Despite on the first day of summer mood for some impassable and fall.
There are different writers - the warm and cold period of the season. Here Erich Kästner on my taste very autumn-winter. We have, he is best known for books for children about Emile, about the button, and Anton. Well, there may be, based on the novel "Three Men in the Snow" - a very funny and touching book, a "sitcom". His children's things to me, too cute, but still a real bastard, I from his poems. Critical moment in language acquisition - is when you can freeze the heart of the poems in this language when you're whole being begins to feel their music breathe in rhythm with her. For me, it was poetry Kestner. And that, my first love, it will not forget. And now every fall almost by themselves, I begin to knock in his head string. They are very simple and concise in form, always with irony, even on a very painful topic not an ounce of pathos and snot. This is - these are "Poems for every day, without the high global goals, poems that are simply to help survive this day, understand and accept it. He even has a cycle of poems - Lyrical kit (Die lyrische Apotheke) - there are so many tips for all occasions: if you're alone, if the marriage came to an end, if not money if it was the autumn, when you - a young girl:) and many others.
How good is wise and unflappable little sad grandfather with a good sense of humor, giving advice is not always original, from which somehow still becomes happier.
under the cut just a few of the most lyrical first-aid kit - for those who have become distant from nature, I forgot it. In Russian poetry Kestner I could not be found. So the only nemetskochitayuschih:
Herbst auf der ganze Linie
Nun gibt der Herbst dem Wind die Sporen.
Die bunten Laubgardinen wehn.
Die Straßen ähneln Korridoren,
in denen Türen offenstehn.
Das Jahr vergeht in Monatsraten.
Es ist schon wieder fast vorbei.
And what you do, are rarely acts.
What one does is antics.
It is as if the sun appeared.
you leaves us cold. She seems to glow.
take the stomach to the line.
He growls. He wants to be fed.
misses the leaves are always yellow,
bids farewell to the branches and falls.
The earth rotates around itself.
and you can tell when you drink.
one is really born only to perish
how the years?
The streets resemble corridors
open stand in which doors.
The hours make their rounds.
We follow them step by step.
And slowly go to the dogs.
We were back out. We run.
It greets the world with cold faces.
The smile is not serious. It
blow colorful foliage curtains.
raining Now it does. The sky is crying.
Man is alone and will remain so.
Ruth is out of town and the traffic
limited merely writing letters again.
Love is a long time ago!
The game is completely lost.
And yet, go on it.
The streets resemble corridors
open stand in which doors.
The woods are silent
The seasons move through the woods.
Man does not see it. It only reads the Gazette. The seasons
prowl through the fields.
counting the days. And counting the money.
Man yearns away from the clamor of the city.
The proposed brick-red roofs sea waves.
The air is thick and as of gray cloth.
You always dream of fields and stables.
You always dream of green and trout ponds. And
want to visit in the silence.
The soul is stepping from the pavement twisted.
with trees can be like brothers talk
and exchanges with them to his soul.
The woods are silent. But they are not dumb.
And who may come, to comfort everyone.
Man flees from the offices and factories.
Where is the same! The world is round!
Where the grasses such as nodding acquaintances and where
knit spider silk stockings,
will be healthy.
spring to advance
In Green's is not even green. The grass is unkempt
in the woods,
as if it were a thousand years old.
Here, then, you think, should soon
bloom the bluebells?
The leaves are gray in the service
and rustle rustle there and here, as
Raschle greaseproof paper.
The wind plays piano Über'm forest, sometimes quiet and sometimes loud
.
But if the Life knows that's familiar.
And certainly, this year's
the way it was in other years.
sits in the forest a couple
and waits for the spring.
One should not blame the two drum,
they just love nature and like to sit
in woods and fields. Man's
understand quite well, only:
you will catch a cold!
dance in the sky shining Aeroplane
It is already so. Spring is in motion. The trees
loll. The windows amazed.
The air is soft, as if it were made of feathers.
And everything else is irrelevant. Well, all dogs need
a bride.
And Pony hat told me they would find:
The sun was small, warm hands and crawl
her with it on the skin.
The home people are proud front of the house.
You sit again on terraces
and no more freezes, and can be seen.
who has small children, they will extend.
Many young ladies have weak knees.
And in my veins's rolls like sweet cream.
dance in the sky shining Aeroplane.
Man is happy there. And do not know how.
You should go back walking again.
The blue and green and red was very faded.
Spring is here! The world is freshly painted!
People smile, until they understand each other. The souls
stilt walk through the city.
on the balcony stand men without the West
and sow cress in flower boxes.
Blessed is he who has this flower boxes.
The gardens are still bare the bills.
The sun heats and takes revenge on winter.
While it is every year the same thing,
and yet it's always like the first time.
Prima Weather
Where are the days that were so sad
and their sadness overcame us like this?
The sun is shining. The year is in the clear.
It is, to screaming to jump out of skin and
long as the balloon blue sky!
The green trees are washed fresh.
The sky is made of giant blue taffeta.
The sun rays play chasing giggling.
One sits and smiles, the happiness takes off bottles
and lives in a prime neighborhood.
One might think, if you wanted to fly.
away from the chair. With cake and coffee.
lie on white clouds like on sofas
and occasionally forward thinking and turn
: "So that's where the Spree."
one could talk with flowers and meadows
stroke as his fiancee.
One could in a thousand parts divide
and fold his hands with delight.
you are just not built for more.
Man pulls himself full Doubts about the hair.
The sun seems as if 'it sense again.
Where are the days that were so sad?
It is to formally pass the skin.
The great difficulty is: Where?
sadness that everyone knows
We know from the outset, as it runs.
before tomorrow morning you will not cheerfully determined.
And if you ever so much gets drunk:
the bitterness that is not washed down.
comes the sorrow and goes without reason.
filled And it is with nothing but emptiness.
Man is not sick. And is not healthy.
It is as if the soul would be uncomfortable.
They want to be alone. And then again, not.
Man raises his hand and wants to beat.
front of the mirror you think, "This is your face?"
Ah, those wrinkles can be ironed no tailor.
Perhaps one has dislocated the mind?
The stars are similar to sunspots suddenly.
Man is not sick. It just feels offended.
And holds, whatever it may be excluded for.
One would like to continue and find no hiding place.
It would, then, you could be buried.
Wherever one looks, creating a dark spot.
One would be dead. Or have reasons.
We know the sadness resolved very soon.
you have vanished every time, whenever they came.
time you're down, and sometimes one is up.
The souls become tame again.
The one nods and says: ". Such is life"
The other shakes his head and crying.
Who is sad, be it without resistance!
Is that a comfort? So it was not meant.
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