SARAH KIRSCH was born in 1935 in Limlingerode, Germany, as Ingrid Bernstein, but she changed her first name as a protest to her father’s antisemitism. She studied biology in Halle and literature at the Johannes R. Becher Institute in Leipzig. She lived in East Berlin until 1977, when she moved to West Berlin, and later made her home in the countryside of northern Germany, not far from the Danish border. She was the recipient of many prizes and awards, among them, the following are worth mentioning: the Petrarca-Preis, the Stipendium of Villa Massimo, Rome; the Staatspreis for Europäische Literatur, Austria; and the Friedrich-Hölderlin-Preis. Her work is considered among the most influential in German literature and it has been translated into several languages. She died on May 5, 2013.
The poems published here, with the permission of the author, were first published in English translation by the poet Eva Bourke, in Sirena: Poetry, Art, and Criticism (Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009:2), founded and edited back then by the editor of The Pasticheur: Literature, Art & Ideas.
The Plain
…my beloved
Tale smile at me
The great images daily
Pure clarity of the air sharp
Lines around grasses and clouds at night
The plate of the moon on the water
The flying creatures of the earth
Large rising bodies their gentle
Necks offered up trustingly
To the wind how could I
Get tired of naming it
Bitterness sinks far and wide the sorrow
Into our joyfulness swept away
Like the leaves of the tree the
Dancing autumnal midges
After a strong frost though we are
Destroyed even before our breath fails us
How serene would be our farewell
If with the light-hearted certainty
That this earth will last
For a long time yet
We could gladly depart
Vanishing Point
Heine walked through the mountains
He dawdled in houses, on squares
And took two weeks for the distance
We’d have travelled in one day
Our journeys take us from one country
Straight into the next mere details
Can’t be allowed to detain us
Our own machines force us
To race on without tarrying expeditions
Into the souls of people have been denied us
The rubble tips labyrinths beautiful realms
Remain unexplored and hidden
The waiters don’t need our tidings
They get their news from television
There are different cars one type of human
Everything is exchangeable wherever we are.
Crows’ Chatter
My lodestar is a fist-
Sized planet and my compass
Lies on the bottom of the sea
But hope will dance
Only the sparrow hawk above the plain
reads thoughts.
Earth and humankind have run
Totally wild no use
Pondering the block
Is on its way in free fall
And I myself
Come from a family of wolves.
(All translations into English by Eva Bourke)