Spring: trees flying up to their birds

Paul Celan

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Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng

Paul Celan

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EINMAL,
da hörte ich ihn
da wusch er de Welt,
ungesehn, nactlang,
wirklich.

Eins und Unendlich,
Vernichtet,
Ichten.

Licht war. Rettung.

Paul Celan

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Schwerer werden. Leichter sein.

Paul Celan

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With wine and being lost, with
less and less of both:

I rode through the snow, do you read me
I rode God far--I rode God
near, he sang,
it was
our last ride over
the hurdled humans.

They cowered when
they heard us
overhead, they
wrote, they
lied our neighing
into one of their
image-ridden languages.

Paul Celan

Mots clés poetry god language wine nearness

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Don't sign your name
between worlds,

surmount
the manifold of meanings,

trust the tearstain,
learn to live.

Paul Celan

Mots clés poetry living trust meaning tearstain

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Each arrow you shoot off
carries its own target
into the decidedly
secret
tangle

Paul Celan

Mots clés poetry tangle target arrow

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rush of pine scent (once upon a time),

the unlicensed conviction
there ought to be another way
of saying
this.

Paul Celan

Mots clés poetry conviction pine saying

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Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.

Paul Celan

Mots clés poetry

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Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of just such a turn? And since the strange, the abyss and Medusa’s head, the abyss and the automaton, all seem to lie in the same direction—is it perhaps this turn, this Atemwende, which can sort out the strange from the strange? It is perhaps here, in this one brief moment, that Medusa’s head shrivels and the automaton runs down? Perhaps, along with the I, estranged and freed here, in this manner, some other thing is also set free?

Paul Celan

Mots clés breathturn

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