This week: Ingeborg Bachmann Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady
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The Broken Heart
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.
Ingeborg Bachmann was born June 25, 1926 in Klagenfurt, Austria. She was the first child of Mathias and Olga Bachmann. Her father was a language teacher, then headmaster at the middle school. Bachmann was an excellent student. She was twelve when Nazi marched into her home town. Bachmann's father joined the Austrian National Socialist Party. Bachmann went on to study at the University of Innsbruck, Linz and Vienna. She earned her doctorate in philosophy in 1950.
In 1951 Bachmann started working as a scriptwriter and editor for the radio station Rot-Weisz-Rot. Her first collection of poetry, Die gestundete Zeit was published in 1953 and was awarded the Group 47 Prize. Bachmann spent 1953 moving between Vienna, Zurich and Rome. Bachmann moved to Italy, where she lived with Henze on the Island Ischia, in Naples for the next few years. In 1958 she met Swiss writer Max Frisch. Their relationship lasted into the 1960's. 1962 Bachmann lived between Munich, Berlin, Zürich and Rome, where she took part in several social and political activities. Bachmann became a member of a committee that opposed atomic weapons, and she even signed a declaration against the Vietnam war.
At the age of thirty-three Bachmann was appointed chair of poetics at the University of Frankfurt. She lectured on poetry and the existential situation of the writer. Her partly autobiographical work Das dreißigste Jahr Bachmann was published in 1961 and in 1964 received the Berlin Critics Prize. Later that same year she received the Georg Büchner Prize. In the spring of 1973 she gave a series of readings in Poland and visited the concentration camps at Auschwitz and Birkenau.
Bachmann spent her last years of her life battling alcoholism and drug addiction. In September 1973 Bachmann fell asleep in bed with a lit cigarette which caused a fire in her Rome apartment. Three weeks later on October 17, 1973 she died from her injuries. Posthumous editions of her poetry include the bilingual edition Darkness Spoken: The Collected Poems of Ingeborg Bachmann, published in 2005, translated by Peter Filkins and Enigma: Selected Poems published in 2011, translated by Mike Lyons and Patrick Drysdale.
The Young that Died in Beauty
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.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
In my quest for an
independence, a liberation
from the living nightmare
that I am bound in; I often
mull over the extreme happiness
I had in the prime of my life.
Memories stream down to the summer
time when I watered my garden
with sprinklers during evening
and the aroma of wet grass pervaded
my nostrils, making me feel
refreshed and reinvigorated.
I remember those halcyon days
when I used to have a gala time
during the celebration of my birthdays
with family and friends and gorge
the sumptuous chicken grilled
on the barbecue and feel ecstatic.
Gone are those days when
my grandchildren used to
play with crackers and fireworks
and illuminate my life with
an aura of profound joy,
bliss, satisfaction and fulfillment.
I am now battling an incurable
disease in this old age with
no one to care for me, give
support in times of utmost need.
I am absolutely alone in this world
with no one to empathize my sorrow.
Honorable mention:
| |  | Let's Eat (E)
Let the holiday be celebrated with family and friends. A contest entry
#2226627 by Dorianne  |
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Poetry: July 15, 2020 Issue [#10277]
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