We are working on the website today. Unfortunately, all emailing features are down.
Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Ingeborg Bachmann Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Ingeborg Bachmann poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ingeborg Bachmann poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ingeborg Bachmann poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Ingeborg Bachmann poems.

Search for the best famous Ingeborg Bachmann poems, articles about Ingeborg Bachmann poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Ingeborg Bachmann poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by 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.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

Stay

 Now the journey is ending,
the wind is losing heart.
Into your hands it's falling, a rickety house of cards.
The cards are backed with pictures displaying all the world.
You've stacked up all the images and shuffled them with words.
And how profound the playing that once again begins! Stay, the card you're drawing is the only world you'll win.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

Menschenlos

 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 und aus dem Raum gestoßen, wir, Flieger durch die Nacht und Bodenlose.
Wer weiß, ob wir nicht schon um Gott geflogen, und, weil wir pfeilschnell schäumten ohne ihn zu sehen und unsre Samen weiterschleuderten, um in noch dunkleren Geschlechtern fortzuleben, jetzt schuldhaft treiben? Wer weiß, ob wir nicht lange, lang schon sterben? Der Wolkenball mit uns strebt immer höher.
Die dünne Luft lähmt heute schon die Hände, und wenn die Stimme bricht und unser Atem steht.
.
.
? Bleibt Verwunschenheit für letzte Augenblicke?


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

The Broken Heart

 News o' grief had overteaken
Dark-eyed Fanny, now vorseaken;
There she zot, wi' breast a-heaven,
While vrom zide to zide, wi' grieven,
Vell her head, wi' tears a-creepen
Down her cheaks, in bitter weepen.
There wer still the ribbon-bow She tied avore her hour ov woe, An' there wer still the hans that tied it Hangen white, Or wringen tight, In ceare that drowned all ceare bezide it.
When a man, wi' heartless slighten, Mid become a maiden's blighten, He mid cearelessly vorseake her, But must answer to her Meaker; He mid slight, wi' selfish blindness, All her deeds o' loven-kindness, God wull waigh 'em wi' the slighten That mid be her love's requiten; He do look on each deceiver, He do know What weight o' woe Do break the heart ov ev'ry griever.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

Easter Zunday

 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;
An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole
A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole.
A span-new wes-co't, too, he wore, Wi' yellow stripes all down avore; An' tied his breeches' lags below The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow; An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide, An' put his laggens on, an' tied His shoes wi' strings two vingers wide, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.
An' after mornen church wer out He come back hwome, an' stroll'd about All down the vields, an' drough the leane, Wi' sister Kit an' cousin Jeane, A-turnen proudly to their view His yollow breast an' back o' blue.
The lambs did play, the grounds wer green, The trees did bud, the zun did sheen; The lark did zing below the sky, An' roads wer all a-blown so dry, As if the zummer wer begun; An' he had sich a bit o' fun! He meade the maidens squeal an' run, Because 'twer Easter Zunday.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

My Orchad in Linden Lea

 'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded,
By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle over head,
An' water's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen Now do feade 'ithin the copse, An' painted birds do hush their zingen Up upon the timber's tops; An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red, In cloudless zunsheen, over head, Wi' fruit vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
Let other vo'k meake money vaster In the air o' dark-room'd towns, I don't dread a peevish measter; Though noo man do heed my frowns, I be free to goo abrode, Or teake agean my hwomeward road To where, vor me, the apple tree Do lean down low in Linden Lea.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

Tokens

 Green mwold on zummer bars do show
That they've a-dripped in winter wet;
The hoof-worn ring o' groun' below
The tree do tell o' storms or het;
The trees in rank along a ledge
Do show where woonce did bloom a hedge;
An' where the vurrow-marks do stripe
The down the wheat woonce rustled ripe.
Each mark ov things a-gone vrom view— To eyezight's woone, to soulzight two.
The grass agean the mwoldren door 'S a token sad o' vo'k a-gone, An' where the house, bwoth wall an' vloor, 'S a-lost, the well mid linger on.
What tokens, then, could Meary gi'e That she a-lived, an' lived vor me, But things a-done vor thought an' view? Good things that nwone agean can do, An' every work her love ha' wrought, To eyezight's woone, but two to thought.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

The Wife a-Lost

 Since I noo mwore do zee your feace,
Up steairs or down below,
I’ll zit me in the lwonesome pleace,
Where flat-bough’d beech do grow;
Below the beeches’ bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I’ll goo alwone where mist do ride, Drough trees a-drippen wet; Below the rain-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vaice do never sound, I’ll eat the bit I can avword, A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your vaice an’ feace In prayer at eventide, I’ll pray wi’ woone sad vaice vor greace To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an’ bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An’ be a-waiten vor me now, To come vor evermwore.


by Ingeborg Bachmann | |

Zummer An Winter

 When I led by zummer streams
The pride o' Lea, as naighbours thought her,
While the zun, wi' evenen beams,
Did cast our sheades athirt the water;
Winds a-blowen,
Streams a-flowen,
Skies a-glowen,
Tokens ov my jay zoo fleeten,
Heightened it, that happy meeten.
Then, when maid an' man took pleaces, Gay in winter's Chris'mas dances, Showen in their merry feaces Kindly smiles an' glisnen glances; Stars a-winken, Day a-shrinken, Sheades a-zinken, Brought anew the happy meeten, That did meake the night too fleeten.