Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
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.
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
For why cometh a time,
When you forget yesterday?
Forgot our vows that we made,
And turn and walk away.
*****
How can a heart forget,
The love we once had?
And turn yourself against me,
And make my soul so sad.
*****
You’ve found someone better,
And you’ll leave us behind;
You think you can change your heart,
And erase your troubled mind.
*****
How can you just quit,
And let our love just die?
I’ve done all I know to do,
But you refuse to try.
*****
If I could only be around you,
Our love would live , I bet;
But you want me to stay away,
So you can just forget.
*****
For what has happened to you,
That has torn up your mind?
From the precious girl I once loved,
The one so pure and kind.
*****
I know that you are hurting,
You can’t look at me any more;
I know I can help you,
Heal your heart that’s sore.
*****
I know I’m not perfect,
But I really try to be;
I really truly love you,
That you’ve got to see.
*****
I know I’m no studly man,
Big and tall I’m not;
I don’t have much to offer you,
But all the love I got.
*****
We’ve had our share of problems,
But troubles don’t last long;
If we work together,
From them we can be strong.
*****
Maybe you think you’ve gone too far,
And respect you’ll never get;
But if only you’d just reach out,
Forgiveness can be met.
*****
Don’t give up like other folks,
Just so you’ll fit in;
For God and I believe in you,
And beg you not to sin.
*****
I know that you’re confused now,
And don’t know how to turn;
Just take one step toward me,
And leave your pain to burn.
*****
For I so love you dearly,
I can’t watch you walk away;
Please tell me you love me too,
And that you want to stay.
*****
Written 11-12-90
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
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.
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
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.
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
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.
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
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?
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
As there I left the road in May,
And took my way along a ground,
I found a glade with girls at play,
By leafy boughs close-hemmed around,
And there, with stores of harmless joys,
They plied their tongues, in merry noise:
Though little did they seem to fear
So ***** a stranger might be near;
Teeh-hee! Look here! Hah! ha! Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
And one would dance as one would spring,
Or bob or bow with leering smiles,
And one would swing, or sit and sing,
Or sew a stitch or two at whiles,
And one skipped on with downcast face,
All heedless, to my very place,
And there, in fright, with one foot out,
Made one dead step and turned about.
Heeh, hee, oh! oh! ooh! oo!—Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
Away they scampered all, full speed,
By boughs that swung along their track,
As rabbits out of wood at feed,
At sight of men all scamper back.
And one pulled on behind her heel,
A thread of cotton, off her reel,
And oh! to follow that white clue,
I felt I fain could scamper too.
Teeh, hee, run here.
Eeh! ee! Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
If souls should only sheen so bright
In heaven as in e’thly light,
An’ nothen better wer the cease,
How comely still, in sheape an’ feace,
Would many reach thik happy pleace, -
The hopevul souls that in their prime
Ha’ seem’d a-took avore their time, -
The young that died in beauty.
But when woone’s lim’s ha’ lost their strangth
A-tweilen drough a lifetime’s langth,
An’ over cheaks a-growen wold
The slowly-weasten years ha’ roll’d
The deep’nen wrinkle’s hollow vwold;
When life is ripe, then death do call
Vor less ov thought, than when do vall
On young vo’ks in their beauty.
But pinen souls, wi’ heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi’ a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha’ laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.
An’ yeet the church, where prayer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes,
An’ village greens, a-beat half beare
By dancers that do meet, an’ wear
Such merry looks at feast an’ feair,
Do gather under leatest skies,
Their bloomen cheaks an’ sparklen eyes,
Though young ha’ died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their early sleep;
Where comely looks shall never wear
Uncomely, under tweil an' ceare.
The feair at death be always feair,
Still feair to livers’ thought an’ love,
An’ feairer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
In the zunsheen of our zummers
Wi’ the hay time now a-come,
How busy wer we out a-vield
Wi’ vew a-left at hwome,
When waggons rumbled out ov yard
Red wheeled, wi’ body blue,
And back behind ‘em loudly slamm’d
The geate a’vallen to.
Drough daysheen ov how many years
The geate ha’ now a-swung
Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men
And vootsteps of the young.
Drough years o’ days it swung to us
Behind each little shoe,
As we tripped lightly on avore
The geate a-vallen to.
In evenen time o’ starry night
How mother zot at hwome,
And kept her bleazen vier bright
Till father should ha’ come,
An' how she quicken'd up and smiled
An' stirred her vier anew,
To hear the trampen ho'ses’ steps
An' geate a-vallen to.
There’s moon-sheen now in nights o’ fall
When leaves be brown vrom green,
When, to the slammen o' the geate,
Our Jenny’s ears be keen,
When the wold dog do wag his tail,
An' Jean could tell to who,
As he do come in drough the geate,
The geate a-vallen to.
An' oft do come a saddened hour
When there must goo away
One well-beloved to our heart’s core,
Vor long, perhaps vor aye:
An' oh! it is a touchen thing
The loven heart must rue,
To hear behind his last farewell
The geate a-vallen to.
(William Barnes’s last dialect poem,
dictated shortly before his death.
)
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Written by
Ingeborg Bachmann |
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.
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