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 bad 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!

I saw a weighty black-and-white volume with a hundred poems by Till Lindemann in two languages, which sold almost 15,000 copies in just two days, I saw a couple of seconds before the start of the interview. On the white pages - the text in German, rhymed, harsh, sometimes overly frank. On blacks - a Russian translation, often with a broken rhythm and broken rhyme, but accurately conveyed the essence. As the translator said in the preface, “in these often frantic texts, in each line, nevertheless, first of all, he serves his own tender heart on a tray.”

Who is talking to me?
Unfortunately, it's not you.
Words turn in my mouth...
Oh my god, I'm talking to myself!

— This book looks great. But why did you need it if your poems are already known by heart by millions of fans who sing your songs. Why did you decide to publish a lyric collection?

— This is a completely different child. These words are not tied to pieces of music, they are not related to music at all. This is something that was written in a completely free form.

— Isn't this the answer to the father's wish that his son become a poet?

— You know, when we talked with my father, I always answered him: “If nothing sensible comes out of me, I can always become a writer” (laughs). And this always annoyed him, it seemed to him that I did not take seriously what he was doing ( approx. ed. - Till's father - Werner Lindemann, writer, poet, author of 43 books, including children's).

— Did you perceive?

— Partially. As for people of art, they are always those who seem to go against the system. The father had to write many works that promoted socialist ideas. And besides, he wrote works for children.

— You said in one of the interviews that you are glad that you have two daughters. Otherwise, the sons would certainly want to be like you. And what's wrong with that?

— Oh no, I would not wish such a life for my son ( laughs)! But I have a son, actually switches to Russian). Very different! Completely different. But the daughter just grew up like

Me. Actually, now I have two daughters and two sons.

Soloist of the German band Rammstein Till Lindemann during an autograph session in honor of the start of sales of a collection of poems "On a quiet night. Lyrics"

Alexander Shcherbak/TASS

— Wikipedia doesn't say anything about sons.

— Fortunately, yes. There is so much written there too. But one thing is good about Wikipedia - it makes me younger (laughs).

— I won't ask how old you are.

— Yes Yes.

— You just said that people of art go against the system. What is freedom for you? For a musician, this is still one of the key concepts.

— Here, of course, there are different types of freedom: linguistic, freedom of expression, freedom to openly express one's own thoughts... Do you remember the times of the GDR? In order to say anything, one had to resort to all sorts of allegories. All the time, if translated literally, “to hide in a bouquet” your thought, to hide behind all sorts of allegories what you really want to say. It's complicated. But, on the other hand, this had its advantages. This allowed me to constantly remain in search: how to make it so that, in spite of everything, despite censorship, to convey to people what you want to convey. What happened now? The technique of presenting information, the manner of writing texts has become somewhat different. The approach has changed. In my case, times have changed, but the skill has remained. True, not in political texts, but in lyrical ones. Sometimes I use words that don't exist in real life. For example, if I want to name a female creature, I'll write "triangle of loins" instead. In German, however, it sounds more poetic. In a word, various kinds of restrictions taught me to think more metaphorically.

— That is, freedom for you, first of all, is language freedom? What else? Now it is very important, including in Russia, to be able to determine the boundaries of freedom, to feel when they shrink. You, as a person of two systems, who, on the one hand, grew up in the GDR, and on the other, freely addressed millions with very provocative statements, perhaps you can advise how to test the system for openness.

— It is clear that you need to know the boundaries. Know where to start and where to end. But here you need to ask yourself questions, are there any things for you that you could not or would not want to say or do. Roughly speaking, the more freedom you allow yourself, the more it is around you. This game is multidirectional, not one-way traffic. By and large, given how modern means of communication are developing, the same Internet, freedom has become almost limitless. True, I don’t know where this will lead, because sometimes there is a feeling that it would be nice if some frames were still present.

Alexander Shcherbak/TASS

— Is it harder to write more provocative songs? Is it difficult to frap the audience?

— Yes, sure. It has become more difficult to shock people with art - they have the opportunity to see everything, to know everything. Children, young people from an early age have access to something that they might not even need to see. Sometimes it happens. You take a topic and think: yes, this is it! This is what is shocking. And those same young people look at this case and yawn indifferently: it's boring. Here. So you notice that you have aged (laughs).

— Your popularity is still huge. In Russia, including. In RuNet this autumn, they were only discussing the Russian video Rammstein to the music of Mikhail Boyarsky. If you haven't been shown, I'll show you now. It quickly became clear that this was one actor and presenter, Alexander Pushnoy, who sang in the style of Rammstein a song by another actor, Mikhail Boyarsky. But the fact remains: the number of views is incredible. And the possibility that Rammstein shot the video in Russia is taken seriously and with a bang.

— Well what can I say, we are working on it.

— In the summer, however, after the situation with Putin’s portrait on a T-shirt and a golden phone, you said that Rammstein to Russia no more foot. But it hasn't even been six months...

— No no no(interrupts in Russian). We didn't say that. It's the internet again.

— That is, you went to Russia with pleasure to present the book?

— Still would! I love Russia and always come here with pleasure. And everything else that happened there is bullshit. And I'm not interested. Honestly, every day somewhere in the world there is some kind of crap that is written about me. Don't pay attention to everything. So I came not just with pleasure, but with great pleasure.

Till Lindemann. "On a quiet night. Lyrics"

press service of the publishing house Eksmo

— I know that you could come to Moscow for the Olympics-80 as part of the swimming team, but this did not happen. Don't you regret?

— Well, firstly, a large number of competitions were held then, and I often came to the Soviet Union. Russian-German games were constantly held, when the Soviet team went to Germany, the German team came to Russia. By that time I knew both Moscow and St. Petersburg. And Novosibirsk! We traveled by train for two days. And that was the only time I ever slept on a train (laughs). We poured tea from this special samovar on the train, what is it called... titanium. Each wagon had one grandmother who poured tea and she swore a lot when they made noise in the compartment, and we, of course, made noise. And then suddenly they announce that the Olympiad will not be in Los Angeles, not in Sydney, not in some other capitalist country where we have never been, but in Moscow. (changes to Russian) Pff! Moscow again! Boring!(laughs). I then had a very unpleasant cranial injury, and yes, I had to end my sports career.

— What role does sport play in your life now?

— Now I will tell you the most important thing. The whole of Germany is going crazy for football. And I don't watch football. And I'm actually very grateful for the German love for football. When the national team plays, the cities are empty. It's a pleasure to drive through the streets! No people, no cars, no police (laughs). This is my favorite time to walk - the ghost town.

— The main thing is to return on time. Before the match is over.

— That's for sure. After the game, everything looks different. Well, if we talk about me, since I myself am engaged in swimming, it is interesting for me to follow who swims, well, to make fun of them, yes.

— Let's get back to the book. Tell us a little about it, about its structure. What are these lyrics, when were they written, how did this edition come about?

— In fact, this is the second book, the first was called "Messer" ("Knife") and here, in Russia, has not yet been published. Hope it gets published again. And for her, I actually collected material for 20 years. "On a Quiet Night" written much faster - in five years. And it was published in Germany already three years ago.

— Selling well?

— In Germany it sells well for a poetry collection. I think even good. As for Russia, this is some kind of fantastic success. Because the bookstores have already sold out the entire circulation.

— Your agent indicates that I have one last question. And your fans won't forgive me if I don't ask when is the next Rammstein concert in Russia.

— Let me show you (takes out a phone from his pocket and opens a calendar with a schedule). Look, June. First on the fourth of Tallinn, and then on the 9th, 10th and 11th of June - Russia.

On the same evening, the actors of the capital "Gogol Center" presented Lindemann's poems in the format of an avant-garde poetic performance - dynamic and provocative. With drama, lighting effects and non-standard scenography. And all this, in fact, for the sake of a single viewer, although the hall at this private show was packed.

Directly in front of me, by the way, were the translators "On a Quiet Night", and the interpretation of each text was met with genuine enthusiasm. They say that Till personally approved the director for the performance based on his book after he saw Nikita Kukushkin's reading.

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 bad 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.

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 bad 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 Gorkov

Munich, 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 SCHOEN

DU 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 rain

Where 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 sense

Steel 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 everywhere

It'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 EIN

WENN MUTTI SPAET ZUR ARBEIT MUSS
FÄHRT NICHT MIT BUS NOCH BAHN
IHR ARBEITSPPLATZ IST GAR NICHT WEIT
IST DAS ZIMMER NEBENAN

SIE KOMMEN UND SIE GEHEN
MANCHMAL AUCH ZU ZWEIT
DIE SPATEN VÖGEL SINGEN
UND WENN DIE MUTTI SCHREIT

WENN 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 GEHEN

DAS 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 world

When 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 hour

When 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 mother

Yes, 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 darkness

This 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 reproaches

Day 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 way

Suddenly 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 FLEISCH

ICH EIN KNABE SIE WAR ALT
DOCH LIEBESDURFT AN BEIDEN
VON JUGEND KRANK HAB SIE GEFRAGT
LIESS MICH NICHT LANGE LEIDEN

SIE HIELT MICH MIT DEN ZÄHNEN
DIE ZUNGE HOCH GEHISST
IHR MUND GING AUF UND NIEDER
UND HAT MICH NICHT GEKÜSST

UND EIN REGEN LEGTE
SICH FEIN AUF MEINE HAUT
DA IST IN TIEFEM SCHAUDER
MEIN JUNGES HERZ ERGRAUT

UND 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 meat

I am a boy and she is old
However, the right to be loved is mutual
She asked her youth, sick, 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 bad 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