Goethe

In Weimar, tormented by doubt and despair,

Goethe strikes out on muddy winter roads,

Through wind, rain and mist, into the Harz Mountains,

To climb the Brocken, citadel of witches and demons,

To seek a sign, and question the cryptic Fate

That brought him so oddly to Weimar

As courtier and official to an autocrat,

The same Fate that decreed his sister’s death,

And would thwart his own inspiration.

Spirit of the Mountain, answer me, answer me-

Am I on the right path? Is my ambition approved?


Half-human whispers and warnings swarm

In the thick mist enveloping anfractuous heights;

Denied the summit, Goethe rests on a rock,

Heavy-hearted, asking: Must I even now turn back?

Then, suddenly, wondrously, the weather

Starts to clear, and a sun-ray strikes the Brocken

Like a torch setting a beacon on fire,

Signalling to the quester that the challenge is still on.

Onward, upward, through deep snow, Goethe

Slogs, and, standing, at last, breathless, on the peak,

Gazes round, in exultation, at the glorious chaos

Of cloud and light, crowned lord of the world,

Boundless in vision, power and potential.

At the Devil’s Altar he offers thanks to God,

That, yes, he can exalt his life with meaning,

Still the beloved, conquering son of Fate,

Able to overcome any perplexities!


Knapsack on back, on geological expeditions,

Goethe leaps from rock to rok, pursuing

Some principle of harmony and order in nature,

The path direct to the centre of the maze.

In his study, he broods over an elephant’s skull,

Awaiting an insight, an answer to the riddle,

Te unity in multiplicity, the origin, the essence.

Constricted with long stern routine, he

Suffocates within a stiff benevolent public dignitary,

Emotions suppressed, rebellions quelled.

Italy’s dusty roads open ahead, as the coach

Rattles into an idyll of mulberries, quinces and vines,

Plump grapes drooping over lizard-basking walls;

A northern bear set free from dark forest,

Into a carnival of light, too vivid to be real,

The intoxicated German plucks peaches ad figs

From branches, sucking at life’s core.

On the Venice Lido, watching crabs scrabble

Over breakwaters, he marvels at the tenacity

Of life, absorbed in inexhaustible oneness.

In the museum, transfixed by antique statues,

He feels new inspiration stirring in his guts,

The same secret grace every age has known.