Here’s a poem for today. I wrote this for a woman I met last year and tried to help who was stuck in the endless limbo and uncertainty of the asylum system. I don’t know where she is now, her situation was very precarious and communication with her never easy. But I hope she’s okay.
And let me be clear on one thing: Borders kill people and destroy families and lives. Tear them all down, set their bureaucracies on fire. Every checkpoint and every guard is an affront to life itself.
Today I want to share an exercise in poetry translation with you. When I’m not writing, I’m usually translating in order to keep me on my toes. I’ve found myself thinking a lot about this poem by Ingeborg Bachmann, originally published in 1953. Its prescience to the current state of the world hardly needs expounding. I’m presenting you here with the original German poem first and my translation second.
Alle Tage
Der Krieg wird nicht mehr erklärt,
sondern fortgesetzt. Das Unerhörte
ist alltäglich geworden. Der Held
bleibt den Kämpfen fern. Der Schwache
ist in die Feuerzonen gerückt.
Die Uniform des Tages ist die Geduld,
die Auszeichnung der armselige Stern
der Hoffnung über dem Herzen.