Fog Land

is among the woodland creatures.

The vixen knows I have to return

before dawn, and laughs.

How the clouds shudder. And

on my snow collar falls

a layer of brittle ice.

is a tree among trees and invites

the hapless crows

into her beautiful boughs. She knows

that at dawn the wind

lifts her stiff, rime-coated

evening dress and chases me home.

In winter my beloved

is among the fish and dumb.                                        

Enthralled by the waters, tremulous                         

from the stroking of her fins,                                           

I stand on the shore and see,

until ice floes drive me away,

how she dives and turns.

And struck again by the hunting cry

of the bird that stiffens

its wings above me, I fall

in the open field: she plucks

the hens and throws me a white

collar bone. I put it round my neck

and go on through the bitter down.

Faithless is my beloved

I know, sometimes she hovers

on high heels into town,

in the bars she kisses the glasses

with a straw deep in their mouths

and words come to her for everyone.

But I am not versed in this language.    

Fog land have I seen,                       

Fog heart have I eaten.

If you go away, you must throw

the hat full of shells you've collected

all summer into the sea

and travel on with blowing hair,

you must hurl the table

set for your love into the sea,

you must pour the last of the wine

still in the glass into the sea,

you must give your bread to the fish

and mix a drop of blood with the sea,

you must float your knife carefully on the waves

and sink your shoe,

heart, anchor and cross,

and travel on with blowing hair.

Then you will return.

When?

            Don't ask.

These days I rise with the birches

and comb my wheaten hair from my brow

before a mirror of ice.

Mingling with my breath

the milk curdles.

This early it foams easily.

And where I breathe on the window,

there appears once again,

drawn by a child's finger,

your name: Innocence.

After all this time.

These days it doesn't torment me,

that I can forget

and must remember.

I love. At white heat

I love and give thanks with an angel's salutation.

I learnt it on the wing.

These days I consider the albatross

with whom I soared

into an uncharted land.

On the horizon I divine,

glamorous as it goes under,

my fabulous continent

away yonder that released me

in my shroud.

I live and far off I hear its swansong.

Great bear, come down, shaggy night,

beast of cloud fur with ancient eyes

star eyes,

your paws break shimmering

through the thicket with those claws,

star claws,

vigilant we guard the flocks,

though bewitched by you, and wary

of your weary flanks and the sharp

half bared teeth,

ancient bear.

A cone: your world.

You: its scales.

I push them, roll them

from the firs in the beginning  

to the firs at the end.

Snort at them, test them in your mouth

and grab them with your paws. 

Fear you or fear you not!

Count up the collection bag and

give the blind man a kind word,

that he may keep the bear on a tight rein.

And season the lambs well.

It could be, that this bear

breaks free, and no longer threatening

hunts down all the cones, those

fallen from the great, winged firs,

those flung out of Paradise.

My dear brother, when will we build ourselves a raft

and sail down the heavens?

My dear brother, soon the cargo will be too heavy

and we'll go under.

My dear brother, we draw on paper

many countries and railways   

Watch out, at these black lines

you'll go up with the mines.

My dear brother, then I want to be tied

to the stake and scream.

Yet you are riding out of the Valley of Death  

and we escape together.                                                  

Wake in the gipsy camp and wake in the desert tent,

the sand is running from our hair,

your age and mine and the age of the world

cannot be reckoned in years.

Don't let yourself be deceived by crafty ravens,

a sticky spider hand or the feather in the bush,

neither eat nor drink in the land of Cockaigne,

fakery foams in the jugs and pans.

Only he, who at the golden bridge knows the word

for the carbuncle fairy, has won.

I must tell you, it melted

with the last snow in the garden.

Our feet ache from many, many stones.

One heals. With this we want to leap,

until the children's king, with the key to his realm

in his mouth, fetches us and we sing:

It's a beautiful time when the date stone sprouts:

All that fall have wings.

Red foxgloves thimble the shrouds of the poor,

and your petal sinks on my seal.

We must go to sleep, Beloved, the game is over.

On tiptoe. White shirts billowing.

Tell mother and father the house is haunted,

when we exchange breath.

Translators: Dorothea Grünzweig and Hilary Kassman

A selection of Ingeborg Bachmann's poems, translated from German by Dorothea Grünzweig and Hilary Kassman, are published in Oriel, an anthology of new writing from Black Sandal Press