Klaus Groth

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(Brookmoond 1999)

Lütt beten to loot warrt mänigeen seggen. Stimmt! Ober mi is to Uhrn komen, dat mien Lesers teuvt hebbt, dat ik to Klaus Groth sien 100johrigen Dodesdag wat harr schrieben schullt. Nu ik uterdem noch hüürt hebb, dat de hogen Herrschaften för uns Nedderdüütsch bi jümehr Dinkreden to tachentig Perzent in Hoochdüütsch snackt hebbt, will ik öber unsen groten Heimootschrieber in sien lebet Neddersassisch / Nedderdüütsch een poor Wüür schrieben.

Klaus Groth is den 24. in 'n Oostermoond 1819 in Heid' boorn worrn un den 01. in'n Brookmoond 1899 in Kiel storben. Nu optoschrieben wat he allns mookt un doon hett, wüür bloots afschrieben ut de Enzyklopädien. Nee, ik will mol opschrieben woans ik as Kind al Klaus Groth deep in mi opnohm hebb.

Mit Neddersassisch-Nedderdüütsch opwussen wüür dat för uns Kinner een grotet Glück as uns Schoolmester Gustav Kruse den Riemel ,,Matten Has'' to liern opgeev. Jo, wi Ollanner hebbt dat in uns ,,Ollanner Platt'' utsnackt, ober endlich kunn' wi mol een Riemel in uns Modersprook opseggen. Poor Johr loter wüür ,,Min Jehann'' an de Rehg. Nu vertell uns Schoolmester uns ok, dat sik dat in den Riemel üm den Dichter sien verstorben Broder Jehann dreih. Dat hett mi bannig anreugt, un ik hebb mi so recht rindinken kunnt wat Klaus Groth mit dissen Riemel seggen wull, woans em to Mood wüür, wo dull he sien Broder Jehann missen dä.

Mit den ,,Quickborn'' hett Klaus Groth ünner Bewies stellt, dat Neddersassisch/Nedderdüütsch to de Literatur tellt.

Sluten müch ik mit den Riemel, den Klaus Groth ok in mien Hatt schreben hett:

Mien Modersprook

vun Klaus Groth

Min Modersprak, wa klingst du schön!
Wa büst du mi vertrut!
Weer ok min Hart as Stahl un Steen,
du drevst den Stolt herut.

Du bögst min stiwe Nack so licht
as Moder mit ern Arm,
du fichelst mi umt Angesicht -
un still is alle Larm.

Ik föhl mi as en lüttjet Kind,
de ganze Welt is weg.
Du pust mi as en Værjahrswind
de kranke Boss torecht.

Min Obbe folt mi noch de Hann'
un seggt to mi: "Nu be!"
Un "Vaderunser" fang ik an,
as ik wul fröher de.

Un föhl so deep: dat ward verstan,
so sprickt dat Hart sik ut.
Un Rau vunn Himmel weiht mi an,
un allns is wedder gut!

Min Modersprak, so slicht un recht,
du ole frame Red!
Wenn blot en Mund "min Vader" seggt,
so klingt mi't as en Bed.

So herrli klingt mi keen Musik
un singt keen Nachdigal;
mi lopt je glik in Ogenblick
de hellen Thran hendal.
 

Noch een Riemel:

Matten Has

vun Klaus Groth

Lütt Matten de Has
de mak sik een Spaß,
he weer bi't Studeern,
dat Danzen to lehrn,
un danz gans alleen
op de achtersten Been.

Keem Reinke de Voß
un dach: das en Kost!
Un seggt: Lüttje Matten,
so flink op de Padden?
Un danzst hier alleen
op de achtersten Been?

Kumm, lat uns tosam!
Ik kann as de Dam!
De Kreih de spelt Fitel
denn geit dat candidel,
denn geit dat mal schön
op de achtersten Been!!"

Lütt Matten gev Pot.
De Voß beet em dot
un sett sik in Schatten,
verspis de lütt Matten:
De Krei de kreeg een
vun de achtersten Been.

Klaus Groth

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(June 1999)

"A little too late," some will say. Right! But it has come to my attention that my readers had expected me to write something on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of Klaus Groth's death. Now that on top of it I have been told that the ladies and gentlemen on high used eighty percent (High) German in their commemorative speeches, I have decided to write a few words about our great regional writer in his beloved Low Saxon/Low German.

Klaus Groth was born on April 24, 1819, in Heid'/Heide [Holstein] and died on June 1, 1899, in Kiel. Listing all the things he accomplished would amount to copying from encyclopedias. No, I will tell you how deeply I was influenced by Klaus Groth when I was a child.

Having grown up with Low Saxon/Low German, it was a splendid thing for us children when schoolmaster Gustav Kruse made us learn the poem "Matthew, the Hare." Indeed, we Olland folks would pronounce it in our Olland "Platt" way, but at least we could finally recite a poem in our native language. A few years later it was the turn of "My Jehann." Our schoolmaster also told us that this was about the poet's dead brother Jehann [John]. I found that very touching, and I was able to get into the things Klaus Groth wanted to express with this poem, how he felt, how much he was missing his brother Jehann. [See the words and translation below.]

With his [poetic collection] Quickborn['(Refreshing) Wellspring' ] Groth proved that Low Saxon/Low German counts among the literature languages.

I want to close with another poem with which Klaus Groth deeply touched me:

My Native Tongue

by Klaus Groth

My native tongue, how sweet you sound!
I'm so at home with you!
And if my heart were steel and stone,
You'd purge it of its pride.

Your light touch bends my rigid neck
As Mother's arm once did.
Your gentle breath about my face
Silences all the din.

I feel just like a tiny child.
The world around is gone.
Just like a spring breeze do you blow
Soundness into my breast.

Again my grandpa folds my hands
And says to me, "Now pray!"
And "Our Father," I begin
As I did in the past

And deeply feel it will be heard;
Thus has the heart its say.
And Heaven's peace envelops me,
And all is well again!

My native tongue, so plain and just,
You ancient, pious speech!
"My father" may some mouth just say,
Like praying sounds to me.

No music sounds so sweet to me
Nor does a nightingale.
In just a moment sparkling tears
Will trickle down my cheeks.
 

And another poem:

Matthew, the Hare

by Klaus Groth

Li'l Matthew, the hare,
had himself a fun time.
He gave it a chance
to learn how to dance,
and he danced all alone
on his very hindlegs.

Came Reynard, the fox,
and thought, "That'd make a meal!"
and said, "Little Matthew,
so quick on your paws,
and dancing alone
on your very hindlegs?"

"Come, let's do it together!
I could dance as the lady.
The crow plays the fiddle.
That'd surely be jolly.
It'll go like a charm
on our very hindlegs!"

Li'l Matt gave him his paw.
The fox bit him dead
and sat down in the shade,
ate up little Matt.
The crow received one
of the very hindlegs.

Klaus Groth

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal
(Braakmaand 1999)

,,Luet beten tou laat'' wardt mennig ein seggen. Stimt! Aver mii is tou ouren kamen dat miin lesers toyvd hevt dat ik tou Klaus Groth siin 100[hunnerd]jarigen dodes-dag wat har schriven schuld. Nuu ik uter dem noch hoyrd hev dat de hogen Herrschaften foer uns Nedderduytsch bii juem er dink-reden tou tachentig pertsent in Hoogduytsch snakd hevt wil ik euver unsen groten haimaat-schriver in siin levet Neddersassisch/Nedderduytsch 'n paar woyrd' schriven.

Klaus Groth is d'n 24. [feir un twintigsden] in 'n Oostermaand 1819 [achtain hunnerd negentain] in Haid' bouren worren un d'n 1. [eirsden] in'n Braakmaand 1899 [achtain hunnerd negen un negentig] in Kiel storven. Nuu op tou schriven wat hei allens maakd un doun het woyr bloots af-schriven uut de entsuyklopedien. Nee, ik wil maal op-schriven wouans ik as kind al Klaus Groth deip in mii op-namen hev.

Mit Neddersassisch / Nedderduytsch op-wussen woyr dat foer uns kinder 'n grotet gluek as uns schoul-meister Gustav Kruse d'n rimel ,,Matten Haas''' tou leiren op-geev'. Jaa, wii Ollander hevt dat in uns Ollanner Platt uut-snakd, aver endlich kunnen wii maal 'n rimel in uns mouder-spraak op-seggen. Paar jaar later woyr ,,Miin Jehan'' an de reig'. Nuu vertel uns schoul-meister uns ouk dat sik dat in d'n rimel uem d'n dichter siin ferstorvenen brouder Jehan drai. Dat het mii bannig an-roygd, un ik hev mii soo recht rin-dinken kund wat Klaus Groth mit dissen rimel seggen wul, wouans em tou moud woyr, wou dul hei siin brouder Jehan missen dee.

Mit d'n Quickborn het Klaus Groth uenner bewiis steld dat Neddersassisch / Nedderduytsch tou de literatuur teld.

Sluten muech ik mit d'n rimel d'n Klaus Groth ouk in miin hat schreven het:

Mien mouder-spraak

fun Klaus Groth

Miin mouder-spraak, wat klingst duu schoyn!
Wa' buest duu mii fertruud!
Weir ouk miin hart as staal un stein,
duu dreivst d'n stult heruut.

Duu boygst miin stive nak soo licht
as Mouder mit er'n arm.
Duu fichelst mii um't angesicht,
un stil is alle larm.

Ik foyl mii as 'n luetjet kind.
De gansse welt is weg.
Duu puusst mii as 'n foerjaars-wind
de kranke bost tou recht.

Miin obbe foldt mii noch de hand'n
un segt tou mii: ,,Nuu beed'!"
Un ,,Fader unser ...'' fang ik an
as ik wul froyer dee.

Un foyl soo deip: dat wardt ferstaan;
soo sprikt dat hart sik uut.
Un rau fun d'n Heven wait mii an,
un all'ns is wedder gut!

Miin mouder-spraak, soo slicht un recht,
duu olde, frame reed'!
Wen bloot 'n mund ,,Miin fader'' segt,
soo klingt mii't as 'n beed'.

Soo herli klingt mii kein musiik
un singt kein nachtigal;
mii loopt je gliik in 'n ougen-blik
de hellen traan'n hendaal.
 

Noch 'n rimel:

Matten Haas'

fun Klaus Groth

Luet Matten, de haas',
dei maak sik 'n spaass:
Hei weir bii 't studeiren,
dat danssen tou leiren,
un danss ganss allein
op de achtersden bein.

Keim Rainke, de foss,
un dach: ,,Da's en kost!
Un segt: ,,Luetje Matten,
soo flink op de padden,
un dansst hiir allein
op de achtersden bein?''

,,Kum, laat uns tousaam'!
Ik kan as de Daam!
De krai, dei speelt fidel.
Den gait dat kandidel.
Den gait dat maal schoyn
op de achtersden bein!''

Luet Matten geev' poot.
De foss beet em dood
un set sik in'n schatten,
ferspiis' de luet Matten.
De krai, dei kreeg' ein
fun de achtersden bein.

Klaus Groth

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(June 1999)

"A little too late," some will say. Right! But it has come to my attention that my readers had expected me to write something on the occasion of the 100th anniversary of Klaus Groth's death. Now that on top of it I have been told that the ladies and gentlemen on high used eighty percent (High) German in their commemorative speeches, I have decided to write a few words about our great regional writer in his beloved Low Saxon/Low German.

Klaus Groth was born on April 24, 1819, in Heid'/Heide [Holstein] and died on June 1, 1899, in Kiel. Listing all the things he accomplished would amount to copying from encyclopedias. No, I will tell you how deeply I was influenced by Klaus Groth when I was a child.

Having grown up with Low Saxon/Low German, it was a splendid thing for us children when schoolmaster Gustav Kruse made us learn the poem "Matthew, the Hare." Indeed, we Olland folks would pronounce it in our Olland "Platt" way, but at least we could finally recite a poem in our native language. A few years later it was the turn of "My Jehann." Our schoolmaster also told us that this was about the poet's dead brother Jehann [John]. I found that very touching, and I was able to get into the things Klaus Groth wanted to express with this poem, how he felt, how much he was missing his brother Jehann. [See the words and translation below.]

With his [poetic collection] Quickborn['(Refreshing) Wellspring' ] Groth proved that Low Saxon/Low German counts among the literature languages.

I want to close with another poem with which Klaus Groth deeply touched me:

My Native Tongue

by Klaus Groth

My native tongue, how sweet you sound!
I'm so at home with you!
And if my heart were steel and stone,
You'd purge it of its pride.

Your light touch bends my rigid neck
As Mother's arm once did.
Your gentle breath about my face
Silences all the din.

I feel just like a tiny child.
The world around is gone.
Just like a spring breeze do you blow
Soundness into my breast.

Again my grandpa folds my hands
And says to me, "Now pray!"
And "Our Father," I begin
As I did in the past

And deeply feel it will be heard;
Thus has the heart its say.
And Heaven's peace envelops me,
And all is well again!

My ntive tongue, so plain and just,
You ancient, pious speech!
"My father" may some mouth just say,
Like praying sounds to me.

No music sounds so sweet to me
Nor does a nightingale.
In just a moment sparkling tears
Will trickle down my cheeks.
 

And another poem:

Matthew, the Hare

by Klaus Groth

Li'l Matthew, the hare,
had himself a fun time.
He gave it a chance
to learn how to dance,
and he danced all alone
on his very hindlegs.

Came Reynard, the fox,
and thought, "That'd make a meal!"
and said, "Little Matthew,
so quick on your paws,
and dancing alone
on your very hindlegs?"

"Come, let's do it together!
I could dance as the lady.
The crow plays the fiddle.
That'd surely be jolly.
It'll go like a charm
on our very hindlegs!"

Li'l Matt gave him his paw.
The fox bit him dead
and sat down in the shade,
ate up little Matt.
The crow received one
of the very hindlegs.