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To My Neighbor


I lift you higher,
lift you out
of your body cells
stuffed with anxiety
of your past -
an evil load that smells.

I'll fill each cell
with love and joy
that makes the
angels dance.
You'll glide through earthly
filth and stench -
a spiritual trance.

From your youth filled eyes,
your hands
and feet,
a holy peace shall flow,
so you and I
be filled with grace -
let us be still
and know.

William Hermanns
[P527]

Seelentränen


Seelentränen sind Gedichte,
rot mit Herzblut aufgeschrieben,
tiefem Menschenleid zum Ruhm,

Lies sie still in reinem Lichte,
unbeschattet,
frei von Trieben:
Du betrittst ein Heiligtum.


Wilhelm Hermanns
[G001]




William Hermanns
                
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William Hermanns


Poem of William Hermanns

P238

                    A German Legend
                         A Satire for Laughter and Tears

Our Führer slain! Closed are the bloodless lips
that poured forth myriad words to shame a torrent.
Those words which shattered heaven's windows stopped
ere man could learn their notes of love and peace.
Cursed be the steel that sealed thy pious lips
and snatched thee, shepherd, from thy docile sheep
and drowned thy guiding voice with purple silence.
Now we are left alone, thine Aryan sons,
like orphans in a strange and evil world.

But lo, a star gleams on Valhalla's spire
and pales the brother star of Bethlehem:
Its ray descends to kiss a lonely bier.
A shadow rises, swathed in haloed light;
ascending heavenward he meets a host
of German Valkyries on fiery steeds
to lead his path through clouds and lightning storm.
And lo, Valhalla's heroes light the torch
to hail the greatest of Germania's sons.
The Teuton Knights clasp tight their hands in prayer,
while Prussia's Frederick pipes his magic flute.
Bismarck extends his hand, begloved with velvet,
and Hermann now advances, clad in bearskins
with battle—Germania's savior,
(as German schoolbooks title him, of yore).
He lured his friend and patron, noble Varus,
into the German forests to be slain.

There was no wrong; Varus was but a Roman.
And thus occurred two thousand years ago
the prime example of Germanic honor.
His kinsmen followed it by slaying Hermann.
Our Fuehrer followed it by slaying Röhm,
to be in turn the sacrifice of steel.
Not strange then that our Hermann now embraces
the Führer, saying, "Brother of my fate,
blest be the tempered blade that laid thee low.
A German martyr once again has risen!"

Alas, the world does not concede his greatness,
but now calls him a German Genghis Khan.
Come, let us reason then with German reason
and prove our thinkers have not lived in vain:
The Dutch say that the burning of the Reichstag
which doomed a Dutch boy, puppet of the deed,
began his course. 0h world, which spurns the truth!
Why talk if Dutch blood has perchance been spilled?
Let the blond-haired German, Captain Röhm, rise up,
who stamped brown legions out of barren soil
and whom our Führer called, "Thou friend of friends,"
to testify that he was slain as well!
Let rise the blue-eyed Prussian generals, too,
who conquered living space on Europe's fields
to gain but dying space upon the rope!
They all will say: "Our Führer is not moved
by pleas of Dutch or Germans, friend or foe;
'tis providence which tips our Fuehrer's scale
and overturns the law. His insight is
the boundary where heaven meets the earth."

The Chinese dare to ask this foolish question
about our swastika: "Is it not true
that while in clans you dwelt in German woods
to hunt and war with mighty battle-ax,
our nation, ancient China, bore this emblem,
embroidered on imperial flags and gowns?
We Germans can with honest hearts reply,
We never heard of it, but be this true,
the yellow race has imitated us.
Our Aryan brothers of the Rising Sun
shall march to China, tear it from the flags,
and rage there just as we once did—like Huns.

The Czechs inquire, "And what of Lidice?"
Our Führer did not wish this wanton deed.
His heart beats gently like the wings of doves.
But eager men have poured into his word
an unkind meaning, fateful for the peace.
But what means peace to those born merely Czechs?
Behold. the German is creation's chosen child
his eyes are blue, as are the Seven Seas;
his hair is burnished by the very sun
which speeds into the earth's remotest part.

The Frenchmen dare to ask this foolish question:
"Did not your Goethe scorn your Prussian mind,
your Kant not glorify Eternal Peace?"
Now let the Frenchmen learn, that once for all,
our culture is a purpose not an end.
The Germans they call "good" we too revere.
But Germans we call "leaders" cast the dice.
For war is life—is German life itself.
And so we send our learned men abroad;
their marching feet which once wore German boots
now sport the Grecian sandals on the street
and sing the learned songs with Grecian harp.
Come, foreign youth, and listen to their song!
As guests you come, as servants you depart—
of your free choice, of course, and not by force.
And if by force—aren't we worth to be served?
Should mouth and hand which feed not be obeyed?
Blest be the strong in mind—his is the earth!

The Yankees dare to make this foolish statement:
"You Germans say you never lost a war.
Why cry then you for peace this very hour?"
Now let the Yankees learn that once for all,
our German history knows no defeat.
For peace is prelude not the end of war.
The Treaty of Versailles is sacred proof
and, let us add, was signed for Wilson's sake,
who offered us the kiss upon the cheek.
Alas, we learned the worth of this embrace.
Not generosity has prompted you;
'twas fear which stopped your armies at the Rhine.
Thus cowards and not heroes kissed our cheek.

The Slavic peoples dare to ask us this:
"The helpless Jews, their women, children too,
whose blood runs rivulets in German fields,
are they not robbing German souls of rest?"
Let Poles and Russians hear as we exclaim:
Oh world of impure blood, who dares to mount
the judgment seat to weigh our glorious deed
on alien scales? Away long suffering!
Our patience was not weaned in Nazareth
but in the shadow of a German oak."

World, hearken to the Aryan in Valhalla:
"I may be dead but not my German mission.
Two million Nazi boys, conceived and born
of parents bred true to the Master Creed,
will one day rise and answer morbid questions.
My book shall be the rock on which they stand.
It educates for death and not for life,
and should the world not mend, my heirs will say:
'Down on your knees and worship, or we slay!'"

                                                    William Hermanns [P238]

                    

Note: P238. A German Legend—A Satire for Laughter and Tears;

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Published Books

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    Einstein and the Poet - In Search of the Cosmic Man by William Hermanns -  cover
Available at Amazon

Order Kindle e-book

Order Paperback

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   The Holocaust - from a Survivor of Verdun by William Hermanns - cover
Inquire on out of print books

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