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

Categorized in : Snow Wine Lasts

Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.

writing inspirational hands

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

spite language loss

Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be... by Paul Celan

Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.

doe reality

A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always strong-hope that it may somehow wash up somewhere, perhaps on the shoreline of the heart. In this way, too, poems are en route: they are headed towards. Toward what? Toward something open, inhabitable, an approachable you, perhaps, an approachable reality. Such realities are, I think, at stake in a poem.

strong heart reality

who is invisible enough to see you by Paul Celan

who is invisible enough to see you

invisible enough

A nothing by Paul Celan

A nothing

flowering holocaust rose

The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it. Does this very fact not place the poem already here, at its inception, in the encounter, in the mystery of encounter?

poetry lonely loneliness

There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.

giving-up writing world

German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." It tries to be truthful.

poetry truth beauty

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?

running lying art

Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.

manifold names world

We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'

happenings mad

Death is a master from Germany. by Paul Celan

Death is a master from Germany.

germany masters

They've healed me to pieces. by Paul Celan

They've healed me to pieces.

healed pieces

Poetry is a sort of homecoming. by Paul Celan

Poetry is a sort of homecoming.

homecoming poetry-is inspirational

There was earth inside them, and they dug. by Paul Celan

There was earth inside them, and they dug.

earth

Reachable, near and not lost, there remained in the midst of the losses this one thing: language. It, the language, remained, not lost, yes, in spite of everything. But it had to pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech. It passed through and gave back no words for that which happened; yet it passed through this happening. Passed through and could come to light again, “enriched” by all this.

light darkness loss

Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, climb out of yourself for ever.

hours strong world

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air by Paul Celan

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air

remains roots air

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself. by Paul Celan

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.

understanding