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Best German Poems

Below are the all-time best German poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of German poems written by PoetrySoup members

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See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | German Poem | |

Jungvögel (German)/Young Birds (English)/Joven Pájaros (Spanish)

Aus dem Nest im Baum
Hungriger Ruf der Jungvögel
Versteckt im Geäst

Ruf aus der Einsamkeit vom Wald
Der alte Hirsch auf der Lichtung


From the nest in the tree 
Hungry cries of young birds 
Hidden in the branches 

A call from a solitude  forest 
The old deer in the clearing


De  un nido en el árbol 
Llorar de hambre de aves jóvenes 
Escondido en el ramaje

Un grito de  la soledad del bosque 
El vejo ciervo en el claro

Details | German Poem | |

Schtim vun di erd (Jiddish)-Stimmen der Erde(German)-Voices of the Earth

Schtim vun di erd,
schpigl vun di welt,
glajch klang vun der wint,
a tanzn.

D'erew a fargliwerte asch
ligt in majne machschowes,
un muzik.
De grine welt hot a frajndlich gezang.
De zun,
de zilbernen schtern.

Lidlech vun fejgl,
schpil vun de wintn,
der zirkon a schejner zumertog,
wi monblumen,
penermer wi a nepl,
de zunfargang.


Stimmen der Erde

Stimmen der Erde,
Spiegel der Welt,
wie Windgesang,
ein Tanzen.

Der Abend, eine verglühende Asche,
eingebettet in meinen Gedanken,
eine Musik.
Die grüne Welt hat einen fröhlichen Klang.
Die Sonne,
die silbernen Sterne.

Lieder von Vögeln,
Spiel des Windes.
Die Erinnerung, ein schöner Sommertag,
wie  Mohnblumen,
Gesichter im Nebel,
der Sonnenuntergang.


Voices of the earth,
mirror of the world,
like songs in the wind,
a dance.

Evening, glowing ashes,
embedded in my thoughts,
a music.
A green world has a joyful sound.
The sun,
the silver stars.

Songs of the birds,
game of the wind,
Remembrance, a beautiful summer day,
like poppies,
faces in the fog,
the sunset.

Details | German Poem | |

Der Ruf der Frösche(German)/English/Spanish

Zwischen den Seerosen
Herüber tönend vom nahen Teich
Der laute Ruf der Frösche


Between water-lilies
Resounding from a near pond
Sononorous calls of  frogs


Entre los nenúfares
Suenan del estanque cercano
Fuertes gritos de ranas

Details | German Poem | |

Macchu Picchu (German/English/Spanish)

Du Einsame, 
in den Bergen getrotzt,
versteckt in den Wolken
getragen vom Geist des Inka,
wie von Geisterhand
überragst du das 
zerklüftete Tal des Urubamba.
Stein auf Stein,
gebaut mit großem Geschick,
geboren durch die Kraft
der Inkas.
der letzten Überlebenden,
verborgen vor den Augen 
der Eindringlinge
aus dem so entfernten Spanien,
die Feuer und Tod brachten,
dich aber nie sahen.
Umhüllst dich noch heute
mit nebelgesponnenen Rätseln 
wie neugeboren
aus tristem Gestein.
Deine Seele,
strahlt Erhabenes
und über deinen Mauern,
jetzt nur noch Heimstatt 
der Götter,
zieht wie einst
der Kondor 
seine vibrierenden Kreise.


You lonesome,
in mountains,
hidden in clouds,
carried  by the spirit of Incas,
highly praised,
as from ghostly hands
are you extending beyond
the rugged valley of the Urubamba.
Stone by stone,
built with spectacular craftmansship,
born by the power
of man.
of the last survivors,
hidden from the eyes
of the intruders
from far away Spain,
who carried fire and death,
but never saw you.
You cover even today
in foggy-spun mystery
like newly born
from solitude stone.
Your spirit,
radiates nobility
and above your murals
now only home of the Gods,
a condor is drawing as once
his vibrating circles.


Sitio  solitario, 
resistiendo en  las montañas
escondido en las nubes
protegido por el espíritu del Inca,
egregio elogiado
como de una mano de fantasma
tu te levantas 
sobre el valle hendido del Urubamba.
Piedra por piedra,
construido con gran destreza,
nacido por la fuerza
de los Incas.
de últimos sobrevivientes,
escondido antes de los ojos
de invasores
del tan distante España,
que traeron fuego y muerte,
pero nunca te veían.
Te envuelves todavía
con enigmas hiladas por nieblas
como recién nacido
de rocas tristes.
Tu alma viva
brilla altura
y sobre tus murallas,
 todavía sitio
de dioses,
gira como antiguamente
el condor
sus circulos vibrantes.

Details | German Poem | |

The Good German Part 1

There stood the Good German. He is proud. There was also a man,
Behind the drab uniforms. The one who was plain, but whose,
Heart beat fervently and yearned for glory. When proud marches,
Passed his way, their colours blazing and beckoning, he turned,
Red, black, green; a rainbow it seems. But he never turned yellow.

He gaped at the insignias and symbols, imbued with power by,
Oratories and make believe fallacies. Caught in the maelstrom,
Of emotions and fervour, he heeded their calls. Puppet strings, 
Appearing as ethereal wings to his fooled perceptions rose as high ,
As his eye can see. When he wore the uniform, it was his hands,
That wove it to the sinews of his shoulders; the oaths bound him. 

He is an archangel, a protector of ideals, principles or men’s,
Religions. He can do no wrong, or so he thought, when orders, 
Went his way and he “executes” them. His wings he believes are,
His, but the height of his soaring is determined by the whims of,
Vile giants, who steers upon crashing rocks, lost ships of history. 

He is Alpha-one up to Zulu-Infinity, reliant on his weapons,
And battlefield ferocity. Always, he hoped, a worthy protector,
Of those he values the most. He is everywhere, a waiting sentinel,
On wherever scorched or inhospitable parcel of earth maybe. Peace,
They tell him, is to be forced on everybody. Or cleansed if need be.

He is in the army, the spy networks, the police force, the special 
And killing machine units. He yearns to prove his value and worth,
Blinded by the brass his masters wore, and the warrior’s ethos that
Stirs his soul. He is everywhere. From the trenches of Africa to the
Cockpits of Western aerial wings, there he lies and patiently waits.

He hears the orders, loud and clear. The radio is lustful and deafening, 
The signals and codes turn firm and clinical, no longer imbued with the,
Warmth of brotherly feelings. He wades then, into blood. He sees then,
The sparkle dim from the innocent’s eyes. He smells the stench of burnt
Flesh consigned to fiery dustbins; an oven he plays a part in the making.

He waded in and did not retreat. He is in service of humanity, immersed
On  trainings and indoctrinations. The confusion that assails, they tell him,
Is only the enemies’ psychological offensives. ‘You are armed’, his masters
Shout from raised pulpits and dais, ‘with righteousness and truth’. But
the evil unfolding before his ‘good’ eyes, sends him to falseness’ reeling.  

Details | German Poem | |



The  burghers of Hamburg are themselves usually Hamburgers, so there!
The burghers of Frankfurt are themselves usually Frankfurters, it‘s only fair!
But it’s possible to meet  Frankfurter Hamburger burghers
And you can also find Hamburger Frankfurter burghers 
Hamburger burghers can eat hamburgers,  a delicious dish
And Frankfurter burghers can eat frankfurters, if they wish
But hamburgers can be made in Frankfurt: they are not horrible 
And frankfurters can be made in Hamburg : it is easily possible
So Frankfurter burghers can eat Hamburger frankfurters, with salt 
And Hamburger burghers can eat Frankfurter hamburgers, without halt
No doubt Frankfurter burghers can also eat Frankfurter frankfurters,  ‘sright
And Hamburger burghers can also eat Hamburger hamburgers all night
But  what puzzles me,    and maybe you too,  God knows,
Is what to make of these German guys who like to eat as  follows:
Frankfurter Hamburger burghers eating  Hamburger frankfurters
Or Hamburger Frankfurter burghers eating Frankfurter hamburgers
Too complicated?    Ok,     try a  piece o’  Pisa  Pizza.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Hamburger : adjective derived from Hamburg,   or a meat dish named after the city
Frankfurter : adjective derived  from Frankfurt,  or a meat dish named after the city
Burgher : old-fashioned name for a city citizen

*Entered in no contest, because no  one has organized                                      
  a    silly   GERMAN FOOD     contest yet.

** I am aware that some geographical zealots object to my poems on gastronomical grounds, and some gastronomical  zealots object to them on geographical grounds. My apologies to all.

Details | German Poem | |

A German Spitz

A German Spitz

Little ted is a German spitz
Into our little family he really fits
Gets on well with our poppy girl
But at first had her in a proper whirl

They love to walk together side by side
In the car he don’t really like to ride
Sits really still and would be sick
If not for the tablets that do the trick

He needs to be groomed at least every six weeks
Then he looks really smart and of perfume he wreaks
Would not hurt a fly not even the bees
Except for the barking at all that moves even trees

He is really smart can dance and do tricks
He has a foot fetish feet he just licks and licks
A lovelier nature you would not come across
Without him in our family it would be a loss

Details | German Poem | |

My German Girl


My German girl leaves me yesterday.
My heart cries more and more with rhetorical promises.
It makes me a tiger with sparrow’s bound; I knee in front of her;
My tears split with poetical senses
Such as the last drops hammering over the floor
And all underneath me disappears under my weight.

Details | German Poem | |

The Good German Part 2

For amid the calls, the paeans to bloody coup-de-tats and revolutions and the, 
Orders on the radio, is a broken static. It follows as three short cries, a pause,
Then three long wails, a pause, then ends with the three short cries rising again.
S.O.S. Save Our Souls. The sounds are the raspiest and keenest he has ever,
Heard. Alas, it comes broken. Nevertheless, it surfaces, over and over again.

Is he now a golem? An unfeeling marionette of doom to those whose only fault,
Is a different race, creed, belief or faith in the “wrong” deity/deities? Will he
Bloody his hands free volition to follow the path of his puppeteer’s virtues? 
Will he cover his eyes (not only against the buffeting dusts of charred remains)? 
Will he in act and omission, in false devotion, shatter his inviolable soul?  

He has a choice. He can turn his back or allow that S.O.S call to continue on,
Tearing the very fabric of his being, to follow and pursue the daunting,
Quest for redemption or be the husk of a former self- and when broken,
Cast away as a shell-shocked burden. Yes indeed, the Good German will
Have to make one. That choice will define, if he indeed, is a “Good” one. 

Details | German Poem | |

Naming German Shepherd Puppies

Alpha Ursa Major, Alert (Ali),
Bardonino (Bart), Barbera,
Cory, Cody, Cowboy
Deschka, Dodger, Drummer Boy,
Eroica, Elektra,
Firebird (Sandy’s daughter), Firecracker, 
Gangster, Gandy Dancer, Gimmick,
Happy Feet, Hellsapoppin, Hurricane Hattie,
Image, Iesha,
Just Morgan, Jolly Roger, Jalapena (Pepper),
Lucifer, Lucas (Sardy’s sons),
Night Ranger, Nacho,
Odyssey (Roxy), Omar, Omega,
Prissy, Pattycake, Peter Piper Pepper (Taco’s daughter),
Quincy, Questa, Quixote, Quigley, Q-Tip,
Ragtime Cowboy Joe (Boogie) – 
must he be the end of our alphabet?

Details | German Poem | |

Atacama / German Version

Atacama, Eden der Winde,
Blume der einsamen Steine und des Salpeters, 
Heimstatt der Flamingos und der Geysire,  
und  über allem, 
unter einem azurenem und tiefem Himmel 
tragen die Berge auf ihren Spitzen  
das Eis der Vergangenheit. 

Alte  Dörfer erzählen uns ihre Geschichten,  
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu, 
tragen in ihren Schluchten  
das Leben,   
Wasser aus der Tiefe   
bringt Gemüse und Blumen hervor. 

Chiu-Chiu, Oase  der Wüste, 
ein grüner Fleck,  
umgeben von den Überresten einer alten Geschichte,  
in Orange, Rot und Braun,  
eingebettet im zerbrechlichen Schaum von Salz und Hoffnung,  
die Geschichte Atacamas  
noch lebendig in seiner Kirche  
 Fragmente einer alten Kultur  
spiegeln sich in den Wassern des Río Loa.  

Ameisen gleich –  weit entfernt,  
zerstreut im vibrierenden Licht,  
suchen einige Vicuñas  
Ruhe und Futter,  
 die Geysire des Tátio schicken  
ihr wärmendes Wasser in die kalte,  reine Luft.  

Welche Geduld hat die Atacama,  
mit uns – den Sklaven einer modernen Zeit  
mit der Sehnsucht nach einem Paradies  
mit dem doppelten Gesicht der Geschichte und Hoffnung.  
Salar de Atacama, zeig mir dein rissiges und verletztes Gesicht, 
deine Runzeln der Einsamkeit. 

Weit entfernt im Hintergrund die  Vulkankette,  
mit dem alles überragenden Lincancabur,  
mit seinem geschulterten Rucksack aus Kristallen und Eis,  
der seine Pracht dem Himmel entgegen hält  
in den Farben des Lapislazuli und hellen Achats.  

Toconao, dich grüßen die Ruinen von Quitor, 
schlafend seit Jahrhunderten,  
erzählen sie die Geschichte der Inkas, 
der letzten Zuflucht und des letzten Gefechtes mit  
Pedro de Valdivia, der mit seinen Söldnern kam,  
um die Tapferkeit der Inkasoldaten zu brechen,   
mit  Donner und Verderben. 

Die Wasserfälle der Thermen von Puritama schießen ihr Wasser  
in die Luft mit den Farben des Regenbogens,  
malen  weiche Gesichter des Lebens  
auf trockenen Sand  und reizvolle Steine.  
Der Wind aus den Bergen trägt Lieder,  
Flötenmusik, alte Weisen,  
Geschichten aus Salz, Gips und Ton  
ins Tal des Mondes,  
damit es ruhig verharrt mit seinen Augen voll Staub und Steinen  
im ewigen Gesang der Erde. 

Atacama, Herz des Norden, 
Kraut des Windes 
im Lied der Geschichte,  
du lässt den Tag erklingen   
und wiegst die Nächte in den Schlaf,   
einsam zwischen den Armen der Kordilleren 
und des Altiplano.