Dedicated to all fans of the legendary band Rammstein ... Well, for the rest who do not understand "great art", we still recommend that you read the book "In a Quiet Night. Lyrics". It will be fun and touching at the same time. Who knows, maybe you will be enlightened?
We remind you that Till Lindemann is a member and vocalist of the famous band Rammstein. His book "In a quiet night. Lyrics” is permeated with brutal sex, BDSM, flagellation and other manifestations of the dark (or light?) side of love.
Reading about human animal instincts, self-flagellation and painful euphoria from sensual pleasures - what could be more interesting? The reader is familiar with Till from his unforgettable songs, but here he appears before you in a different light. Not just a vocalist, but a poet, even if his lyrics are not clear to everyone.
It is noteworthy that the poems “In a quiet night. Lyrics" are offered in the original along with the translation. Everything so that you can fully admire this masterpiece. Unless, of course, you know German. And if not, the translators tried to convey the essence of Till Lindemann's thought in Russian as accurately as possible.
Till Lindemann did not stint on sharp expressions, flavored with obscenities and obscene words. However, everything is in the style of a popular rock band. Therefore, we strictly warn you to read the book “In a quiet night. Lyrica" is possible only after 18 years! Let's save for the time being tender ideas about the love of our young creatures.
And now, Achtung! Here are some of the best lines as an example:
Kein Herz (No Heart)
Were you born without a heart?
Did you lose it in the dew?
Was it broken by love?
Was he stabbed to you?
Or did it just disappear?
I did not find…
You have no heart!
So, we close our eyes to brutality and sexism and enjoy ... Whatever one may say, the verses deeply hurt, amaze, make you think. The author is not afraid to look inside a person's personality and see darkness there. And that's the whole point.
In addition, the lyrics sound very melodic. With a guitar and a campfire - real romance! Try it!
Publisher's design saved in A4 pdf format.
On our literary website, you can download the book by Till Lindemann “In Quiet Night. Lyrics ”(Fragment) in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always follow the release of new products? We have a large selection of books of various genres: classics, modern science fiction, literature on psychology and children's editions. In addition, we offer interesting and informative articles for beginner writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting.
His poems, illustrated by the talented artist Mattias Mathis, will guide us through the sensual world, woven from sexuality, masochism, sadism, love addiction and reflection.
The heroes of these verses are slaves of eros and thanatos, those chthonic forces that have driven humanity since its inception. In Lindemann's texts there is an amazing synergy of longing, emotional depth, bestial instincts, self-flagellation and euphoria.
Contains obscene language.
Publisher's design saved in A4 pdf format.
Till Lindemann
In a quiet night Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKES EVERY NUT
JUST VERY
HE MUST
EVEN IF YOU DON'T WANT
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his little son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all in this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, ruthlessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry besides his lyrics for Rammstein? The nine-year-old poet's "Nutcracker", which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the 2005 lyric collection Messer ("The Knife"), in which I then found a genuine treasure: a subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman adored by all fans and pyrotechnics. Actually, I never considered Rammstein to be just a rock band, for me their songs are a “work of art”, and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spewing a flame of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you've seen Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you've seen many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring in German "Du hasst mich", then you were faced with the question of some special universal language. What other German word artist is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder of Till's poems lay on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And read. And read. At that time we did not say a word about these verses. Till often refers to the theme of nature, on which he grew up and to whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself ...
That's how it started. Then there were more poems. Like the tides. Ebb and flow. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice in a cold night. At the same time, there are real monsters, comic carnage, a lot of nasty things, a little carnage - and then again affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Do we dare to use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself both in bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which uniform lines of lyrics suddenly pour, becoming clear, pedantically honed:
IN THE SILENT NIGHT A MAN IS CRYING
BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day, Mattias emailed me: “The most interesting thing about these verses is that hardly anyone would suggest that they are Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor, they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off Rammstein's lyrics and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann - herbarium!
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And now, behind this mantra of denial "no", when taken all together, there is a big insistent "yes".
We feel in the heroes of Till the poets whose texts he grew up at home: these are Bertolt Brecht, Konrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often found in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of the catastrophes of life, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" ("True Stories") called "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht" ("What makes life with love") belong to Till's favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and at lightning speed, but in order for the reader to love them, they now, perhaps, retroactively require proofreading (too late, too late), because at least some of the poems are a violation of the social order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, this or that seemingly involuntary permutation of sounds. But in essence: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and ... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead, will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical I in these often frantic texts, addressed to both readers and readers in every line, nevertheless, first of all, serves his own, tender heart on a tray.
I have described Till as the King Kong of German modern culture. Also in these poems, a vulnerable, but very sensitive, furious berserker rages with his beloved blonde in his paws, rushing through the cities or, perhaps, even like the last movie hero, a pirate through all the waters of the oceans. Who would answer King Kong's cry for love with love? The beast must die. Till himself answers this beast, and in this his answer is consonant with all the work of Rammstein: I am disappointed. For monsters of this kind, about which Till tells in his book, there is one statement of the loud-voiced Georges Simeon. I put this expression in the collection of interviews, because all these people with whom I met to talk were united by a tragic, comic, but in reality always destructive battle against the misery of their existence: “Man is so ill-equipped for life that one could would make him a superman if he saw himself as the accused instead of the victim.
No, there is nothing to change here. But, of course, we worked together on poems, in each case it was only the smallest thing - omissions, new headings. I spent a few weeks with Rammstein in the summer of 2002 - they were on tour in the US - and did a report for SZMagazins. I remembered, along with the sultry-hot concerts, first of all: Till's pathological timidity, when the fans ran headlong to him. And also his real panic when journalists ran after him ... And I remember evenings with Till in hotel complexes on the Pacific coast, in Denver, Dallas, Phoenix and San Antonio. Weird little slutty birds peered into our eyes from the edge of the pool bar. There was also an icy Budweiser that would fog up if not drunk at all. Till quietly read a few lines, staring at his laptop, then tapped on the keyboard, bared his teeth happily and read again, this time louder.
I said: “The second option is somehow better, short and clear. I wonder why?"
The last stage of preparation for printing took place in the early summer of 2013 in a kitchen in Munich-Schwabing. There sat Till, his long-term friend, the artist Matthias Mattis, and myself. Several liters of coffee were drunk, sheets with Till's poems lay around, on each - poems already in a shorter modified version. And lay pitch-black drawings by Mattis. These drawings in no way comment on Till's poems - they supply these poems rather with some kind of secret, draw a second melody.
This finale in Munich comes to mind as a reprise of our first evening in Berlin a year earlier. A modest cardboard box of Thiel's texts, on my Berlin hotel bed, washed ashore by the tide: the poetry of the great shipwreck of our day.
Alexander GorkovMunich, summer 2013
SINFONIE
GÖTZENDIENST AN MEINEM OHR
IHR VIOLINEN IHR TROMPETEN
LASST MICH LEBEN HOCH UND TIEF
IST DAS LOCH IN MEINEM ARSCH
HEREINSPAZIERT
SYMPHONY
Idolatry at the hearing:
All your violins, your trumpets...
Leave me, I live high
and I deeply want
Here is the hole in my ass, look -
Come in
SINN
IHR LEUTE SEHT HER
MEIN LEBEN SCHEINT SCHWER
STEHLE UND LÜGE
VERRATE UND BETRÜGE
DOCH MORGEN WERD ICH FRÜH AUFSTEHEN
MIT SCHÄTZEN IN DEN SÜDEN ZIEHEN
MEANING
You people look over here!
My life is hard
I steal, shamelessly lie,
I cheat, I betray
But tomorrow I'll tear a little dawn
To the south with the treasure I am!
DAS EXPERIMENT
ALLE BLEIBEN STEHEN
ALLE WOLLEN ES SEHEN
SEHT NUR SEHT
IN FLAMMEN STEHT
DIE UNIVERSITY
MISSLUNGEN
DAS EXPERIMENT
UND ES BRENNT
DER STUDENT BLEIBT STEHEN
AUS PROTEST
HALT SICH AM FEUER FEST
NUR ZEMENT BLEIBT
WENN DAS DACH ZUSAMMENFÄLLT
SIEHT MAN DAS STERNENZELT
DAS IST SCHOENDU MUSST NICHT MIT DEM FEUER SPIELEN
WENN DU ETWAS WÄRME BRAUCHST
UND ES BRENNT
DER STUDENT
EXPERIMENT
All remained standing
Everyone wants to see it
Look, just look!
Embraced in flames! Attention viewer:
Unsuccessful
Experiment
Stands on fire
Student
Out of protest
Resolutely on fire
And only cement remains at the bottom
And the visible starry tent is clear
When the roof collapses
He is beautiful…Trust me you shouldn't play with fire
Only if you really need warmth
Out! It burns
Student
ICH LIEBE DICH
WIE KOMMST DU NUR IM TRAUM DARAUF
DASS ICH DIR SAGE
WORAN ICH KAUM ZU DENKEN WAGE
I LOVE YOU
As soon as you come in a dream
I tell you
About what I hardly dare to think about ...
VATERTAG
TAG FÜR TAG UND STUND UM STUNDE
FLIESST DEIN BLUT DURCH MEINE VENEN
IN MINUTEN UND SEKUNDEN
VERDÜNNT MIT ANGST UND KALTEN TRÄNEN
ALLEIN AUF HOHER SEE
UND RUFST MIR WORTE IN DEN WIND
DIE ICH NICHT VERSTEH
WO BIST DU
HAB DEINE AUGEN IM GESICHT
ICH KENNE DICH
KENN DICH NICHT
TRAG DEIN BLUT MIT MIR UMHER
ICH KENNE DICH
KENN DICH NICHT MEHR
DU TREIBST IN DEINER EINSAMKEIT
ALLEIN AUF TIEFER SEE
NACHTS IM TRAUM STEHST DU VOR MIR
DU TUST MIR NICHT MEHR WEH
WO BIST DU
FATHER'S DAY
Day after day and hour after hour
Your blood flows in my veins
In minutes, seconds of happiness
You dissolve the anxiety of the cold of tears
You go to the open sea alone
Shouting words to me to say something you want
But I can't hear them through the wind and rainWhere are you?..
I have your eyes, yours and my face
I know you
I do not know you
Your blood rushes in my ardent heart
I know you
I don't know you anymore
You drive your loneliness with force
You go to the open sea alone
At night in a dream you come to me again
You don't hurt like you hurt me
afternoon...
ELEGIE FÜR MARIE ANTOINETTE
MADAM
LÄSST SIE SICH INFORMIEREN
GAR SCHRECKLICHES WIRD IHR PASSIEREN
MAN MÖCHTE SIE VOR MENSCHENREIHEN
ALSBALD VON IHREM KOPF BEFREIEN
IST SO GESCHICHTE
WIRD PASSIEREN
DARF ICH HERNACH SIE PENETRIEREN
INS WORTLOCH ÜBER IHREM KINN
AUCH HALTE ICH SIE GUT IM SINN
ES FÄLLT DER STAHL UND OHNE SEGEN
ROLLT DER KOPF LIEGT AUF DEN WEGEN
OHNE LEIB UND OHNE HUT
IST NOCH WARM IST ER AUCH GUT
UND DER FLEISCHHALM STEHT RECHT GERADE
ACH ES WÄRE WIRKLICH SCHADE
ANSTAND SCHLÄGT DIE SITTE STICHT DOCH
BESSER LIEDERLICH
ALS WIEDER NICHT
ELEGY FOR MARIE ANTOINITE
madam,
Let me notify you
Horrible is coming your way...
Would you like in front of a crowd of people
To part with your head?
History is coming
Everything will happen for you
Then I can fuck you
Into the verbal hole on the chin
And to assure you and everyone of that,
What is the best find in this senseSteel fell without blessing
The head rolls along the sleepers, like moments ...
Without a body and without a hat - it's all the same!
And still warm, and I feel so good
And the dick is pretty straight...
Oh, how embarrassing, mother!
Decency is forgotten, and custom is in the ass
Intoxicated debauchery reigns everywhereIt's better to be very depraved
Than dead, let's say by the way ...
WENN MUTTI SPAET ZUR ARBEIT GEHT
DANN BLEIBE ICH ALLEIN
SIE WIRFT MIR ZWIEBACK AUF DEN MUND
SCHLIESST MICH IM ZIMMER EINWENN MUTTI SPAET ZUR ARBEIT MUSS
FÄHRT NICHT MIT BUS NOCH BAHN
IHR ARBEITSPPLATZ IST GAR NICHT WEIT
IST DAS ZIMMER NEBENANSIE KOMMEN UND SIE GEHEN
MANCHMAL AUCH ZU ZWEIT
DIE SPATEN VÖGEL SINGEN
UND WENN DIE MUTTI SCHREITWENN SIE MICH FRÜH ZU BETTE SCHICKT
SAGT ICH SOLL NICHT TRAURIG SEIN
WEINT MIR EIN BISSCHEN INS GESICHT
SCHLIESST MICH IM ZIMMER EIN
SIE KOMMEN UND SIE GEHENDAS LICHT IM FENSTER ROT
ICH SEHE ZU DURCHS SCHLÜSSELLOCH
UND EINER SCHLUG SIE TOT
TRAURIG WAR ICH VORHER SCHON
DIE MUTTER FEHLT MIR NICHT
ICH RIECH AN IHREN SCHLÜPFERN
UND MAL MIR DAS GESICHT
WHEN MOM GOES TO WORK LATE
When mom goes to work late
I stay alone, I'm home alone
Throws a sandwich into my mouth
locks up my little worldWhen mom has to work late
Trains and buses are already parked
And the work is not easy, it is not far at all -
With her, my children's room is next to me
Sometimes there are even two at a time...
Melodious passages of the birds lead out
When mom screams at a late hourWhen he sends me to bed early again
Says I shouldn't be sad
My tears are pouring, and again my mother
Locks me up
And they come and then they go
A red lantern is lit on the window ...
Through the keyhole I see how wet
One master my dead motherYes, I remember how I was heartbroken
I miss my mother, I miss love
I still feel the smell of panties persistent
At my boyish cheeks blushing
ZEITLOS
ICH BIN EIN TREFFLICH SCHUSTERJUNG
ICH KÖNNT DIE GANZE WELT BESOHLEN
DOCH LEIDER HAT DIE LEBENSLUST
MEINE GANZE ZEIT GESTOHLEN
TIMELESS
I am an excellent shoemaker young
And I could tamp down the soles of the whole world,
But I want to live so greedily, with all my heart
And this thirst steals all my time
WICHTIG
DREIMAL TÄGLICH SOLL MAN ESSEN
POST UND PINKELN NICHT VERGESSEN
WEIHNACHTEN SCHICKEN ROCKET
EINMAL IN DER WOCHE FICKEN
IMPORTANT
You must eat three times a day
Pee, check mail, sometimes, at least too lazy,
Gifts to send at Christmas
And fuck a week at least once
SCHWARZ
GEH ICH VOR DER NACHT ZUR RUH
DECK ICH MICH MIT SCHWERMUT ZU
DIE HELLE WELT WILL MIR NICHT GLÜCKEN
MUSS MICH MIT FINSTERNIS VERZÜCKEN
ES IST DIE TOTENSCHWANGERE NACHT
DIE UNS VERZÜCKT ZU SÜNDERN MACHT
GEBOTE DIE WIR ÜBERGEHEN
KANNIM DUNKEL NIEMAND SEHEN
WENN ES DUNKEL WIRD
DER SONNENTOD IST MIR VERGNÜGEN
TRINK DAS SCHWARZ IN TIEFEN ZÜGEN
DAS TAGESLICHT IST KEIN VERLUST
DIE NACHT HÄLT VIELEN IHRE BRUST
TRINKER, HUREN UND VERSCHWÖRER
SIND DEN SCHATTEN ZUGEHÖRIG
HAT SICH DER TAG IM MOND VERKROCHEN
STEIGT UNS FIEBER IN DIE KNOCHEN
KEIN GEBET UND KEINE KERZEN
HEUCHELN LICHT IN UNSERE HERZEN
WENN ES DUNKEL WIRD
DIE SEELE SICH IN LUST VERIRRT
DER SONNE TOD IST MIR VERGNÜGEN
SCHLUCK DAS SCHWARZ IN TIEFEN ZÜGEN
BLACK
Before the night in silence
Hiding in darkness, I go
I will not be lucky white light
I was given admiration only in the darknessThis dead night
Furiously creates us sinners
We transgress sacred commandments
We do not see a soul in the twilight after midnight
Lost in desires insanely soul
Sunset for me is a delight of pleasure
Bright day I do not lose, damage
Night, stop the moan of people from the breasts
Drunkards, whores, conspirators, thieves...
Their patrimony is the night, a barrier from reproachesDay lurked on the sick moon
And there are no candles, no prayer
Fever grows in our bones
Hypocrisy light in our hearts!When darkness falls like a veil
Lost in lust insanely soul
The death of the sun is my delight
I drink in one gulp the black passions of the moment
LIEBESLIED
DEINE AUGEN
ICH WÜRDE SIE GERNE IN DEN MUND NEHMEN
STÄNDIG LUTSCHEN DARAN LECKEN
SIE UNBEDINGT AN MEINE EIER HÄNGEN
UNTER MEINE VORHAUT STECKEN
NASS MIR AUF DIE BRÜSTE LEGEN
LIEBESLIEDER FÜR SIE SINGEN
IM ANUS BEIDE WÄR EIN SEGEN
IN DIE ACHSELHOHLEN ZWINGEN
AUF MEINE MÜDEN AUGEN NÄHEN
BIS DAS LEBEN MICH VERLÄSST
DEN AUGEN IN DIE AUGEN SEHEN
HALT SIE MIT DEN LIPPEN FEST
LOVE SONG
Your eyes…
I would like you to take in your mouth
Sucked, licked, would be gentle
With your cute face in my hair eggs
I would have buried myself in the foreskin, fidget
And I put my wet cock on my chest
And I sing a love song for her
And in the anus both blessings were
And even in the armpits I with strength ...
My tired eyes are half closed
I throw away my life from the last forces
Look eye to eye
With her lips firmly you stop!
FLEISCH
ICH FAND FLEISCH IM GARTEN
WAR DOCH NUR EIN STEIN
KONNTE MAN NICHT ESSEN
WARF SCHEIBE DAMIT EIN
ICH FAND FLEISCH IM HOF
DAS WÄLZTE SICH IM DRECK
WOLLTE DARAUF SCHLAGEN
LIEF SCHNELL WEG
ICH FAND FLEISCH AM BETT
DAS HATTE EIN GESICHT
ICH DACHT ES WÄRE LIEBE
WAR ES ABER NICHT
FLESH
I found a body in the garden
Only a piece is left
I want to eat but I can't chew
So threw a slice along the waySuddenly in bed I found a body
And it had a face
And I thought I found love
But again there was nothing
TRAUM
ICH EIN KNABE SIE SCHON ALT
DOCH IHRE HÄUTE WEICH
IN IHREM SCHATTEN WAR ES WARM
KROCH AUF IHR MÜRBES FLEISCHICH EIN KNABE SIE WAR ALT
DOCH LIEBESDURFT AN BEIDEN
VON JUGEND KRANK HAB SIE GEFRAGT
LIESS MICH NICHT LANGE LEIDENSIE HIELT MICH MIT DEN ZÄHNEN
DIE ZUNGE HOCH GEHISST
IHR MUND GING AUF UND NIEDER
UND HAT MICH NICHT GEKÜSSTUND EIN REGEN LEGTE
SICH FEIN AUF MEINE HAUT
DA IST IN TIEFEM SCHAUDER
MEIN JUNGES HERZ ERGRAUTUND EIN REGEN LEGTE SICH
WARM AUF MEINEN TRAUM
GEWECKT VON FEINEM SCHAUER
BEFLECKT MIT BUBENSCHAUM
DREAM
I am a boy and she is old
However, her skin is soft.
Her shadow is full of warmth
I crawl over her flabby meatI am a boy and she is old
However, the right to be loved is mutual
She asked her youth, being ill, she:
Do not make me suffer, gloomy ...She held me between her teeth
And raised her hot tongue high
Walked up and down her drooling mouth
Only a boy didn't kiss me...A rule was established between us suddenly:
On the skin on my caress, bask
In a deep shudder - a vicious circle -
And my young heart turns gray like a blizzard...And the rain calmed its agility over the roof
Warmth in my secluded dream
In exquisite bliss your boy lies
Stained with boyish foam
NICHT LEBEN WIE EIN HUND
IRGENDWER HAT DEM HUND DIE BEINE ABGERISSEN
WEIL DER AUFS KLAVIER GEPISST
IN SEINER NOT VERSCHENKT DER KÖTER SEINE KETTE
End of introductory segment.
Till Lindemann
In a quiet night Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKES EVERY NUT
JUST VERY
HE MUST
EVEN IF YOU DON'T WANT
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his little son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all in this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, ruthlessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry besides his lyrics for Rammstein? The nine-year-old poet's "Nutcracker", which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the 2005 lyric collection Messer ("The Knife"), in which I then found a genuine treasure: a subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman adored by all fans and pyrotechnics. Actually, I never considered Rammstein to be just a rock band, for me their songs are a “work of art”, and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spewing a flame of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you've seen Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you've seen many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring in German "Du hasst mich", then you were faced with the question of some special universal language. What other German word artist is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder of Till's poems lay on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And read. And read. At that time we did not say a word about these verses. Till often refers to the theme of nature, on which he grew up and to whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself ...
That's how it started. Then there were more poems. Like the tides. Ebb and flow. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice in a cold night. At the same time, there are real monsters, comic carnage, a lot of nasty things, a little carnage - and then again affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Do we dare to use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself both in bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which uniform lines of lyrics suddenly pour, becoming clear, pedantically honed:
IN THE SILENT NIGHT A MAN IS CRYING
BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day, Mattias emailed me: “The most interesting thing about these verses is that hardly anyone would suggest that they are Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor, they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off Rammstein's lyrics and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann - herbarium!
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And now, behind this mantra of denial "no", when taken all together, there is a big insistent "yes".
We feel in the heroes of Till the poets whose texts he grew up at home: these are Bertolt Brecht, Konrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often found in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of the catastrophes of life, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" ("True Stories") called "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht" ("What makes life with love") belong to Till's favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and at lightning speed, but in order for the reader to love them, they now, perhaps, retroactively require proofreading (too late, too late), because at least some of the poems are a violation of the social order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, this or that seemingly involuntary permutation of sounds. But in essence: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and ... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead, will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical I in these often frantic texts, addressed to both readers and readers in every line, nevertheless, first of all, serves his own, tender heart on a tray.
I have described Till as the King Kong of German modern culture. Also in these poems, a vulnerable, but very sensitive, furious berserker rages with his beloved blonde in his paws, rushing through the cities or, perhaps, even like the last movie hero, a pirate through all the waters of the oceans. Who would answer King Kong's cry for love with love? The beast must die. Till himself answers this beast, and in this his answer is consonant with all the work of Rammstein: I am disappointed. For monsters of this kind, about which Till tells in his book, there is one statement of the loud-voiced Georges Simeon. I put this expression in the collection of interviews, because all these people with whom I met to talk were united by a tragic, comic, but in reality always destructive battle against the misery of their existence: “Man is so ill-equipped for life that one could would make him a superman if he saw himself as the accused instead of the victim.
No, there is nothing to change here. But, of course, we worked together on poems, in each case it was only the smallest thing - omissions, new headings. I spent a few weeks with Rammstein in the summer of 2002 - they were on tour in the US - and did a report for SZMagazins. I remembered, along with the sultry-hot concerts, first of all: Till's pathological timidity, when the fans ran headlong to him. And also his real panic when journalists ran after him ... And I remember evenings with Till in hotel complexes on the Pacific coast, in Denver, Dallas, Phoenix and San Antonio. Weird little slutty birds peered into our eyes from the edge of the pool bar. There was also an icy Budweiser that would fog up if not drunk at all. Till quietly read a few lines, staring at his laptop, then tapped on the keyboard, bared his teeth happily and read again, this time louder.
I said: “The second option is somehow better, short and clear. I wonder why?"
Till replied: “Because now the rhyme is broken here. The rhythm at the end of the poem broke. And that's great."
The last stage of preparation for printing took place in the early summer of 2013 in a kitchen in Munich-Schwabing. There sat Till, his long-term friend, the artist Matthias Mattis, and myself. Several liters of coffee were drunk, sheets with Till's poems lay around, on each - poems already in a shorter modified version. And lay pitch-black drawings by Mattis. These drawings in no way comment on Till's poems - they supply these poems rather with some kind of secret, draw a second melody.
This finale in Munich comes to mind as a reprise of our first evening in Berlin a year earlier. A modest cardboard box of Thiel's texts, on my Berlin hotel bed, washed ashore by the tide: the poetry of the great shipwreck of our day.
Alexander Gorkov Munich, summer 2013
SYMPHONY
Idolatry at the hearing:
All your violins, your trumpets...
Leave me, I live high
and I deeply want
Here is the hole in my ass, look -
Come in
IHR LEUTE SEHT HER
MEIN LEBEN SCHEINT SCHWER
STEHLE UND LÜGE
VERRATE UND BETRÜGE
DOCH MORGEN WERD ICH FRÜH AUFSTEHEN
MIT SCHÄTZEN IN DEN SÜDEN ZIEHEN
Till Lindemann
In a quiet night Lyrics
One of Lindemann's early poems from 1972 is called "The Nutcracker". Till was 9 years old when he wrote:
HE CLICKES EVERY NUT
JUST VERY
HE MUST
EVEN IF YOU DON'T WANT
Till's father, the late children's writer Werner Lindemann, included this poem by his little son in his autobiographical novel. Till Lindemann is all in this, as in childhood, in his lyrical principles: passion, ruthlessness, tirelessness, fragmentation, fatalism.
A few years ago I asked Till if he still writes poetry besides his lyrics for Rammstein? The nine-year-old poet's "Nutcracker", which made an indelible impression on me, reminded me of the 2005 lyric collection Messer ("The Knife"), in which I then found a genuine treasure: a subtle connection, like an umbilical cord, between the external and internal being of the frontman adored by all fans and pyrotechnics. Actually, I never considered Rammstein to be just a rock band, for me their songs are a “work of art”, and Till’s poetic language is like a flamethrower, spewing a flame of joy, rage and music.
And the music itself is often accompanied by lyrical intertwined patterns. If you've seen Rammstein perform in Paris or Houston, if you've seen many thousands of people pointing at Till and roaring in German "Du hasst mich", then you were faced with the question of some special universal language. What other German word artist is capable of inventing lyrics in our time that people in Munich and Berlin understand as well as in Russia, Mexico, France or the USA?
Before we met in Berlin, a folder of Till's poems lay on my hotel bed. He entrusted them to me to read. And I read. And read. And read. At that time we did not say a word about these verses. Till often refers to the theme of nature, on which he grew up and to whose peace he escapes. He finds there, in the silence of forests and lakes, a special language, the words of which he immediately wants to write down, the beauty of which he so wants to appropriate for himself ...
That's how it started. Then there were more poems. Like the tides. Ebb and flow. Loud and quiet. Rough and tender.
The poems collected here ring like scratching on ice in a cold night. At the same time, there are real monsters, comic carnage, a lot of nasty things, a little carnage - and then again affectionate miniatures. Affectionate? Do we dare to use this word after “Zärtliche Cousinen, Teil III”? Till's poetry, however, manifests itself both in bright and quiet moments, violent, only seeming awkward, inflexible, after which uniform lines of lyrics suddenly pour, becoming clear, pedantically honed:
IN THE SILENT NIGHT A MAN IS CRYING
BECAUSE HE HAS A MEMORY
One long evening I read these and other lines to the actor Matthias Brandt. The next day, Mattias emailed me: “The most interesting thing about these verses is that hardly anyone would suggest that they are Till Lindemann. At the same time, there is so much silence and depth and comedy in this poetry, as in the texts of Rammstein. These verses are legendary. For an actor, they are, so to speak, paradise. They sound like someone ripped off Rammstein's lyrics and put them under a flower press. This is pure Lindemann - herbarium!
We see people in Till's poems naked, in thirst, alone, in mockery and hatred. Finally, reading and sorting over and over again, I thought that everything was there: incomparable, convincing wounds of self-affirmation. And now, behind this mantra of denial "no", when taken all together, there is a big insistent "yes".
We feel in the heroes of Till the poets whose texts he grew up at home: these are Bertolt Brecht, Konrad Ferdinand Meyer, prosector Gottfried Benn. And we feel in these stories (because sometimes epic stories are often found in the smallest poems) the heroes of our time - the narrator of modern events of the catastrophes of life, the Swiss journalist Erwin Koch, whose "Wahre Geschichten" ("True Stories") called "Was das Leben mit der Liebe macht" ("What makes life with love") belong to Till's favorite books.
We edited the texts collaboratively and at lightning speed, but in order for the reader to love them, they now, perhaps, retroactively require proofreading (too late, too late), because at least some of the poems are a violation of the social order. Whoever wants to search will find here: broken rhyme schemes, broken rhythm, this or that seemingly involuntary permutation of sounds. But in essence: sexual exploitation, age discrimination, and, and, and ... In general: whoever wants to read ethical poetry will bow his head in disappointment and cry quietly. Whoever, however, takes a good look instead, will be richly rewarded. He states that the lyrical I in these often frantic texts, addressed to both readers and readers in every line, nevertheless, first of all, serves his own, tender heart on a tray.
Till Lindemann is a music legend and songwriter of the German band Rammstein.
His poems, illustrated by the talented artist Mattias Mathis, will guide us through the sensual world, woven from sexuality, masochism, sadism, love addiction and reflection.
The heroes of these verses are slaves of eros and thanatos, techthonic forces that have driven humanity since its inception. In Lindemann's texts there is an amazing synergy of melancholy, emotional depth, bestial instincts, self-flagellation and euphoria.
18+. Contains obscene language.
What this book is about Till Lindemann needs no introduction for a long time. Musician, songwriter and lead singer of the band Rammstein. The collection "In a Quiet Night" includes previously unpublished poems by Till Lindemann, presented here in German and Russian. His lyrics are provocative and only true connoisseurs will be able to appreciate and understand it. Combined with illustrations by Matthias Mathis, these poems will guide us through a sensual world woven from sexuality and self-reflection. The book contains obscene language. Age limit - 18+. Who is this book for? For admirers of Till Lindemann For lovers of unusual provocative poetry Features of the book Bilingual edition - poems in Russian and German Stylish black and white design Unique poetry that can only be found in this book The translation was highly appreciated by Germanic experts Reviews If you like Rammstein lyrics, then surely this is your choice! Bullet Bob, amazon.com I'm a big fan of Till and the band. I read the entire book on the first day. Now it lies at my work, and I reread one poem every morning. No spoilers, just buy this book. And yet, there are stunning monochrome illustrations! Rmeaux, amazon.com An excellent book for poets and fans alike. It's great that it was translated. Curtis, amazon.com
