[Dichtung]

Ingeborg Bachmann
Thema und Variation


Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
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.

And he lacks for nothing, except just a little,
whenever he needs to rest or stand erect.
For he's bent double by caves and shadows
because no country gave him asylum.
Even in the mountains he didn't feel safe
— a partisan, whom the world had turned in
to its own dead satellite, the moon.

He knows no misfortune, he who lacks for nothing,
and what did he ever lack? The beetle's
cohort fought in his hand, firebrands
amassed scars upon his face, and the spring
appeared as a chimaera before his eyes
where it was not.

Honey and berries?
Had he known their scent, he would've followed it long ago.
Walking through sleep, sleepwalking,
who slept while this happened?
one who was born already old
and is called to darkness early.
All sweetness was carried away on a beam of light
eluding him.

He spat a curse into the undergrowth
that brought on drought; he screamed
and was heard:
without work, the gatherers went home early!
When the root lifted itself
and, hissing, slithered towards them,
a snakeskin remained, the tree's last defense/
The strawberry patch dried up in a day.

In the village below, the bucket stood empty,
ready to be used as a drum in the square.
And so the sun struck it
and sent death whirling.

The windows slammed shut,
queen bees gave up and led their swarms away,
and no one stopped them from flying off.
The wilderness took them in,
the hollow tree in the ferns
the first free state.
The last living man, pricked
by a thorn, could feel no pain.

All summer long the hives produced no honey.

transl. by Peter Filkins

Ingeborg Bachmann
Theme And Variation
That summer there was no honey.
The queens led their swarms away,
the strawberry bed dried up in a day,
the berrypickers went home early.

All that sweetness, swept on one ray of light
off to sleep. Who slept this sleep before his time?
Honey and berries? He is a stranger to suffering,
the one with the world at his hands. In want of nothing.

In want of nothing but perhaps a bit,
enought to rest or to stand straight.
He was bent by caves-and shadows,
because no country took him in.
He wasn't even safe in the wood-
a partisan whom the world reliquished
toher dead satellite, the moon.

He is a stranger to suffering, the one with the world
[at his hands,
and was anything not handed him? He had the bettle's
cohort wrapped round his finger, blazes
branded his face with scars and the wellspring
appeared as a chimera before his eyes,
where it was not.

Honey and berries?
Had he ever known the scent, he'd have followed it
long ago!

Walking a sleepwalker's sleep,
who slept this sleep before his time?
One who was born ancient
and called to the darkness early.
All that sweetness swept on one ray of light
before him.

He spat into the undergrowth a curse
to bring drought, he screamed
and his prayers were heard:
the berrypickers went home early!
When the root rose up
and slithered after them, hissing
a snakeskin remained, the tree's last defense.
The strawberry bed dried up in a day.

In the village below, the buckets stood empty
like drums waiting in the square.
Then the sun struck
and paradiddled death.

The windows fell shut,
the queens led their swarms away,
and no one prevented them from fleeing.
Wilderness took them in,
the hollow tree among ferns,
the first free state.
The last human being was stung
and felt no pain.

That summer there was no honey.

transl. by Lilian M. Friedberg