Ingeborg Bachmann

Ingeborg Bachmann Poems

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder


Now the journey is ending,
the wind is losing heart.
Into your hands it's falling,
a rickety house of cards.

War is no longer declared,
only continued. The monstrous
has become everyday. The hero

I step outside
myself, out of my eyes,
hands, mouth, outside

Who knows of a better world should step forward.
Alone, no longer out of bravery, not wiping away this saliva,
this saliva worn upon the cheek

Verwunschnes Wolkenschloß, in dem wir treiben...
Wer weiß, ob wir nicht schon durch viele Himmel
so ziehen mit verglasten Augen?
Wir, in die Zeit verbannt

Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.

More beatiful than the remarkable moon and her noble light,
More beautiful than the stars, the famous medals of the night,


Be silent with me, as all bells are silent!

In the afterbirth of terror
the rabble grovels for new nourishment.
On Good Friday a hand hangs on display

But where are we going
carefree be carefree
when it grows dark and when it grows cold
be carefree

News o' grief had overteaken
Dark-eyed Fanny, now vorseaken;
There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven,
While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven,

Im Winter ist meine Geliebte
unter den Tieren des Waldes.
Daß ich vor Morgen zurückmuß,

Harder days are coming.
The loan of borrowed time
will be due on the horizon.
Soon you must lace up your boots

After this deluge
I wish to see the dove
nothing but the dove.

Last Easter Jim put on his blue
Frock cwoat, the vu'st time-vier new;
Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass,
That glitter'd in the zun lik' glass

That summer there was no honey.
The queens led their swarms away,
the strawberry bed dried up in a day,
the berrypickers went home early.

Each and every thing cuts wounds,
and neither of us has forgiven the other.
Hurting like you and hurtful,
I lived towards you.

My dear brother, when will we build a raft?
to float down the sky on??
My dear brother, soon our load will be so heavy?
that we'll sink.

Do not decree faith on this race,
stars, ships and smoke are enough;
it is concerned with things, determines
stars and mathematical infinity

Ingeborg Bachmann Biography

Bachmann was born in Klagenfurt, in the Austrian state of Carinthia, the daughter of a headmaster. She studied philosophy, psychology, German philology, and law at the universities of Innsbruck, Graz, and Vienna. In 1949, she received her Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Vienna with her dissertation titled "The Critical Reception of the Existential Philosophy of Martin Heidegger," her thesis adviser was Victor Kraft. After graduating, Bachmann worked as a scriptwriter and editor at the Allied radio station Rot-Weiss-Rot, a job that enabled her to obtain an overview of contemporary literature and also supplied her with a decent income, making possible proper literary work. Furthermore, her first radio dramas were published by the station. Her literary career was enhanced by contact with Hans Weigel (littérateur and sponsor of young post-war literature) and the legendary literary circle known as Gruppe 47, whose members also included Ilse Aichinger, Paul Celan, Heinrich Böll, Marcel Reich-Ranicki and Günter Grass. In 1953, she moved to Rome, Italy, where she spent the large part of the following years working on poems, essays and short stories as well as opera libretti in collaboration with Hans Werner Henze, which soon brought with them international fame and numerous awards. Her relationship with the Swiss author Max Frisch (1911–1991) bestowed the role of the second protagonist in Frisch's 1964 novel Gantenbein upon her. His infidelity and the separation of the couple in 1962 had a deep impact on Bachmann. Bachmann's work primarily focuses on themes like personal boundaries, establishment of the truth, and philosophy of language, the latter in the tradition of Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein. Her doctoral dissertation expresses her growing disillusionment with Heidegerrian Existentialism, which was in part resolved through her growing interest in Wittgenstein, whose Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus significantly influenced her relationship to language. Ingeborg Bachmann died in the Roman Sant' Eugenio hospital three weeks after a fire in her bedroom, on 17 October 1973. Local police concluded that the blaze was caused by a lit cigarette. Withdrawal symptoms when her stay in hospital interrupted her long habit of compulsive pill-taking may have contribued to her death. She is buried at the Annabichl cemetery.)

The Best Poem Of Ingeborg Bachmann

In The Storm Of Roses

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,
rumbling at our heels.

Ingeborg Bachmann Comments

Fabrizio Frosini 06 November 2015

a beautiful poem by Ingeborg Bachmann: Enigma (1967) Für Hans Werner Henze aus des Zeit der Ariosi Nichts mehr wird kommen. Frühling wird nicht mehr werden. Tausendjährige Kalender sagen es jedem voraus. Aber auch Sommer und weiterhin, was so gute Namen wie »sommerlich« hat - es wird nichts mehr kommen. Du sollst ja nicht weinen, sagt eine Musik. Sonst sagt niemand etwas.

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M Asim Nehal 28 February 2019

A learned poetess, I admire her poems.

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GUNTHER BACHMANN 08 November 2018


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Fabrizio Frosini 06 November 2015

'' DARKNESS SPOKEN '' Like Orpheus I play death on the strings of life, and to the beauty of the Earth and your eyes, which administer heaven, I can only speak of darkness. Don't forget that you also, suddenly, on that morning when your camp was still damp with dew, and a carnation slept on your heart, you saw the dark stream race past you. The string of silence taut on the pulse of blood, I grasped your beating heart. Your curls were transformed into the shadow hair of night, black flakes of darkness buried your face. And I don't belong to you. Both of us mourn now. But like Orpheus I know life on the side of death, and the deepening blue of your forever closed eye.. (by INGEBORG BACHMANN, translated by Peter Filkins)

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Fabrizio Frosini 06 November 2015

'' DARKNESS SPOKEN '', ITALIAN translation: ''DIRE COSE OSCURE'' Come Orfeo canto io la morte sulla corda della vita, e nella bellezza della Terra, e dei tuoi occhi in cui si specchia il cielo, so dire solo cose oscure. Non dimenticare: anche tu quel mattino, quando ancora il tuo giaciglio era umido di rugiada e il garofano dormiva sul tuo cuore, vedesti all’improvviso il fiume scuro, che accanto ti passò. Con la corda del silenzio tesa sull’onda del sangue, afferrai il tuo cuore sonante. I tuoi riccioli si trasformarono nei capelli d’ombra della notte, e i fiocchi neri dell’oscurità nevicarono sul tuo volto. E io non ti appartengo. Ora ci lamentiamo entrambi. Ma, come Orfeo, conosco la vita sulla corda dell’amore, e colgo il blu del tuo occhio per sempre serrato. (by INGEBORG BACHMANN, translated by Peter Patti)

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Fabrizio Frosini 06 November 2015

THIS IS THE ITALIAN TRANSLATION OF Ingeborg Bachmann's ENIGMA: _________________________________________________________ Enigma (1967) Per Hans Werner Henze, al tempo degli Ariosi (*) Nulla verrà più. Non vi sarà più primavera. Almanacchi millenari lo predicono a tutti. Ma nemmeno estate e altre cose che recano il bell'attributo « estivo » — nulla verrà più. Non devi assolutamente piangere, dice una musica. Nessun altro dice qualcosa. ________ (*) epoca degli Ariosi = 1963 [composizione di Henze per soprano, violino e orchestra su brani di Torquato Tasso] time of the airy compositions,1963: Henze's composition for soprano, violin and orchestra - concerning poems by Torquato Tasso ________

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