Искусствоед
Ingeborg Bachmann
Anrufung des großen Bären
Nebelland
Im Winter ist mein Geliebter
unter den Tieren des Waldes.
Daß ich vor Morgen zurückmuß,
weiß der Fuchs und lacht.
Wie die Wolken erzittern! Und mir
auf den Schneekragen fällt
eine Lage von brüchigem Eis.
читать дальше
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Invocation of the Great Bear
Fog Land
In winter my lover
lives among the beasts of the forest.
The vixen knows I must return
by morning, and she laughs.
How the clouds tremble! On my
snow collar a shower
of brittle ice falls.
In winter my lover
is a tree among trees, inviting
the hapless crows to nest
in her beautiful limbs. She knows
that the wind, when dusk falls,
will lift her stiff, frost-covered
evening dress and chase me home.
In winter my lover
is a fish among fish and mute.
A slave to waters that her fins
stroke from within,
I stand on the bank and watch,
till ice floes drive me away,
how she dives and turns.
And hearing again the bird's hunting call
as above me it arches
its wings, I fall
onto an open field: she plucks
the hens and tosses me a white
collar bone. I hang it around my neck
and walk off through the bitter down.
Faithless is my lover,
for I know she sometimes slips off
on high heels to town,
kissing the glasses in bars
deep in the mouth with a straw,
finding a spare word for everyone.
But I don't understand this talk.
For it's fog land I have seen.
Fog heart I have eaten.
transl. by Peter Filkins
Anrufung des großen Bären
Nebelland
Im Winter ist mein Geliebter
unter den Tieren des Waldes.
Daß ich vor Morgen zurückmuß,
weiß der Fuchs und lacht.
Wie die Wolken erzittern! Und mir
auf den Schneekragen fällt
eine Lage von brüchigem Eis.
читать дальше
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Invocation of the Great Bear
Fog Land
In winter my lover
lives among the beasts of the forest.
The vixen knows I must return
by morning, and she laughs.
How the clouds tremble! On my
snow collar a shower
of brittle ice falls.
In winter my lover
is a tree among trees, inviting
the hapless crows to nest
in her beautiful limbs. She knows
that the wind, when dusk falls,
will lift her stiff, frost-covered
evening dress and chase me home.
In winter my lover
is a fish among fish and mute.
A slave to waters that her fins
stroke from within,
I stand on the bank and watch,
till ice floes drive me away,
how she dives and turns.
And hearing again the bird's hunting call
as above me it arches
its wings, I fall
onto an open field: she plucks
the hens and tosses me a white
collar bone. I hang it around my neck
and walk off through the bitter down.
Faithless is my lover,
for I know she sometimes slips off
on high heels to town,
kissing the glasses in bars
deep in the mouth with a straw,
finding a spare word for everyone.
But I don't understand this talk.
For it's fog land I have seen.
Fog heart I have eaten.
transl. by Peter Filkins