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Toplu Şiirler
Şiir yazmak zorunluluğunu duymamama karşın, istersem şiir yazmayı 'başarabileceğim' kuşkusuna kapılınca, şiir yazmayı bıraktım. Ve yeniden şiir yazmak zorunda olduğumu duyumsayıncaya kadar, yazacaklarımın, son yazdıklarımdan bu yana edinilen deneyimleri kapsayacak ölçüde yeni şiirler olacağına inanıncaya kadar şiir kaleme almayacağım.
Şiirin "ancak şiir yazmadan yaşanamayacaksa" yazılması gerektiğine inanan Ingeborg Bachmann'ın dizeleri, yarım yüzyıl önceki canlılığını bugün de koruyor. Tutku, acı, umut taşan bu dizeler kimi zaman coşku veriyor, çoğu zaman yürek burkuyor. Bachmann'ın gün ışığına çıkmış şiirlerinden Türkçeye kazandırılan en kapsamlı derleme olan bu kitap, edebiyatın hemen her alanında yapıt vermiş güçlü bir kalemi tanımak (ya da anımsamak) için atılacak ilk adım.
Şiirin "ancak şiir yazmadan yaşanamayacaksa" yazılması gerektiğine inanan Ingeborg Bachmann'ın dizeleri, yarım yüzyıl önceki canlılığını bugün de koruyor. Tutku, acı, umut taşan bu dizeler kimi zaman coşku veriyor, çoğu zaman yürek burkuyor. Bachmann'ın gün ışığına çıkmış şiirlerinden Türkçeye kazandırılan en kapsamlı derleme olan bu kitap, edebiyatın hemen her alanında yapıt vermiş güçlü bir kalemi tanımak (ya da anımsamak) için atılacak ilk adım.
176 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1978
89 people are currently reading
3102 people want to read
About the author
Ingeborg Bachmann
181 books604 followers“What actually is possible, however, is transformation. And the transformative effect that emanates from new works leads us to new perception, to a new feeling, new consciousness.” This sentence from Ingeborg Bachmann’s Frankfurt Lectures on Poetics (1959-60) can also be applied to her own self-consciousness as an author, and to the history of her reception. Whether in the form of lyric poetry, short prose, radio plays, libretti, lectures and essays or longer fiction, Bachmann’s œuvre had as its goal and effect “to draw people into the experiences of the writers,” into “new experiences of suffering.” (GuI 139-140). But it was especially her penetrating and artistically original representation of female subjectivity within male-dominated society that unleashed a new wave in the reception of her works.
Although Bachmann’s spectacular early fame derived from her lyric poetry (she received the prestigious Prize of the Gruppe 47 in 1954), she turned more and more towards prose during the 1950’s, having experienced severe doubts about the validity of poetic language. The stories in the collection Das dreißigste Jahr (The Thirtieth Year; 1961) typically present a sudden insight into the inadequacy of the world and its “orders” (e.g. of language, law, politics, or gender roles) and reveal a utopian longing for and effort to imagine a new and truer order. The two stories told from an explicitly female perspective, “Ein Schritt nach Gomorrha” (“A Step towards Gomorrah”) and “Undine geht” (“Undine Goes/Leaves”), are among the earliest feminist texts in postwar German-language literature. Undine accuses male humanity of having ruined not only her life as a woman but the world in general: “You monsters named Hans!” In her later prose (Malina 1971; Simultan 1972; and the posthumously published Der Fall Franza und Requiem für Fanny Goldmann) Bachmann was again ahead of her time, often employing experimental forms to portray women as they are damaged or even destroyed by patriarchal society, in this case modern Vienna. Here one sees how intertwined Bachmann’s preoccupation with female identity and patriarchy is with her diagnosis of the sickness of our age: “I’ve reflected about this question already: where does fascism begin? It doesn’t begin with the first bombs that were dropped…. It begins in relationships between people. Fascism lies at the root of the relationship between a man and a woman….”(GuI 144)
As the daughter of a teacher and a mother who hadn’t been allowed to go to university, Bachmann enjoyed the support and encouragement of both parents; after the war she studied philosophy, German literature and psychology in Innsbruck, Graz and Vienna. She wrote her doctoral dissertation (1950) on the critical reception of Heidegger, whose ideas she condemned as “a seduction … to German irrationality of thought” (GuI 137). From 1957 to 1963, the time of her troubled relationship with Swiss author Max Frisch, Bachmann alternated between Zurich and Rome. She rejected marriage as “an impossible institution. Impossible for a woman who works and thinks and wants something herself” (GuI 144).
From the end of 1965 on Bachmann resided in Rome. Despite her precarious health—she was addicted to pills for years following a faulty medical procedure—she traveled to Poland in 1973. She was just planning a move to Vienna when she died of complications following an accidental fire.
Joey Horsley
Although Bachmann’s spectacular early fame derived from her lyric poetry (she received the prestigious Prize of the Gruppe 47 in 1954), she turned more and more towards prose during the 1950’s, having experienced severe doubts about the validity of poetic language. The stories in the collection Das dreißigste Jahr (The Thirtieth Year; 1961) typically present a sudden insight into the inadequacy of the world and its “orders” (e.g. of language, law, politics, or gender roles) and reveal a utopian longing for and effort to imagine a new and truer order. The two stories told from an explicitly female perspective, “Ein Schritt nach Gomorrha” (“A Step towards Gomorrah”) and “Undine geht” (“Undine Goes/Leaves”), are among the earliest feminist texts in postwar German-language literature. Undine accuses male humanity of having ruined not only her life as a woman but the world in general: “You monsters named Hans!” In her later prose (Malina 1971; Simultan 1972; and the posthumously published Der Fall Franza und Requiem für Fanny Goldmann) Bachmann was again ahead of her time, often employing experimental forms to portray women as they are damaged or even destroyed by patriarchal society, in this case modern Vienna. Here one sees how intertwined Bachmann’s preoccupation with female identity and patriarchy is with her diagnosis of the sickness of our age: “I’ve reflected about this question already: where does fascism begin? It doesn’t begin with the first bombs that were dropped…. It begins in relationships between people. Fascism lies at the root of the relationship between a man and a woman….”(GuI 144)
As the daughter of a teacher and a mother who hadn’t been allowed to go to university, Bachmann enjoyed the support and encouragement of both parents; after the war she studied philosophy, German literature and psychology in Innsbruck, Graz and Vienna. She wrote her doctoral dissertation (1950) on the critical reception of Heidegger, whose ideas she condemned as “a seduction … to German irrationality of thought” (GuI 137). From 1957 to 1963, the time of her troubled relationship with Swiss author Max Frisch, Bachmann alternated between Zurich and Rome. She rejected marriage as “an impossible institution. Impossible for a woman who works and thinks and wants something herself” (GuI 144).
From the end of 1965 on Bachmann resided in Rome. Despite her precarious health—she was addicted to pills for years following a faulty medical procedure—she traveled to Poland in 1973. She was just planning a move to Vienna when she died of complications following an accidental fire.
Joey Horsley
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 56 reviews
October 21, 2022
Harder days are coming
the withdrawal of deferred time
is visible on the horizon..
over there your lover sinks in the sand
it reaches up to her flowing hair
it cuts off her words
it orders her to be silent
it finds she's mortal
and willing to leave
after every embrace
don't look around
harder days are coming.
------------
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
I've fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, with summer
with village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed
kept a calendar cult, declared promises irrevocable
It's not you I've lost
but the world.
-------------
More beautiful than the remarkable moon and her noble light
more beautiful than the stars, the famous medals of the night
more beautiful than the fiery entrance a comet makes
and called to a part far more splendid than any other planet's
because daily your life and my life depend on it, is the sun.
the withdrawal of deferred time
is visible on the horizon..
over there your lover sinks in the sand
it reaches up to her flowing hair
it cuts off her words
it orders her to be silent
it finds she's mortal
and willing to leave
after every embrace
don't look around
harder days are coming.
------------
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
I've fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, with summer
with village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed
kept a calendar cult, declared promises irrevocable
It's not you I've lost
but the world.
-------------
More beautiful than the remarkable moon and her noble light
more beautiful than the stars, the famous medals of the night
more beautiful than the fiery entrance a comet makes
and called to a part far more splendid than any other planet's
because daily your life and my life depend on it, is the sun.
August 20, 2019
The cards are backed with pictures
displaying all the world.
You've stacked up all the images
and shuffled them with words.
Reading such poetry can be stressful; it may induce pain. My wife bought these for my birthday, I am grateful, if reluctantly situated, with an eye towards the terminal. Ms. Bachmann notes the dirty business with words but also that poetry is bread for a scientific time. As the reader progresses the goals for Bachmann veer from transcendence and instead become sleep and ultimately morphine. Drinking and nightmares plague Bachmann but birdsong and the laughter of children prop open a window of contentment. A catalogue of emotional debris ensues. I don't know enough to speculate if the turn away from poetry was a result of a deficit, a calling or a collapse? Rimbaud baffled as he became gun runner. Bachmann studied Heidegger and then in a certain sense drifted into libretto.
displaying all the world.
You've stacked up all the images
and shuffled them with words.
Reading such poetry can be stressful; it may induce pain. My wife bought these for my birthday, I am grateful, if reluctantly situated, with an eye towards the terminal. Ms. Bachmann notes the dirty business with words but also that poetry is bread for a scientific time. As the reader progresses the goals for Bachmann veer from transcendence and instead become sleep and ultimately morphine. Drinking and nightmares plague Bachmann but birdsong and the laughter of children prop open a window of contentment. A catalogue of emotional debris ensues. I don't know enough to speculate if the turn away from poetry was a result of a deficit, a calling or a collapse? Rimbaud baffled as he became gun runner. Bachmann studied Heidegger and then in a certain sense drifted into libretto.
January 20, 2023
Verzweiflung und Ungewissheit spricht aus diesen bildmächtigen Gedichten. Der Krieg ist noch nicht lange her und hat seine Spuren hinterlassen. Die Erfahrungen sind subjektiv und für mich nicht immer nachvollziehbar. Das mag aber daran liegen, dass ich nur wenige Gedichte lese. Dass es sich hier vielfach um Meisterwerke handelt, ist aber selbst für mich offensichtlich.
December 1, 2013
When are you done with a book of poetry? When you read every poem in the book? When you tire of the poems or the poet?
I can only say I'm "finished" with this book because I had to give it back to my dear friend who loaned it to me. But I'm not at all finished with this book. Not even close.
---------------------------
My first encounter with Bachmann was from my former beloved. I can't remember if she read me something or not. I'm sure she did, but it's a blur with manifold other poems and poets she read me—too much to differentiate. I do remember that she liked Bachmann more than Celan, but she also read like a hummingbird, pulling bits of nectar from here, now there, now something new.
After we were kaput, I searched for Bachmann's book, but it was nowhere to be found; unavailable anywhere in NYC, and I couldn't stand to order it online.
Then I was in Berlin and I met this beautiful poet, a calm swirl of stuttering intellect, and she leant me the book. I was elated! I immediately started reading and was immediately in love. I also loved the penciled in notes scribbled in the margins by my new intoxicating friend who was obviously working through translating various poems. (Someone wrote that all real poets try translation—that it's vital to being a poet.) But as I read the book I realized that I was smelling something not evoked from the text, but a sweet flowery smell directly redolent of the book. The Bachmann book smelled of flowers... or something. I couldn't tell, and realized I don't know anything about smells. When I finally asked her what the smell was, she sheepishly laughed and said, It's probably patchouli.
I laughed and said, You damn hippie!
But she added, It might be jasmine or tea tree oil. And then she let me smell her bag, which was full of books, and ¡there it was!— jasmine, tea tree oil, and patchouli. And the smell of her bag was as beautiful as the smell of the book. I knew immediately that from this moment forward that that mix of smells would forever remind me of Bachmann and my willowy friend. She laughed and said, But the smell fits Bachmann.
What? I exclaimed, Bachmann was no hippie!
No, she said, But Bachmann smells of rotting autumn. And Bachmann does. Does smell of rotting autumn. And that combo of tea tree oil, pachouli, and jasmine is the smell of rotting autumn.
Last, another friend; a friend I met in NYC; a Berliner friend; a clad-in-black whirlwind bounding through life with penetrating clear eyes that also remind of Bachmann; Bachmann, who constantly refers to clear dead eyes, or even a dead eye, cold; but my friend's eyes are far from cold, and at my anarco-whirlwind friend's place she read me Bachmann in Deutsch and I read it back to her in English. And the musicality! Wow, the language sang. Sang of sadness and depression and despondency, sure, but sang anyway. (The only happy Bachmann poem I've read is about getting drunk.)
Ok... the book. Wow. Decaying autumn and the only happiness the happiness of drunkenness.
I've only finished Borrowed Time, which is one of the two books Bachmann published in her lifetime. Darkness Spoken includes all of her poems. The other book published in her lifetime is Invocation of the Great Bear. The rest of the book is divided in five large sections of poems, broken up into various periods of her life.
Here, listen (and I mean listen: that is, read it out loud):
from Fall Down Heart
Fall down, heart, from the tree of of time,
fall, you leaves, from icy branches
that once the sun embraced,
fall, as tears fall from longing eyes.
or...
from Darkness Spoken
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.
or...
from Borrowed Time
Harder days are coming.
The loan of borrowed time
will be due on the horizon.
Soon you must lace up your boots
and chase the hounds back to the marsh farms.
For the entrails of fish
have grown cold in the wind.
Dimly burns the light of lupines.
Your gaze makes out in fog:
the loan of borrowed time
will be due on the horizon.
or...
from Theme and Variation
All summer long the hives produced no honey.
Queen bees gave up and led their swarms away,
the strawberry patch dried up in a day,
and without work, the gatherers went home early.
All sweetness was carried away on a beam of light
in a single night's sleep. Who slept while this happened?
Honey and berries? He knows no misfortune,
he who lacks for nothing. For him, it all comes right.
What she does beautifully (like Celan) is use repetition for dramatic effect.
I can only say I'm "finished" with this book because I had to give it back to my dear friend who loaned it to me. But I'm not at all finished with this book. Not even close.
---------------------------
My first encounter with Bachmann was from my former beloved. I can't remember if she read me something or not. I'm sure she did, but it's a blur with manifold other poems and poets she read me—too much to differentiate. I do remember that she liked Bachmann more than Celan, but she also read like a hummingbird, pulling bits of nectar from here, now there, now something new.
After we were kaput, I searched for Bachmann's book, but it was nowhere to be found; unavailable anywhere in NYC, and I couldn't stand to order it online.
Then I was in Berlin and I met this beautiful poet, a calm swirl of stuttering intellect, and she leant me the book. I was elated! I immediately started reading and was immediately in love. I also loved the penciled in notes scribbled in the margins by my new intoxicating friend who was obviously working through translating various poems. (Someone wrote that all real poets try translation—that it's vital to being a poet.) But as I read the book I realized that I was smelling something not evoked from the text, but a sweet flowery smell directly redolent of the book. The Bachmann book smelled of flowers... or something. I couldn't tell, and realized I don't know anything about smells. When I finally asked her what the smell was, she sheepishly laughed and said, It's probably patchouli.
I laughed and said, You damn hippie!
But she added, It might be jasmine or tea tree oil. And then she let me smell her bag, which was full of books, and ¡there it was!— jasmine, tea tree oil, and patchouli. And the smell of her bag was as beautiful as the smell of the book. I knew immediately that from this moment forward that that mix of smells would forever remind me of Bachmann and my willowy friend. She laughed and said, But the smell fits Bachmann.
What? I exclaimed, Bachmann was no hippie!
No, she said, But Bachmann smells of rotting autumn. And Bachmann does. Does smell of rotting autumn. And that combo of tea tree oil, pachouli, and jasmine is the smell of rotting autumn.
Last, another friend; a friend I met in NYC; a Berliner friend; a clad-in-black whirlwind bounding through life with penetrating clear eyes that also remind of Bachmann; Bachmann, who constantly refers to clear dead eyes, or even a dead eye, cold; but my friend's eyes are far from cold, and at my anarco-whirlwind friend's place she read me Bachmann in Deutsch and I read it back to her in English. And the musicality! Wow, the language sang. Sang of sadness and depression and despondency, sure, but sang anyway. (The only happy Bachmann poem I've read is about getting drunk.)
Ok... the book. Wow. Decaying autumn and the only happiness the happiness of drunkenness.
I've only finished Borrowed Time, which is one of the two books Bachmann published in her lifetime. Darkness Spoken includes all of her poems. The other book published in her lifetime is Invocation of the Great Bear. The rest of the book is divided in five large sections of poems, broken up into various periods of her life.
Here, listen (and I mean listen: that is, read it out loud):
from Fall Down Heart
Fall down, heart, from the tree of of time,
fall, you leaves, from icy branches
that once the sun embraced,
fall, as tears fall from longing eyes.
or...
from Darkness Spoken
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.
or...
from Borrowed Time
Harder days are coming.
The loan of borrowed time
will be due on the horizon.
Soon you must lace up your boots
and chase the hounds back to the marsh farms.
For the entrails of fish
have grown cold in the wind.
Dimly burns the light of lupines.
Your gaze makes out in fog:
the loan of borrowed time
will be due on the horizon.
or...
from Theme and Variation
All summer long the hives produced no honey.
Queen bees gave up and led their swarms away,
the strawberry patch dried up in a day,
and without work, the gatherers went home early.
All sweetness was carried away on a beam of light
in a single night's sleep. Who slept while this happened?
Honey and berries? He knows no misfortune,
he who lacks for nothing. For him, it all comes right.
What she does beautifully (like Celan) is use repetition for dramatic effect.
February 3, 2023
I am a dead man who wanders
registered nowhere
unknown in the realm of the prefect
superfluous in the golden cities
and the greening land
written off long ago
bequeathed nothing
Save wind and time and sound
I who cannot live among people
I with the German language
this cloud about me
that I keep as a house
drive through all languages
Oh how this cloud darkens
the somber ones the rain notes
only a few fall
Into brighter places it bears the dead man high
March 11, 2009
I'm pretty sure one is not supposed to read all (most) of the poems by one of the greatest half dozen German writers of the second half of the 20th century (so says Susan Sontag) in about two hours. But I did have to get the book back to the library, and I wasn't allowed anymore renewals, and I kept putting off reading this till I was in the proper mood to really enjoy them. That time didn't seem to come, so sitting on a crowded subway, on a bus and then in the lounge at school while some of the dumbest conversations seemed to be going on around me was the best I could muster. I will need to give these poems more of a chance to get more out of them, but from my speed reading through them I really liked what I read.
November 16, 2019
<< ابر، این جنازهی فسردهجان را بالا خواهد کشید تا روشنا>>
آنجا که سلان از مشغولیتش به ادبیات و شعر به عنوان تلاشی برای فراموش کردن خاطرهی هولوکاست یاد میکند: تنها یک چیز باقی ماند،قابل دسترسی،نزدیک و امن،در میان همهی چیزهایی که نابود شدهاند: زبان.
چنین به نظر میرسد که باخمن به یار و همراه دیرینش پیامی میفرستد، با زبان شعر: که (( رفیق! ما دیگر نابود نمیشویم!))
برای او که وادار به سکوت شده،
انزوا، آنقدر با تارهای عیانش
به آرامی دیوانگی را میتند
تا سرانجام از جهان پیرامونش،
تنها نقشِ مهمانخانهای ماند شیشهای
آثار شاعرانهی او_ در نظم و نثر_ پاسخی است به سکوت: زنانی که از سوی مردان وادار به سکوت شدهاند، ملتهایی که ملل دیگر سکوت را به آنان تحمیل کردهاند، و سکوتی که کلام شاعرانه در برابر فلسفه و علم برگزیده است؛ و نیز در برابر هجومِ مادیگرایی.
فیلسوف محبوب او لودویگ ویتگنشتاین در پایانِ رسالهی منطقی_فلسفی (که بعد از جنگجهانی اول در وین منتشر شد) نوشت: (( هر آنچه را نتوان دربارهاش سخن گفت باید دربارهاش خاموش ماند)).
اینگبورگ باخمن، مورخ، فیلسوف و شاعر هرگز خاموش نماند.
آنجا که سلان از مشغولیتش به ادبیات و شعر به عنوان تلاشی برای فراموش کردن خاطرهی هولوکاست یاد میکند: تنها یک چیز باقی ماند،قابل دسترسی،نزدیک و امن،در میان همهی چیزهایی که نابود شدهاند: زبان.
چنین به نظر میرسد که باخمن به یار و همراه دیرینش پیامی میفرستد، با زبان شعر: که (( رفیق! ما دیگر نابود نمیشویم!))
برای او که وادار به سکوت شده،
انزوا، آنقدر با تارهای عیانش
به آرامی دیوانگی را میتند
تا سرانجام از جهان پیرامونش،
تنها نقشِ مهمانخانهای ماند شیشهای
آثار شاعرانهی او_ در نظم و نثر_ پاسخی است به سکوت: زنانی که از سوی مردان وادار به سکوت شدهاند، ملتهایی که ملل دیگر سکوت را به آنان تحمیل کردهاند، و سکوتی که کلام شاعرانه در برابر فلسفه و علم برگزیده است؛ و نیز در برابر هجومِ مادیگرایی.
فیلسوف محبوب او لودویگ ویتگنشتاین در پایانِ رسالهی منطقی_فلسفی (که بعد از جنگجهانی اول در وین منتشر شد) نوشت: (( هر آنچه را نتوان دربارهاش سخن گفت باید دربارهاش خاموش ماند)).
اینگبورگ باخمن، مورخ، فیلسوف و شاعر هرگز خاموش نماند.
June 1, 2020
I'm very anti-reviewing poetry, but not above a crass, unsolicited recommendation to anyone who likes it.
Bachmann is certainly one of the most wonderful German language poets, if not any-language poets. well-honed, sharp poetry, dark, moody, and beautiful all at once. Nice collection, too, has the original German on the facing page of the translations, which seem pretty spot-on.
Bachmann is certainly one of the most wonderful German language poets, if not any-language poets. well-honed, sharp poetry, dark, moody, and beautiful all at once. Nice collection, too, has the original German on the facing page of the translations, which seem pretty spot-on.
August 28, 2016
Me quedé sin palabras.
Mejor que hablen los demás, que se les da mejor que a mí:
http://www.elcultural.com/blogs/tengo...
http://asteroideazul283.blogspot.com....
Mejor que hablen los demás, que se les da mejor que a mí:
http://www.elcultural.com/blogs/tengo...
http://asteroideazul283.blogspot.com....
Read
January 18, 2022"Bugüne kadar neden okumadım" denebilecek kitaplardan birisi. İmgeler çok güçlü, uçsuz bucaksız bir düşler dünyasından süzülüyor adeta.
April 13, 2022
Recunosc originalitatea și marele grad de abstractizare, dar nu rezonez deloc cu poezia ei. M-am oprit la jumătatea volumului.
September 15, 2017
“Ancak Şiir yazmadan yaşanamayacak hale gelinmesi durumunda şiir yazmak gerekiyor ”
demiş şairimiz.
Felsefesi olan şairlerden ama felsefesi fazlaca şiirine bulaşmış gibi.. Şiir başlı başına, çözülmek ve sindirilmek zorunda olan edebi bir delilik olduğu için, felsefeyle daha ağır bir göktaşı haline gelebiliyor.
Kitap çok başlıklı fakat benim için iki bölümden oluşuyor. Kendimce ayırdığım ilk kısımda, “Kendi dilinin üzerine çıkmış, başka dillere ve özdeyişlere dokunan bir hali var. Bu kısım gerçekten beni etkiledi.
İkinci kısıma geldiğimde ise, Her batılı yazar ve şair gibi, W. Sheakspeare atıfta bulunan, öykünen ve güzellemelerle onun etrafında dolaşan bir durum oluşmuş. Bu bir süre sonra sıkıcı olmaya başlıyor. Burada W. Sheakspeare dokunan bir halim yok ama bir şairin de cesur olması ve kendi sularının sınırlarını belirlemesi gerektiğini düşünüyorum.
Kitapta, dünya şehirleri için yazılmış şiirlerin çok sempatik olduğunu düşünüyorum.
Ve tabi ki “tüm harflerin cennetidir şiir” diyerek altını çizdiklerime buyurun derim…
“Ben de Orpheus gibi çalıyorum şimdi
Hayatın tellerinde ölümün ezgisini
Ve yeryüzünün, bir de cennetin efendisi
Gözlerinin güzelliğine söyleyebileceklerim
Karanlık şarkılardır yalnızca”
“Gecenin çarmıhlarına gerilmiş
Uyumaktalar, her şeylerinin yitirenler,
Gürültülerle sarsılan dehlizlerde,
Ama biz neredeysek, orada ışık var.”
“Uzun günlerde ekerler bizi, fikrimizi sormadan,
O çarpık ve uzun çizgiler boyunca ve
Çekilir yıldızlar. Bizler ise o tarlalarda
Gelişigüzel ya yeşerir ya da çürürüz,
Yağmurun ve ardından gün ışığının”
“Bir ekmeği yağmurla paylaşıyoruz,
Bir ekmeği, bir borcu ve bir evi”
“Bakma etrafına.
Bağla pabuçlarını.
Geri kovala köpekleri.
Dök balıkları denize.
Söndür kandilleri!
Daha çetin günler gelmekte.”
Kitap çok başlıklı fakat benim için iki bölümden oluşuyor. Kendimce ayırdığım ilk kısımda, “Kendi dilinin üzerine çıkmış, başka dillere ve özdeyişlere dokunan bir hali var. Bu kısım gerçekten beni etkiledi.
İkinci kısıma geldiğimde ise, Her batılı yazar ve şair gibi, W. Sheakspeare atıfta bulunan, öykünen ve güzellemelerle onun etrafında dolaşan bir durum oluşmuş. Bu bir süre sonra sıkıcı olmaya başlıyor. Burada W. Sheakspeare dokunan bir halim yok ama bir şairin de cesur olması ve kendi sularının sınırlarını belirlemesi gerektiğini düşünüyorum.
Kitapta, dünya şehirleri için yazılmış şiirlerin çok sempatik olduğunu düşünüyorum.
Ve tabi ki “tüm harflerin cennetidir şiir” diyerek altını çizdiklerime buyurun derim…
“Ben de Orpheus gibi çalıyorum şimdi
Hayatın tellerinde ölümün ezgisini
Ve yeryüzünün, bir de cennetin efendisi
Gözlerinin güzelliğine söyleyebileceklerim
Karanlık şarkılardır yalnızca”
“Gecenin çarmıhlarına gerilmiş
Uyumaktalar, her şeylerinin yitirenler,
Gürültülerle sarsılan dehlizlerde,
Ama biz neredeysek, orada ışık var.”
“Uzun günlerde ekerler bizi, fikrimizi sormadan,
O çarpık ve uzun çizgiler boyunca ve
Çekilir yıldızlar. Bizler ise o tarlalarda
Gelişigüzel ya yeşerir ya da çürürüz,
Yağmurun ve ardından gün ışığının”
“Bir ekmeği yağmurla paylaşıyoruz,
Bir ekmeği, bir borcu ve bir evi”
“Bakma etrafına.
Bağla pabuçlarını.
Geri kovala köpekleri.
Dök balıkları denize.
Söndür kandilleri!
Daha çetin günler gelmekte.”
April 27, 2024
Oldukça dokunaklı, taş gibi sert.
Yasın ve yitirişin şiirleri bunlar.
Bachmann tüm o ölü (artık yabancı) bedenlerin üzerinde cılız bir umudun şarkısını söylüyor.
Yasın ve yitirişin şiirleri bunlar.
Bachmann tüm o ölü (artık yabancı) bedenlerin üzerinde cılız bir umudun şarkısını söylüyor.
January 2, 2014
Disarming.
If you know German, you can hear her read "To the Sun" here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8e0Xj...
The poem begins in praise and then ends in lament, a deep, passionate lamentation which at the same time feels to me understated.
... And my enchanted eyes
Widen again and blink and burn themselves sore.
Beautiful sun, which even from dust deserves the highest praise,
Causing me to raise a cry, not to the moon,
The stars, the night's garish comets that name me a fool,
But rather to you, and ultimately to you alone,
As I lament the inevitable loss of my sight.
If you know German, you can hear her read "To the Sun" here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8e0Xj...
The poem begins in praise and then ends in lament, a deep, passionate lamentation which at the same time feels to me understated.
... And my enchanted eyes
Widen again and blink and burn themselves sore.
Beautiful sun, which even from dust deserves the highest praise,
Causing me to raise a cry, not to the moon,
The stars, the night's garish comets that name me a fool,
But rather to you, and ultimately to you alone,
As I lament the inevitable loss of my sight.
June 24, 2015
Inge bir mektubunda, peşinden umutsuzca sürüklendiği Paul Celan'a, "senin en güzel şiirin Corona" diyordu. Ve Inge'nin en güzel şiiri de yitirilen aşka yazılmış şu ağıttır:
Birlikte kullanılmış: Mevsimler, kitaplar ve bir müzik.
Anahtarlar, çay fincanları, ekmek sepeti, çarşaflar ve bir yatak.
Sözcüklerden, jestlerden oluşma bir çeyiz, beraber getirilmiş, kullanılmış, eskitilmiş.
Uyulmuş bir ev düzeni. Söylenmiş. Yapılmış. Ve hep el verilmiş.
Kışa, bir Viyana ezgisine ve yaza gönül verdim.
Haritalara, dağlara, bir yuvaya, bir kıyıya ve bir yatağa.
Kutsal saydım randevuları, vaadleri dönülmez ilan ettim.
....
Sen değilsin yitirdiğim,
dünya.
Birlikte kullanılmış: Mevsimler, kitaplar ve bir müzik.
Anahtarlar, çay fincanları, ekmek sepeti, çarşaflar ve bir yatak.
Sözcüklerden, jestlerden oluşma bir çeyiz, beraber getirilmiş, kullanılmış, eskitilmiş.
Uyulmuş bir ev düzeni. Söylenmiş. Yapılmış. Ve hep el verilmiş.
Kışa, bir Viyana ezgisine ve yaza gönül verdim.
Haritalara, dağlara, bir yuvaya, bir kıyıya ve bir yatağa.
Kutsal saydım randevuları, vaadleri dönülmez ilan ettim.
....
Sen değilsin yitirdiğim,
dünya.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
Read
February 12, 2023Mir fällt es schwer, dieser Gedichtesammlung eine Bewertung zu geben, weswegen ich das fürs Erste nicht machen werde.
Ich bin nicht besonders geübt darin, Gedichte zu lesen oder zu interpretieren, weswegen es einige gab, die mich eher unschlüssig zurückließen.
Es war manchmal eine Herausforderung, Bachmanns Zeilen folgen zu können, aber wenn ich es konnte erschlossen sich mir wunderschöne Sprachbilder und ergreifende Beschreibungen, die mich sehr beeindruckten.
Meine Favoriten:
[Es könnte viel bedeuten]
Entfremdung
Betrunkner Abend
Vision
Die Welt ist weit
Ausfahrt
Alle Tage
Reklame
Toter Hafen
Brief in zwei Fassungen
Keine Delikatessen
Ich bin nicht besonders geübt darin, Gedichte zu lesen oder zu interpretieren, weswegen es einige gab, die mich eher unschlüssig zurückließen.
Es war manchmal eine Herausforderung, Bachmanns Zeilen folgen zu können, aber wenn ich es konnte erschlossen sich mir wunderschöne Sprachbilder und ergreifende Beschreibungen, die mich sehr beeindruckten.
Meine Favoriten:
[Es könnte viel bedeuten]
Entfremdung
Betrunkner Abend
Vision
Die Welt ist weit
Ausfahrt
Alle Tage
Reklame
Toter Hafen
Brief in zwei Fassungen
Keine Delikatessen
October 27, 2021
Este genul de poezie care, ca să te asiguri de o cât mai bună “receptare” a ei, este condiționată de a afla câte ceva, înainte de a o citi, despre viața și gândirea autoarei. Ceea ce, într-o anumită măsură, nu îmi face plăcere.
Opinia mea este că orice text literar trebuie să fie capabil să grăiască fără a cerși autorului să-l țină de mână, ca pe un copil neajutorat, la întâlnirea cu fiecare cititor.
Opinia mea este că orice text literar trebuie să fie capabil să grăiască fără a cerși autorului să-l țină de mână, ca pe un copil neajutorat, la întâlnirea cu fiecare cititor.
December 16, 2024
no idea what to rate this but here are my faves
The Life Line
Each night I dream of it.
Tonight I dream of it.
In my hand I see something, the line short, broken off, ripped apart, and I see one, two deaths, three deaths, everything
dead
and in the morning I press the damp cloth on the spot. I open the window, that also relates to the spot.
I set out the tea, that also relates to the spot. Everything connects to this severing, and thus I see while awake:
I want to collapse like an old dress, to have fragile joints,
to shrivel up, shrivel like an apple, to become small, ancient and stone gray, and one day bend over to lie beneath a root and laugh at all the deaths and expire, not violently, so that I hardly notice where I begin to cease, where I cease, then belong.
————————
Night of Love
In a night of love, after a long night, I again learned to speak and I wept
when a word escaped me. I learned to walk again, I walked to the window and said hunger and light, and night was what was light for me.
After a night that was too long, once again I sleep peacefully, entrusting myself.
I spoke easier in darkness, and I spoke more the next day.
My finger moved across my face, I was no longer dead.
Fire emerged from the bush at night.
My avenger stepped forth and called himself life.
I said to it: let me die, and fearlessly meant my own dear death.
————————
The Night of the Lost/The End of Love
A moon, a sky, and the dark sea.
Now everything is dark.
Only because it is night and there is nothing human inherent in this scene.
What are you accusing me of and with such bitterness?
Don't do it.
I didn't know any better than to love you, I did not think
that through the skin's sweat there would be the ___ world
and I would finally understand.
The Life Line
Each night I dream of it.
Tonight I dream of it.
In my hand I see something, the line short, broken off, ripped apart, and I see one, two deaths, three deaths, everything
dead
and in the morning I press the damp cloth on the spot. I open the window, that also relates to the spot.
I set out the tea, that also relates to the spot. Everything connects to this severing, and thus I see while awake:
I want to collapse like an old dress, to have fragile joints,
to shrivel up, shrivel like an apple, to become small, ancient and stone gray, and one day bend over to lie beneath a root and laugh at all the deaths and expire, not violently, so that I hardly notice where I begin to cease, where I cease, then belong.
————————
Night of Love
In a night of love, after a long night, I again learned to speak and I wept
when a word escaped me. I learned to walk again, I walked to the window and said hunger and light, and night was what was light for me.
After a night that was too long, once again I sleep peacefully, entrusting myself.
I spoke easier in darkness, and I spoke more the next day.
My finger moved across my face, I was no longer dead.
Fire emerged from the bush at night.
My avenger stepped forth and called himself life.
I said to it: let me die, and fearlessly meant my own dear death.
————————
The Night of the Lost/The End of Love
A moon, a sky, and the dark sea.
Now everything is dark.
Only because it is night and there is nothing human inherent in this scene.
What are you accusing me of and with such bitterness?
Don't do it.
I didn't know any better than to love you, I did not think
that through the skin's sweat there would be the ___ world
and I would finally understand.
March 17, 2021
"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."
_____
"I step outside
myself, out of my eyes,
hands, mouth, outside
of myself I
step, a bundle
of goodness and godliness
that must make good
this devilry
that has happened."
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."
_____
"I step outside
myself, out of my eyes,
hands, mouth, outside
of myself I
step, a bundle
of goodness and godliness
that must make good
this devilry
that has happened."
October 31, 2013
O eyes, scorched by the reservoir of sun on earth,
weighted with the rain of all eyes,
and now absorbed, interwoven
by the tragic spiders of the present.
.
In the hollow of my muteness
lay a word
and raise tall forests on both sides,
such that my mouth
lies wholly in shade
weighted with the rain of all eyes,
and now absorbed, interwoven
by the tragic spiders of the present.
.
In the hollow of my muteness
lay a word
and raise tall forests on both sides,
such that my mouth
lies wholly in shade
June 30, 2024
Ich werde die Gedichte wohl noch einige Male lesen müssen, um sie ganz zu verstehen.
January 30, 2022
"Ich werde da sein, indem ich nicht da bin."
Schaurig rätselhafte Zeilen in unschlagbarer Schönheit der Sprache.
These were eerily enigmatic lines in an unbeatable beauty of language.
Let me cite and do my best for the impossibility of a translation.
Check for a deep emotional soul in post-war Germany.
"Botschaft
Aus der leichenwarmen Vorhalle des Himmels tritt die Sonne.
Es sind dort nicht die Unsterblichen,
sondern die Gefallenen, vernehmen wir.
Und Glanz kehrt nicht an Verwesung. Unsere Gottheit,
die Geschichte, hat uns ein Grab bestellt,
aus dem es keine Auferstehung gibt."
"A message
From the corpse-warm antechamber of heaven the sun emerges.
It's not the immortals there, we learn,
but the fallen.
And splendor does not return with decay. Our deity,
history, ordered us a grave,
from which there is no resurrection."
--
"Die Liebe hat einen Triumph und der Tod hat einen,
die Zeit und die Zeit danach.
Wir haben keinen.
Nur Sinken um uns von Gestirnen. Abglanz und Schweigen.
Doch das Lied überm Staub danach
wird uns übersteigen."
"Love has a triumph and death has one,
the time and the time after.
We have none.
Just sinking around us from the stars. Reflection and silence.
But the song above the dust afterwards
will surpass us."
Schaurig rätselhafte Zeilen in unschlagbarer Schönheit der Sprache.
These were eerily enigmatic lines in an unbeatable beauty of language.
Let me cite and do my best for the impossibility of a translation.
Check for a deep emotional soul in post-war Germany.
"Botschaft
Aus der leichenwarmen Vorhalle des Himmels tritt die Sonne.
Es sind dort nicht die Unsterblichen,
sondern die Gefallenen, vernehmen wir.
Und Glanz kehrt nicht an Verwesung. Unsere Gottheit,
die Geschichte, hat uns ein Grab bestellt,
aus dem es keine Auferstehung gibt."
"A message
From the corpse-warm antechamber of heaven the sun emerges.
It's not the immortals there, we learn,
but the fallen.
And splendor does not return with decay. Our deity,
history, ordered us a grave,
from which there is no resurrection."
--
"Die Liebe hat einen Triumph und der Tod hat einen,
die Zeit und die Zeit danach.
Wir haben keinen.
Nur Sinken um uns von Gestirnen. Abglanz und Schweigen.
Doch das Lied überm Staub danach
wird uns übersteigen."
"Love has a triumph and death has one,
the time and the time after.
We have none.
Just sinking around us from the stars. Reflection and silence.
But the song above the dust afterwards
will surpass us."
October 27, 2024
...
" Bitti yolculuk,
ama varabilmiş değilim hiçbir sona,
her diyar bir şeyler götürmüş sevgimden,
bir gözümü yakmış her ışık,
giysilerim parçalanmış her gölgelikte.
Bitti yolculuk.
Ama prangasındayım henüz bütün uzaklıkların,
hiçbir kuş taşımamış beni sınırların ötesine,
denize akan hiçbir nehir,
sürüklememiş aşağılara bakan yüzümü,
ne de gezinmek istemeyen uykumu kucaklamış...
Biliyorum, şimdi daha yakında dünya, ve sessiz."
...
" Bitti yolculuk,
ama varabilmiş değilim hiçbir sona,
her diyar bir şeyler götürmüş sevgimden,
bir gözümü yakmış her ışık,
giysilerim parçalanmış her gölgelikte.
Bitti yolculuk.
Ama prangasındayım henüz bütün uzaklıkların,
hiçbir kuş taşımamış beni sınırların ötesine,
denize akan hiçbir nehir,
sürüklememiş aşağılara bakan yüzümü,
ne de gezinmek istemeyen uykumu kucaklamış...
Biliyorum, şimdi daha yakında dünya, ve sessiz."
...
April 4, 2024
kocham ingeborg
August 29, 2022
Un volum ametitor, cu poeme care nu se lasa descoperite de la prima lectura, dar care in ciuda dificultatii se cer recitite. Pe mine volumul de poeme m-a captivat si l-am parcurs in intregime, citind, recitind, revenind. Pana la urma, cred ca acesta este rostul poeziilor, sa ne invite la o altfel de lectura, mai introspectiva, mai lenta, mai cu sincope si cu intrebari.
Am simțit nevoia să mă depărtez de romane și să citesc ceva mai concentrat, mai terapeutic, mai rafinat. Am parcurs poeziile selectate de echipa de la Humanitas în “Voi,cuvinte” și o colecție cu corespondență dintre Ingeborg Bachmann și poetul Paul Celan, scrisori de la sfârșitul anilor ‘40 până în anii ‘60. Cu această ocazie am aflat nu doar despre viața lui Ingeborg, dar și a poetului. Celan s-a născut la Cernăuți, părinții lui au fost deportați de regimul Antonescu în Transnistria, unde au și murit, iar poetul a supraviețuit regimului de muncă silnică. Dragostea lor neîmplinită, experiențele comune legate de nazism, viața după al doilea război mondial într-o lume care încă procesa ororile fascismului, talentul lor extraordinar, moartea lor precoce (Celan se sinucide aruncându-se în Sena, Bachmann este victima unui incendiu accidental) crează un fundal dramatic pentru poezii. Contextul de atunci pare că aduce și cu lumea de azi, poemele ei sunt și ale noastre. De exemplu, poemul "Toate zilele" din 1953.
Războiul nu mai e declarat,
ci dus mai departe. Senzaționalul
a devenit banal. Eroul
rămâne departe de lupte. Ajuns
în zonele de foc e cel slab.
Uniforma zilei este răbdarea,
decorația, sărăcăcioasa stea
a speranței deasupra inimii.
E decernată
când nu se mai întâmplă nimic,
când rafalele focului amuțesc,
când dușmanul a devenit invizibil
și umbra veșnicei înarmări
acoperă cerul.
E decernată
pentru fuga de sub steaguri,
pentru vitejia față de prieteni,
pentru trădarea unei taine nedemne
și neîndeplinirea
nici unui ordin.
Am simțit nevoia să mă depărtez de romane și să citesc ceva mai concentrat, mai terapeutic, mai rafinat. Am parcurs poeziile selectate de echipa de la Humanitas în “Voi,cuvinte” și o colecție cu corespondență dintre Ingeborg Bachmann și poetul Paul Celan, scrisori de la sfârșitul anilor ‘40 până în anii ‘60. Cu această ocazie am aflat nu doar despre viața lui Ingeborg, dar și a poetului. Celan s-a născut la Cernăuți, părinții lui au fost deportați de regimul Antonescu în Transnistria, unde au și murit, iar poetul a supraviețuit regimului de muncă silnică. Dragostea lor neîmplinită, experiențele comune legate de nazism, viața după al doilea război mondial într-o lume care încă procesa ororile fascismului, talentul lor extraordinar, moartea lor precoce (Celan se sinucide aruncându-se în Sena, Bachmann este victima unui incendiu accidental) crează un fundal dramatic pentru poezii. Contextul de atunci pare că aduce și cu lumea de azi, poemele ei sunt și ale noastre. De exemplu, poemul "Toate zilele" din 1953.
Războiul nu mai e declarat,
ci dus mai departe. Senzaționalul
a devenit banal. Eroul
rămâne departe de lupte. Ajuns
în zonele de foc e cel slab.
Uniforma zilei este răbdarea,
decorația, sărăcăcioasa stea
a speranței deasupra inimii.
E decernată
când nu se mai întâmplă nimic,
când rafalele focului amuțesc,
când dușmanul a devenit invizibil
și umbra veșnicei înarmări
acoperă cerul.
E decernată
pentru fuga de sub steaguri,
pentru vitejia față de prieteni,
pentru trădarea unei taine nedemne
și neîndeplinirea
nici unui ordin.
August 4, 2010
Dark, imaginative collisions of words and images.
"Klaffend ein tiefer Grund
Zwischen gewolltem Sein
Und seines schalen Erfüllens
Engendem Rund."
"Klaffend ein tiefer Grund
Zwischen gewolltem Sein
Und seines schalen Erfüllens
Engendem Rund."
May 5, 2022
„Născută în 1926, în Austria, Ingeborg Bachmann a debutat în 1953, cu „Die gestundete Zeit” („Timp amânat”), pentru ca în 1956 să publice cel de-al doilea volum de versuri, „Anrufung des Großen Bären” („Invocarea Ursei Mari”). La 27 de ani îi apărea, iată, primul volum de poezie, iar la 30 de ani, cel de-al doilea. Nu miră, așadar, că Bachmann a devenit peste noapte un fel de pop icon – interviuri, apariții TV, premii literare. Cu toate acestea, cota scriitoarei austriece va crește, în S.U.A. cel puțin, de-abia în anii ’80, prin interpretările și perspectivele feministe asupra prozei sale.
Poezia lui Bachmann, în schimb, s-a impus într-o perioadă de criză, într-un spațiu cultural – cel de limbă germană, desigur – aflat în căutarea unui limbaj literar novator, capabil să exprime traumele exterioare, dar și interioare, care au marcat o generație trecută prin ororile războiului și care, în anii ’50, spera într-o reînnoire vindecătoare, în ciuda scepticismului unui, de exemplu, Theodor Adorno, care se întreba dacă mai e posibilă o literatură după momentul Auschwitz. Mulți dintre scriitorii care au frecventat Grupul 47 (Gruppe 47), printre care și Ingeborg Bachmann, Paul Celan sau Hans Magnus Enzensberger, au mizat – neavând, ce-i drept, prea multe opțiuni – pe o reîntoarcere la poetica de început de secol XX, dominată de experimentalismul avangardelor, cu o focusare specială pe ceea ce am putea numi hermetismul, fragmentarismul, laconicul, ba chiar și „haosul” din expresionism și suprarealism. Toate aceste elemente sunt prezente și în poezia lui Ingeborg Bachmann, mai ales în cea din ultima perioadă.” (Raul Popescu, „Ingeborg Bachmann – o vină imposibil de depășit”, Literomania nr. 234, 2022; https://www.litero-mania.com/ingeborg...)
Poezia lui Bachmann, în schimb, s-a impus într-o perioadă de criză, într-un spațiu cultural – cel de limbă germană, desigur – aflat în căutarea unui limbaj literar novator, capabil să exprime traumele exterioare, dar și interioare, care au marcat o generație trecută prin ororile războiului și care, în anii ’50, spera într-o reînnoire vindecătoare, în ciuda scepticismului unui, de exemplu, Theodor Adorno, care se întreba dacă mai e posibilă o literatură după momentul Auschwitz. Mulți dintre scriitorii care au frecventat Grupul 47 (Gruppe 47), printre care și Ingeborg Bachmann, Paul Celan sau Hans Magnus Enzensberger, au mizat – neavând, ce-i drept, prea multe opțiuni – pe o reîntoarcere la poetica de început de secol XX, dominată de experimentalismul avangardelor, cu o focusare specială pe ceea ce am putea numi hermetismul, fragmentarismul, laconicul, ba chiar și „haosul” din expresionism și suprarealism. Toate aceste elemente sunt prezente și în poezia lui Ingeborg Bachmann, mai ales în cea din ultima perioadă.” (Raul Popescu, „Ingeborg Bachmann – o vină imposibil de depășit”, Literomania nr. 234, 2022; https://www.litero-mania.com/ingeborg...)
March 27, 2023
«Die Saite des Schweigens
gespannt auf die Welle von Blut,
griff ich dein tönendes Herz.
Verwandelt ward deine Locke
ins Schattenhaar der Nacht,
der Finsternis schwarze Flocken
beschneiten dein Antlitz».
«La cuerda del silencio
tensada sobre la ola de sangre,
toqué tu corazón sonoro.
Tu bucle fue transformado
en el cabello sombrío de la noche,
los negros copos de las tinieblas
nevaron sobre tu rostro».
Trad. Cecilia Dreymüller
gespannt auf die Welle von Blut,
griff ich dein tönendes Herz.
Verwandelt ward deine Locke
ins Schattenhaar der Nacht,
der Finsternis schwarze Flocken
beschneiten dein Antlitz».
«La cuerda del silencio
tensada sobre la ola de sangre,
toqué tu corazón sonoro.
Tu bucle fue transformado
en el cabello sombrío de la noche,
los negros copos de las tinieblas
nevaron sobre tu rostro».
Trad. Cecilia Dreymüller
May 10, 2021
“Nu uita că și tu, deodată,
în dimineața aceea, când patul tău
era încă umed de rouă și garoafa
se odihnea lângă inima ta,
ai văzut râul întunecat,
șerpuind pe lângă tine.”
în dimineața aceea, când patul tău
era încă umed de rouă și garoafa
se odihnea lângă inima ta,
ai văzut râul întunecat,
șerpuind pe lângă tine.”
March 6, 2024
sencillamente perfecta
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