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)