Paul Celan

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Paul Celan

Paul Celan

Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.More Paul Celan [09/28/2011 02:09:34]
Poetry is a sort of homecoming.More Paul Celan [09/28/2011 02:09:48]
Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won.More Paul Celan [09/28/2011 02:09:56]
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosopher's Stone.More Paul Celan [09/28/2011 02:09:05]
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.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
They've healed me to pieces.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Spring: trees flying up to their birdsMore Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
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.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
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.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangleMore Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
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?More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
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.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
The two
heart-grey puddles:
two
mouthsfull of silence.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
A nothing
we were, are, shall
remain, flowering:
the nothing--, the
no one's rose.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
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 hereMore Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]
A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.More Paul Celan [03/29/2018 05:03:36]

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