovely town of Ilmenau lies on the north side of the Thuringer forest and is known for its mountain excavations, glass and porcelain industry, and is also known as Goethetown. Apropos porcelain, Meissen is the greatest place for those who want to gather exquisite works of earthenware art in porcelain, you know. He visited Ilmenau twenty-eight times. The town of Ilmenau has laid a path with the letter ‘g,’ which Goethe used to use when he signed his initial. Just a small ‘g’ for a literary giant.

We start the Goethe walk tour along the market in Ilmenau. To the left you see the imposing thre storied house. Goethe used to reside in the corner room on the first floor. He used to live and write there whenever he came to Ilmenau. Today it’s a part of the museum, which bears testimony to Goethe’s literary works and information about Ilmenau. The beautiful museum rooms, which have furniture from Goethe’s times, are used today for literary and musical events. If you’ve read Goethe’s ‘Wilhelm Meister’ then you’ve read about his description of the inns ‘Zum Adler’ and ‘To the Sun.’ Alas, these two houses were in a desolated, dilapidated state and had to be demolished in 1992.

A new one has been built with a similar façade. Let’s saunter from the marketplace through the Obertor Street to the graveyard. Near the entrance is the grave of Corona Schröters, who was a beautiful singer and actress in the court of Weimar. Corona was the first actress who played the role of Goethe’s heroine ‘Iphigenie.’

From the graveyard you can take a short-cut to the upper exit, where you come across many memorial-stones for the prominent people of Ilmenau. You cross the B4 and climb up the Sturmheide to the middle and upper Berggraben. This is a path with different elevations along the mountain massif, which were previously hill-trenches in which water used to flow from the mountains, and was channelised to Sturmheide and Roda.

You reach Manebacher Valley after a comfortable walk through a thick forest and watch the splendid valley below. After sometime, you reach Schwalbenstein, a high rock with porphyry, where you can rest in the adjacent hut called ‘Schutzhutte.’ It was in the Schwalbenstein that Goethe wrote the 4th Act of his famous ‘Iphigenie auf Taurus’ on March 19,1779 and in the following years Torquato Tasso. On a rock you can read the beginning of this 4th Act, and you are reminded of the beauty of the German language and the rhythmical power of Goethe’s prose, which has a magical effect on you and moves you to the core.
You move on to the next inn in the forest called ‘Schöffenhaus’ and descend towards Manebach, past Emmastein and the house of the Cantor, in whose garden Goethe used to do his sketches and other drawings. You cross the railway tracks and the street and climb the small bridle path across the hilly meadow, and reach Helenenruhe. A resting place for a certain Helen. You look from there in the distance towards the forested hills behind Schwalbenstein and trek over to Big Hermann Stone. The route is rather steep and most demanding. When you reach the big rock on which once perched a castle in the Middle Ages, you are rewarded by the sight of a cave. Goethe wrote about this cave: ‘It’s my favourite place, where I want to live and work.’ Perhaps it might inspire you too.

This was where Goethe worked and did his drawings. He even brought his lady von Stein when she visited him in Ilmenau. Frau von Stein was a serene, tempered lady-in-waiting who influenced Goethe, and under her friendship Goethe developed into a mature and balanced man.

After the last steep ascent you reach the 861m Klickelhahn. You can see the magnificent Thuringer Forest from here. We know through Goethe’s letter to Ms. von Stein that he fled from the town to Thuringen’s cool forested area whenever he could and wrote to her in Weimar about the beauty of the forest of Thuringen. When words couldn’t describe the opulent beauty of a place, he sent her his excellent drawings, for a picture tells more than a thousand words: he drew the cave of Hermannstein, the misty valleys of Ilmenau, Manebach and Stützerbach. As though the drawings weren’t enough, he wrote further: ‘…there are drawings and descriptions everywhere.’ Perhaps he too found ‘sermons in stones and good in everything,’ like William Shakespeare did in the forest in his ‘As You Like It.’
Goethe was moved by the picturesque idyll of it penned his poems thus:

Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,
in allen Wipfeln
spurst du kaum einen Hauch;
die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch.

Goethe was influenced by Herder’s appreciation of Shakespeare’s genius, and thereafter he’s known to have written a pseudo-Shakespearean tragedy called ‘Geschichte Gottfrieds von Berlichingen, which was ill received by Herder. The school-kids have to learn this on their way to acquiring the high-school certificate.

The hunter’s hut, where Goethe wrote his night-song on September 6, 1780 doesn’t exist anymore, but you can see a remake of the same. And like they say on all guided tours: ‘On a bright day you can see even the distant Harz.’ You descend to the hunter’s hut at Gabelbach (fork-stream). That small house you see was constructed at the order of the Duke Carl August in 1983 when he expected prominent hunting guests. In the house itself you hear lectures about Goethe’s scientific studies in the forest of Thuringen. If you’re tired you can walk to the Shepard’s meadow (Hirtenwiese). From there you can take different routes.But since we ‘re walking along Goethe’s path, we cross the street, and descend to the pretty Schorte Valley.

In Frankfurt Goethe became the leader of a group of intellectuals, which formed the inner circle of the Sturm and Drang. He wrote stormy poetry in free rhythm such as the Wanderers Sturmlied (storm-song), Prometheus, An Schwager Kronos and drafted the scenes of a Faust play, namely Urfaust.

Goethe lived to be 82 and it was in this time that the French Bastille was stormed. Read also A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. Goethe was 39 then, and told his companions at Valmy: ‘This is the beginning of a new epoche of world history and you can say, you experienced it.’ In his youth he’d been fiery, energetic and impatient and later he became an oracular figure of Olympian stature. Germany’s man of letters liked acting, drawing, even directing theatres, and is universally regarded as a writer of the first rank. About his own work, Goethe said: ‘All my works are fragments of a big confession.’

His diversity in creative writing was astonishing and he had a wide range of forms: lyric, epic, ballad poetry, drama, novels, short-stories, autobiographical works. The fragments are the essence of his literary genius.


March 26, 2009 | 11:42 AM Comments  0 comments

Tags:


Lyrics from the Black Forest (Satis Shroff)
Related to country: Germany

Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic

Lyrik:

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach,
The Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *
The Colour of Your Eyes (Satis Shroff)

Blue is the colour of the mountain,
Blue is the colour of t sky,
Blue is the colour of our planet,
And blue is the colour of your eyes.

Blue,
You have so many names:
Blau, bleu, caerulus,
Neelo, niebes, mavi,
Sininen, sienie,
azzuro
azul
a-oj.


Blue is the colour
Of your balanced character:
Unshakeable and constant,
Peace-loving and distanced,
Where there’s conflict,
You shy away.

Blue is the colour
Of your responsibility,
Your astonishment
And helpfulness,
Towards your fellow beings.

Blue is the colour of flexibility,
Tender feelings and faithfulness.
Perhaps that’s why
I love you.

Blue is not alone light,
It carries a bit of darkness
With it.
The colour of your eyes
Have an unspoken effect on me.
I feel an ambivalence
When you look at me.

Ultramarine blue is deep,
The endlessness of the mind.
Your cool blue eyes are distant,
Like an open ocean.
Stimulus and silence,
Annäherung,
Vermeidung.
Sometimes,
I understand you,
At other times,
I don’t.
Am I day dreaming?

Glossary:
Blau: German
Bleu: French
Caerulus:Latin
Neelo: Nepali
Niebes:Polish
Mavi: Turkish
Sininen: Finnish
sienie:Russian
azzuro: Italian
azul: Spanish,Portugese
a-oj: Japanese
Annäherung: to draw close to
Vermeidung: shun, avoid

* * *
© 2009 satisshroff

Winter Blues (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues
* * *

Cosmic Soul (Satis Shroff)

E=mc2
Your body is a mass,
When you decease,
It becomes a mess.
Putrification.

Your soul,
Which never had a beginning
And never has an end
Lives on as energy,
Travels with the speed of light,
To be one with the cosmos,
Leaving behind families,
Friends and relatives.
People and emotional experiences
Of this small transitory world.

Was it an illusion,
This worldly maya,
With its ethereal charms?
Did you live
Or were you already dead?

Unanswered questions of humanity,
As the soul leaves your body
And heads for the vast,
Unfathomable cosmos,
Like a blitz.
To transform into energy.

What came first?
The light?
The energy?
Or the mass?

*****

LIKE PROMETHEUS AND ICARUS (Satis Shroff)

Up and up we flew exultantly
Towards the Himalayas.
Kathmandu, Bhadgaon and Lalitpur
With their palaces, pagodas, shrines,
Brick houses and hotels ,
Lush green fields in the outskirts
Of the valley,
Were becoming smaller and greener.

For a moment in my mind
I was the dragon that rides over the clouds.
I was Prometheus,
The saviour of mankind,
Who gave mortals fire.
I was Icarus,
Flying away from Crete.

As I peered at the majestic silvery Himalayas,
I felt my insignificance in the vastness
That unfurled below me.
How many climbers from the West and East,
How many Sherpas and other ethnic porters
Still lie in the crevasses
Of Himalayan glaciers?

The earth is below us,
And receives us.
I have a feeling of smallness,
Humility,
As I alight from the jet.

I’ve seen and felt
The spell of the mighty Himalayas,
And what’s beyond the clouds
In the sky.
A strong, deep, religious experience,
For I had trespassed
The Abode of Snows,
Himalaya.
The Home of the Gods.

*****

MUSIC AND MUSE (Satis Shroff)

Pillows of silk, sheets of white satin
A world of lights and colours,
Of precious spices, exotic fruits
And music.
A world of joy and merrymaking
Behind the Rana palace curtains
In Kathmandu.

I’ve learned the mystery of love
And buried my face in her lap.
Penned poems in the white heat
Of passionate moments,
Till she cried in ecstasy:
‘How wonderful.’

Glossary:
Ranas: The Ranas were former rulers of Nepal who usurped the throne of the Shahs. Nepal is a republic since 2008 headed by a Maoist Führer named Prachanda

-------------------------------------------------

WITHOUT WORDS (Satis Shroff)

We speak with each other
A wonderful feeling overcomes me
And I’m touched to the roots of my existence.
As though it’s a doubling of my existence.
It becomes a passion
To speak with each other.

Our lives are filled with togetherness:
With ourselves and our children.
I discover myself in you
And you in me.
Where one is at home
In the company of the other
And vice versa.

Where you can be the way you are,
Where I can be the way I am.
Our tolerance for each other is crucial.
There are moments when one forgets time.
We speak to each other without words.
It’s not sung,
It’s not instrumental chords.

Just our hearts understanding each other.
In tact with each other.
Our eyes speak volumes
And a nod is enough.

© 2009 satisshroff

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff






March 26, 2009 | 11:41 AM Comments  0 comments

Tags:


औरोरा बोरेअलिस (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)





Lyrik:

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)


The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach,
The Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *
The Colour of Your Eyes (Satis Shroff)


Blue is the colour of the mountain,
Blue is the colour of t sky,
Blue is the colour of our planet,
And blue is the colour of your eyes.

Blue,
You have so many names:
Blau, bleu, caerulus,
Neelo, niebes, mavi,
Sininen, sienie,
azzuro
azul
a-oj.


Blue is the colour
Of your balanced character:
Unshakeable and constant,
Peace-loving and distanced,
Where there’s conflict,
You shy away.

Blue is the colour
Of your responsibility,
Your astonishment
And helpfulness,
Towards your fellow beings.

Blue is the colour of flexibility,
Tender feelings and faithfulness.
Perhaps that’s why
I love you.

Blue is not alone light,
It carries a bit of darkness
With it.
The colour of your eyes
Have an unspoken effect on me.
I feel an ambivalence
When you look at me.

Ultramarine blue is deep,
The endlessness of the mind.
Your cool blue eyes are distant,
Like an open ocean.
Stimulus and silence,
Annäherung,
Vermeidung.
Sometimes,
I understand you,
At other times,
I don’t.
Am I day dreaming?

Glossary:
Blau: German
Bleu: French
Caerulus:Latin
Neelo: Nepali
Niebes:Polish
Mavi: Turkish
Sininen: Finnish
sienie:Russian
azzuro: Italian
azul: Spanish,Portugese
a-oj: Japanese
Annäherung: to draw close to
Vermeidung: shun, avoid

* * *
© 2009 satisshroff

Winter Blues (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues
* * *

Cosmic Soul (Satis Shroff)


E=mc2
Your body is a mass,
When you decease,
It becomes a mess.
Putrification.

Your soul,
Which never had a beginning
And never has an end
Lives on as energy,
Travels with the speed of light,
To be one with the cosmos,
Leaving behind families,
Friends and relatives.
People and emotional experiences
Of this small transitory world.

Was it an illusion,
This worldly maya,
With its ethereal charms?
Did you live
Or were you already dead?

Unanswered questions of humanity,
As the soul leaves your body
And heads for the vast,
Unfathomable cosmos,
Like a blitz.
To transform into energy.

What came first?
The light?
The energy?
Or the mass?

*****

LIKE PROMETHEUS AND ICARUS (Satis Shroff)


Up and up we flew exultantly
Towards the Himalayas.
Kathmandu, Bhadgaon and Lalitpur
With their palaces, pagodas, shrines,
Brick houses and hotels ,
Lush green fields in the outskirts
Of the valley,
Were becoming smaller and greener.

For a moment in my mind
I was the dragon that rides over the clouds.
I was Prometheus,
The saviour of mankind,
Who gave mortals fire.
I was Icarus,
Flying away from Crete.

As I peered at the majestic silvery Himalayas,
I felt my insignificance in the vastness
That unfurled below me.
How many climbers from the West and East,
How many Sherpas and other ethnic porters
Still lie in the crevasses
Of Himalayan glaciers?

The earth is below us,
And receives us.
I have a feeling of smallness,
Humility,
As I alight from the jet.

I’ve seen and felt
The spell of the mighty Himalayas,
And what’s beyond the clouds
In the sky.
A strong, deep, religious experience,
For I had trespassed
The Abode of Snows,
Himalaya.
The Home of the Gods.

*****

MUSIC AND MUSE (Satis Shroff)


Pillows of silk, sheets of white satin
A world of lights and colours,
Of precious spices, exotic fruits
And music.
A world of joy and merrymaking
Behind the Rana palace curtains
In Kathmandu.

I’ve learned the mystery of love
And buried my face in her lap.
Penned poems in the white heat
Of passionate moments,
Till she cried in ecstasy:
‘How wonderful.’

Glossary:
Ranas: The Ranas were former rulers of Nepal who usurped the throne of the Shahs. Nepal is a republic since 2008 headed by a Maoist Führer named Prachanda

-------------------------------------------------

WITHOUT WORDS (Satis Shroff)

We speak with each other
A wonderful feeling overcomes me
And I’m touched to the roots of my existence.
As though it’s a doubling of my existence.
It becomes a passion
To speak with each other.

Our lives are filled with togetherness:
With ourselves and our children.
I discover myself in you
And you in me.
Where one is at home
In the company of the other
And vice versa.

Where you can be the way you are,
Where I can be the way I am.
Our tolerance for each other is crucial.
There are moments when one forgets time.
We speak to each other without words.
It’s not sung,
It’s not instrumental chords.

Just our hearts understanding each other.
In tact with each other.
Our eyes speak volumes
And a nod is enough.

© 2009 satisshroff

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.
http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff

March 26, 2009 | 11:03 AM Comments  0 comments

Tags:


European Ethnology: Scheibenschlagen at Kappel (Satis Shroff)
Related to country: Germany

Translations available in: English (original) | French | Spanish | Italian | German | Portuguese | Swedish | Russian | Dutch | Arabic


WOOD-SHOOTING ON THE MAIER HILL, KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Where should the slice of wood go?
The slice should go to Karin-Claudia!
If it doesn’t fly,
Then it’s not true.

The Hill Spirits of Schauinsland staged the traditional slice-of-wood shooting on top of the Maier Hill in Kappel, below the place where the ores were washed previously. This big fire was to be seen from as far as the Big Valley street so that visitors could find their way to the hill.

Wood-shooting or as we Germans call it ‘Scheibenschlagen’ is an old pagan ritual to banish winter, which was later integrated into the Christian days of fasting called ‘fasnet.’ The date of this tradition goes back to the old calendar of fasting in which the people indulged in, even on Sundays, which is normally regarded as ‘the day of resting’ or Ruhetag. In Freiburg and the surrounding areas, the wood-shooting is carried out after Ash Wednesday. The ritual took place in Tuniberg-Orten and St. Georgen last week already and Kappel celebrated it a bit later. The Schauinsland Berggeister have good relations with their fellow knaves from the Dreisam Valley such as: the Firey Salamander from Ebnet, the Forest Spirits of Stegen (Waldgeister).

In Eschbach, for instance, only young men aged 18 to 26 years are allowed to take part in the wood-shooting. Their duties among others are: to uphold the old traditions, gather Christmas trees, cut wood, find a Schiebe girl for the Schiebe-dance later in the evening, cut the wood in shape (10 x 10 cm) and to alternatively work as bar-keepers. The straw witch placed at the tip of the stake is burned to symbolically drive away the winter. When the pyre of gathered wood really starts burning, its orange and red flames licking the sky, the boys begin to pray when the village bells ring. They go around in circles thrice, wearing their hats like punters at Oxford, with long white smocks.

Hitting a glowing piece of glowing wood cut in the form of a 10 cm square, is a traditional custom in the Black Forest. This takes place at the end of the Fasnet time, which is incidentally, the beginning of the period of fasting, and takes place normally on the first Sunday. You wait till it becomes dark and a fire is made at an elevation above the hamlet you’re living in.

For young men it’s fun and pride to take part in the wood-shooting ceremony. The flattened pieces of wood have a hole in the middle and are raised on four sides, so that they can fly like a small frisbee into the nocturnal sky like a wee meteorite. The route of the wooden plate depends on the strength and skill of the person hitting it. In Kappel there was only one woman who was allowed to take part in the ritual. She was a heavily built blonde lady and shot the wood with all her might. Either it must have flown to outer space or it never left the ground. The crowd gathered in the cold, starry night are young and old, and often jeer at the participants when their shots are flops sometimes. This is supposed to bring them bad luck and is inauspicious.

The wooden plates are made of birch, beech, alder or elm-wood. Each person shoots at least 20 such pieces, which are burnt at the end of a swinging stick in a separate, smaller fire till they glow. The slabs of wood are placed on a ramp and with a swing, away it goes into the starry, wintry night. Behind us, above the hillock with its rows of pine trees looking like sentinels, was the silvery moon appearing behind the grey clouds. Each slab of wood is dedicated to a friend, wife, lover, a couple, even firms and chefs, and people who have been engaged or have married since the last ‘Funken’ or spark Sunday.

If he piece of glowing wood flies far and wide, this is regarded as a good omen. The fireball can attain a distance of 120 to 150 metres. Unlike the Scheibenschlagen in the Black Forest, in Allgäu (Bavaria) they differentiate between Ehrenscheiben for friends and people higher up in the social ladder, and a curse-wood (Schimpfenscheiben) in which certain people who have done something bad or forbidden in the hamlet or have not been brought to court yet, are lampooned. In the early days, if a glowing piece of wood reached a house roof, window, or even the hay in a stall, it was not retrieved and held as auspicious, according to the old folk’s belief: ‘A burning slab of wood doesn’t cause a fire.’

Clemens Fruttiker, a thick-set guy, with greying hair at the sides like George Clooney, who is in charge of Kappel’s Fire Brigade says: ‘We’re ready for any fire and always on standby when there’s a wood-shooting ceremony in the area.’ He sure knows what he’s talking about because he’s my neighbour and a big reassurance to us all.

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Wenn soll d’ schiebe go?
D’ Schieba soll der (Name) go!
Fliegt’s nit,
So gilt’s nit.

© 2009 satisshroff

Glossary:
Go oder gehen: to go
Schiebe, Scheiben: wooden slices or slabs, 10 x 10 cm
Schiebetanz: dance after the wood-shooting ceremony
Schlagen: hit, shoot
Ehren: do someone the honour,
Funken: spark
Schimpfen: curse, rail upon someone
Schauensländer Berggeister: Hill spirits of the Schauinsland
Fliegt’s nit: doesn’t fly
So gilt’s nit: It doesn’t count, it’s not true
Funken: emit sparks





March 11, 2009 | 1:12 PM Comments  0 comments

Tags:


वुड-शूटिंग ओं थे मेयेर हिल, कप्पेल (सतीस श्रोफ्फ़)i





WOOD-SHOOTING ON THE MAIER HILL, KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Where should the slice of wood go?
The slice should go to Karin-Claudia!
If it doesn’t fly,
Then it’s not true.


The Hill Spirits of Schauinsland staged the traditional slice-of-wood shooting on top of the Maier Hill in Kappel, below the place where the ores were washed previously. This big fire was to be seen from as far as the Big Valley street so that visitors could find their way to the hill.

Wood-shooting or as we Germans call it ‘Scheibenschlagen’ is an old pagan ritual to banish winter, which was later integrated into the Christian days of fasting called ‘fasnet.’ The date of this tradition goes back to the old calendar of fasting in which the people indulged in, even on Sundays, which is normally regarded as ‘the day of resting’ or Ruhetag. In Freiburg and the surrounding areas, the wood-shooting is carried out after Ash Wednesday. The ritual took place in Tuniberg-Orten and St. Georgen last week already and Kappel celebrated it a bit later. The Schauinsland Berggeister have good relations with their fellow knaves from the Dreisam Valley such as: the Firey Salamander from Ebnet, the Forest Spirits of Stegen (Waldgeister).

In Eschbach, for instance, only young men aged 18 to 26 years are allowed to take part in the wood-shooting. Their duties among others are: to uphold the old traditions, gather Christmas trees, cut wood, find a Schiebe girl for the Schiebe-dance later in the evening, cut the wood in shape (10 x 10 cm) and to alternatively work as bar-keepers. The straw witch placed at the tip of the stake is burned to symbolically drive away the winter. When the pyre of gathered wood really starts burning, its orange and red flames licking the sky, the boys begin to pray when the village bells ring. They go around in circles thrice, wearing their hats like punters at Oxford, with long white smocks.

Hitting a glowing piece of glowing wood cut in the form of a 10 cm square, is a traditional custom in the Black Forest. This takes place at the end of the Fasnet time, which is incidentally, the beginning of the period of fasting, and takes place normally on the first Sunday. You wait till it becomes dark and a fire is made at an elevation above the hamlet you’re living in.

For young men it’s fun and pride to take part in the wood-shooting ceremony. The flattened pieces of wood have a hole in the middle and are raised on four sides, so that they can fly like a small frisbee into the nocturnal sky like a wee meteorite. The route of the wooden plate depends on the strength and skill of the person hitting it. In Kappel there was only one woman who was allowed to take part in the ritual. She was a heavily built blonde lady and shot the wood with all her might. Either it must have flown to outer space or it never left the ground. The crowd gathered in the cold, starry night are young and old, and often jeer at the participants when their shots are flops sometimes. This is supposed to bring them bad luck and is inauspicious.

The wooden plates are made of birch, beech, alder or elm-wood. Each person shoots at least 20 such pieces, which are burnt at the end of a swinging stick in a separate, smaller fire till they glow. The slabs of wood are placed on a ramp and with a swing, away it goes into the starry, wintry night. Behind us, above the hillock with its rows of pine trees looking like sentinels, was the silvery moon appearing behind the grey clouds. Each slab of wood is dedicated to a friend, wife, lover, a couple, even firms and chefs, and people who have been engaged or have married since the last ‘Funken’ or spark Sunday.

If he piece of glowing wood flies far and wide, this is regarded as a good omen. The fireball can attain a distance of 120 to 150 metres. Unlike the Scheibenschlagen in the Black Forest, in Allgäu (Bavaria) they differentiate between Ehrenscheiben for friends and people higher up in the social ladder, and a curse-wood (Schimpfenscheiben) in which certain people who have done something bad or forbidden in the hamlet or have not been brought to court yet, are lampooned. In the early days, if a glowing piece of wood reached a house roof, window, or even the hay in a stall, it was not retrieved and held as auspicious, according to the old folk’s belief: ‘A burning slab of wood doesn’t cause a fire.’

Clemens Fruttiker, a thick-set guy, with greying hair at the sides like George Clooney, who is in charge of Kappel’s Fire Brigade says: ‘We’re ready for any fire and always on standby when there’s a wood-shooting ceremony in the area.’ He sure knows what he’s talking about because he’s my neighbour and a big reassurance to us all.

Schiebe, schieba, schiebo
Wenn soll d’ schiebe go?
D’ Schieba soll der (Name) go!
Fliegt’s nit,
So gilt’s nit.


© 2009 satisshroff

Glossary:

Go oder gehen: to go
Schiebe, Scheiben: wooden slices or slabs, 10 x 10 cm
Schiebetanz: dance after the wood-shooting ceremony
Schlagen: hit, shoot
Ehren: do someone the honour,
Funken: spark
Schimpfen: curse, rail upon someone
Schauensländer Berggeister: Hill spirits of the Schauinsland
Fliegt’s nit: doesn’t fly
So gilt’s nit: It doesn’t count, it’s not true
Funken: emit sparks

March 11, 2009 | 12:03 PM Comments  0 comments

Tags:


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