**A Poem by Ingeborg Bachmann**

A Kind of Loss

Shared: seasons, books, and music.
Keys, teacups, the breadbasket, linens and a bed.
A dowry of words, of gestures, carried along,
used up, spent.
House rules followed. Said. Done. And always
the extended hand.
In winter, in a Viennese septet, and in summer
I have been in love.
With maps, in a mountain hut, on a beach
and in a bed.
A cult made up of dates and irrevocable promises,
enraptured before something, reverent over nothing.
( — to the folded newspaper, the cold ashes, the note
on a piece of paper)
fearless in religion, for the church was this bed.
From the sea view came my unstoppable painting.
From my balcony I greeted the people, my neighbors, below.
By the open fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest color.
The doorbell’s ring was the alarm for my joy.
It is not you I have lost,
but the world.

(written in 1962, translated by joan harvey)

source: https://dmdujour.wordpress.com/2019/08/29/two-by-ingeborg-bachmann/

the german original: http://www.planetlyrik.de/jochen-hieber-zu-ingeborg-bachmanns-gedicht-eine-art-verlust/2020/04/

ingeborg bachmann (1926-1973) is often celebrated as one of the most important poets of 20th century's german literature > until today, bachmann enjoys some popularity among feminist critics > the ingeborg bachmann prize bears her name; it's one of the most prestigious awards for german literature

in the 1950s, bachmann had an affairs with henry kissinger for several years

see also:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ingeborg_Bachmann
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Festival_of_German-Language_Literature