  Poetry
This week: Ingeborg Bachmann Edited by: stormyrene
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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. stormyrene
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by Ingeborg Bachmann
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.
The Surprise
by Ingeborg Bachmann
As there I left the road in May,
And took my way along a ground,
I found a glade with girls at play,
By leafy boughs close-hemmed around,
And there, with stores of harmless joys,
They plied their tongues, in merry noise:
Though little did they seem to fear
So queer a stranger might be near;
Teeh-hee! Look here! Hah! ha! Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
And one would dance as one would spring,
Or bob or bow with leering smiles,
And one would swing, or sit and sing,
Or sew a stitch or two at whiles,
And one skipped on with downcast face,
All heedless, to my very place,
And there, in fright, with one foot out,
Made one dead step and turned about.
Heeh, hee, oh! oh! ooh! oo!—Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
Away they scampered all, full speed,
By boughs that swung along their track,
As rabbits out of wood at feed,
At sight of men all scamper back.
And one pulled on behind her heel,
A thread of cotton, off her reel,
And oh! to follow that white clue,
I felt I fain could scamper too.
Teeh, hee, run here. Eeh! ee! Look there!
And oh! so playsome, oh! so fair.
Ingeborg Bachmann was born on June 25, 1926 in Klagenfurt, Carinthia. She was the daughter of the headmaster, of a local school. Bachmann went to the Universities of Innsbruck, Linz and Vienna, where she studied philosophy, psychology and German. She received her Doctor of Philosophy 1949, with her thesis entitled "The Critical Reception of the Existential Philosophy of Martin Heidegger." After graduation Bachmann started working as an editor Allied radio station, Rot-Weiss-Rot.
Bachmann wrote and published her first radio drama, through the radio station. The opportunities the radio station gave Bachmann not only included a descent income but enhanced her literary career by meeting Hans Weigel, and the literary circle known as “Gruppe 47.” In 1953 Bachmann moved to Vienna, Italy. It was in Italy she began to focus on writing and publishing her poetry. With publishing her poetry collection The Respite and The Invocation of the Great Bear, Bachmann views on criticizing the post-war society that everyone was living in, was apparent. In 1961 she wrote and published a semi-autobiographic collection The Thirtieth Year. In 1971 Bachmann wrote her first novel Malina, she used this novel to express her views on female matters and part of her project Cycle of Ways of Dying.
On October 17, 1973 Ingeborg Bachmann died while being hospitalize for injuries she received after falling asleep with a cigarette burning in the bedroom. Ingeborge was 47 years old. Bachmann’s novels Franza's Case and Requiem for Fanny Goldmann where published unfinished. Bachmann is buried in her hometown at the Annabichl cemetery in Klagenfurt.
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!
stormyrene
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Poetry: October 16, 2013 Issue [#5950]
Good luck to all 
