Poezija Egona Šilea

Egon Schiele, Self-portrait

Egon Schiele, Self-portrait

Music While Drowning

There were moments when the black river
put a yoke on all my powers.
I saw the small waters large
and the gentle shores steep and high.
Turning, I fought
and heard the waters within me,
the good and beautiful black waters—
then I breathed golden strength again.
The river flowed, rigid and strong.


The Sunflowers

You golden sunflowers,
Feelingly bowed to die,
You humble sisters
In such silence
Ends Helian’s year
Of mountainous cool.
And the kisses
Make pale his drunken brow
Amidst those golden
Flowers of melancholy
The spirit is ruled
By silent darkness.


Now I see the black town again

Now I see the black town again,
which has always remained the same,
all the back-parlour folk are walking about as they always did,
– the poor people –
so poor,
the rustle-red autumn leafage smells like them.
But how good autumn is in all this windwinterland!



Taste redness, smell lulling white winds,
look at it in the universe: sun.
Gaze at stars yellow and glittering
till you feel good and have to shut out the blinking.
Brainworlds sparkle in your caves.
Let your feeling fingers tremble,
touch the element,
you who must seek yourself, thirsty and tottering,
leaping you sit, running you lie,
lying you dream, dreaming you wake.
Fevers eat up hunger and thrist and aversion,
blood passes through.

Father, who art there, look at me,
envelope me,
give unto me!
Near-to world run up and down in a rage.
Now stretch out your noble bones,
lend me your tender ear,
fine pale blue eyes.
That, Father, once was—
before You am I!


I, Eternal Child

I, eternal child —
I sacrificed myself for others …
who looked and did not see me …

Everything was dear to me —
I wanted to look at the angry people
with loving eyes,
to make their eyes do likewise;
And to the jealous,
give them gifts,
telling them I am worthless.


He is above all an artist

He is above all an artist
who has great spiritual gifts,
he who expresses
views of
conceivable phenomena
in nature.

Artists are quick to sense
the great trembling light,
the warmth,
the breathing of living creatures
the coming and going.

they are the chosen ones,
fruits of Mother Earth,
the kindliest of humanity.
They are easily excited
and speak a language of their own.

But what is genius?
Their language is the language of the gods
and they dwell here in paradise.
This world is paradise to them.
All is song
and like unto the gods

All that they say
they need have no reason for.
They speak it,
it must be so – because they have the gift.
They are explorers.

Divine, highly gifted
versatile, omniscient –
modest living beings,
Their polar opposite is the prosaic man
the everyday man.

Izvori: 1 , 2


Anthony Vivis, Will Stone – The Poetry of Egon Schiele