Translations of three prose poems by Austrian poet Friederike Mayröcker from her recent book études. The translator, Donna Stonecipher, writes: “Mayröcker, 91, does things with the prose poem that no one else has even thought of.  She has published 80 books, has been nominated for the Nobel Prize, and has won just about every award a German-language poet can win.”




oh you my green branchlet with your 

sweet doublet like your white blossoms sprouted

out of my heart with this green 

doublet oh you my sweet branchlet oh you my

green branchlet with your sweet doublet ………

like your white blossoms sprouted

out of my heart – the green doublet the green 

dart of the season ………


“les études” in the heart the branchlets and lips of snow little petals in my heart stag beetles fuchsias, I lied, don’t want to eat anymore don’t want to drink anymore just want to go into the clouds, Marie, I have raging winglets, Marie, I kiss you on each cheek, Marie, ach, furor, Fauré, was in pain, was in tears, Marie, because my heart as invisible as 1 monument, Robert Musil, ached and sniffled a bit dreary &c., in the moment of awakening, Marie, with snow in my hair and snow in my eyes +++++++++ with blossoms, snow, back then the branchlets of the cherry tree feeling their way through the open window, nights, partridge and heather and on the paths, the tears, on the paths the tears while the birdlets on their blue spoors how I feel around for their hearts, and how I press them to my heart, fuchsias for miles and miles of fuchsias, Marie, at your lip, Marie, you whistle bird, Marie, wings, ferns, Marie, morning-waft of April ach rosé, 1 little bit ach Fauré, dash holy water on lily of the valley bouquets, Marie, and all things must be subservient, Marie (and became a 6-sided face from it +++++++++), Marie  





and protégée LAPIN and I make 

a big ear-shell with my hand 

      that I might better understand what

you whisper, then my ear goes on 

tiptoes and cries


as I woke, lying on my back with my hands balled into sm. fists and 1 adventure when we had long forgotten each other namely the ribs of each little leaf (“études”) namely we ADORED each other &c. ........... namely burying myself in the damp pillow, the precise poetry of Ilse Aichinger, at the Markusplatz back then : head to head, pigeon to pigeon : everything gray, Gertrude Stein. Carotid artery clogged 1 dark summer – from the kitchen window thin fox tracking the grounds of the Wertheimstein Park, scrolling text, poem, lamentationes, deep grotto at dawn “études” scales, gender : 1 spider. 1 notion it was, in the middle of the night that 1 buzzing : fly or wasp in the sleeping compartment but then, the humming went out, cotton, falling back asleep ......... on the RACK half-moon in bright night &c., on the RACK 1 kitchen towel or flag, feelings frightened, little leaves on the mimosa limp, and protégée LAPIN / the rabbit, it surrounds me 1 violet, PLUMAGE (Fr.), oh you white-flocked cloud-bird – the ruching the rouge of the roses, the ruching of rain, the fragrant mantles “Bataille”





ach Israel the twilight ……

we are walking step by step the

gardens willows meadows forests tbe blue

iris before the gate the pennywort

in tears, my little bed 

in the ground: this is 1 summer like no    



inconsolable branchlet études, leaflet of the mimosa tree they too know evening and morning (= exhausted or exhilarated), one should talk to them touch them sprinkle them with tears evenings mornings ach song thrush rushing recollection in dense bushes &c. and they were nested in the finest jewelry of the valley/they were wrested from the finest jewelry of the valley when we gazed down into that valley’s depths : our gazes down the valley, 1 vertigo seized us, that incessant wind from the east ……. Pannonian piglet. Or with sparse locks the longing, “Waldszenen” Robert Schumann, sachet little branch abstract hairy paws or in the sudden blossomsnow of your hand namely smelled like wild grasses the night wind smelled like wild herbs études/tatterlets of resignation/thorns of sheet music, work without opus number



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