Wolfgang Schiffer
- Germany -
Wolfgang Schiffer, born in 1946 in Nettetal/Lobberich, on the Lower Rhine in Germany, studied German literature, philosophy and theater studies; he worked in radio and published radio plays, stage plays, novels and poetry, including the volumes of poetry “The Sun is Cold” (Claassen Verlag 1983) and “The Season is Coming to an End – Selected Poems” (Aphaia Verlag 2014), “May the Earth Throw a hump” (ELIF VERLAG 2022, nominated for the HOTLIST 2022 prize), “Conversations with the Grandson” (Corvinus Presse 2024) and “I Listen to the Rain” (ELIF Verlag, autumn 2024). He has also worked as an editor and translator, particularly of Icelandic literature, in recent years in collaboration with the Icelandic artist Jón Thor Gíslason, mainly for ELIF VERLAG, which has so far published nine volumes of contemporary Icelandic poetry as well as a volume of short stories.
Wolfgang Schiffer received several literary and cultural awards for his work, including: the Knight's Cross of the Icelandic Order of the Falcon and the Icelandic Culture Prize from the Iceland Banki Fund; he lives in Cologne and Prague.
May the Earth Throw a Hillock Past and Present
One of my favorite poems, written by Hilde Domin, expresses something I would like to do from time to time (especially now, in this moment, too): reshuffle everything and start over again.
One who could
one who could
toss the
world so high
that the wind
flows through it
The very moment I held this visually stunning book from Elif Publishers in my hands, the connection established itself in my mind. I had received it directly from Dinçer Güçyeter who had just received the Peter Huchel Prize on May 18, 2022, for his poetry collection, Mein Prinz, ich bin das Ghetto [My Prince, I am the Ghetto]. Beside it lay a card in which he’d written: “Dear Brigitte, you will love these poems, too.” And when he’s right, he’s right. Dass die Erde einen Buckel werfe [May the Earth Throw a Hillock] by Wolfgang Schiffer is an extraordinary book with such exceptional poems and texts—so open and so approachable—that I can hardly imagine a reader who would not be able to appreciate them.
Wolfgang Schiffer is from the Lower Rhine. His first language was the Low German he learned from his parents, something he was later made to unlearn at school, as was still standard practice at the time. A dialect, associated with certain social attributes—class, if you will—that also left its trace on this fine book. The language of one’s childhood is not something one forgets; anyone who speaks a dialect knows this all too well. Some things—those things that come from the depths of one’s heart—are simply easier (or only) expressible in dialect because a universally intelligible language like High German does not know the right words.
Comprehension, yes, communication—these are one of Schiffer’s major themes. Not merely in this volume. Those who know his name know also that he’s spent his life working with and on language. And those familiar with poetry from Elif Publishers know, too, that Schiffer has translated beautiful Icelandic poems into German, and so not only made these works familiar to a wider audience, but also opened a conversation between two worlds. In Dass die Erde einen Buckel werfe, Schiffer approximates his experience of the present through an exploration of his own heritage, his father’s heritage in particular. And in doing so, I think he sometimes feels a bit like I do, wanting to give the world a good shake to help set some things back in their proper places.
Reading the poems, one comes to understand that communication between Schiffer and his father was not always easy. The shame of coming from a family home that appears—at least to this reader—to have been loving, but not particularly rich in possessions, is the first of many feelings Schiffer expresses after escaping this purportedly narrow world. And yet, its description is filled with warmth and love, as well:
How could I not have seen my family’s wealth?
my mother’s steadfast love
for me / her child / for her husband
my father’s honest pride
to never associate with anything or anyone untoward
and yet entered the grey-weathered barracks
and spoke with the Polacks there / shunned by all /
the refugees / fleeing then, as now, from war /
only it was we / who tore apart the world
once again with this war
Through memories of his childhood—of the father who brought his son’s first finished poem to the editors of the regional newspaper with his own hands, of the mother who appeared again and again to express her happiness—Schiffer arrives at himself in the present day. He would not be the poet he is today if he did not doubt the goodness, the meaningfulness to others, of his own words.
and today / will i succeed again / keep believing in the power of words /
in a language / that saves / do i still see light within a poem?
and are these even poems / that i write / as formless
as billowing memories and dark as terrors in the night?
and if yes / what do they desire / whom do they serve / do they extend
even a single letter beyond their own words?
What questions! Of course, these poems—leaving such deep impressions of that which was and is—provide much more. They send me into the realms of my own memories. And at the same time, they make clear that those with a feeling heart will never cease to suffer. Wolfgang Schiffer fears that we humans—mere guests upon this world—have unlearned our ability to cry when tears are necessary. I cried while reading these wonderful words: They spoke to me so directly that tears came to my eyes for many reasons all at once, but they were mostly tears of joy to have this book at my disposal now whenever I need it.
Poetry
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I see it Lord, / Ich seh es, Herr,
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At the End of Day / Am Ende des Tags
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The Unsayable / Das Unsagbare
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Das Dunkel der Nacht / The Dark of Night
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You say / Du sagst
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I’m Always Waiting / Immerzu warte ich
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There Are Days / Es gibt Tage
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Actually a Sunny Morning / Eigentlich ein sonniger Morgen
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The Landscape / Die Landschaft
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L. in October / L. im Oktober
