Stell dir
ein Gartenhäuschen
vor, voller
Schaufeln und Rechen.
Verrosteter Stahl.
Holzgriffe gesprungen
der Maserung
entlang.
Dumme, kaputte Dinge.
Kaum zu glauben,
dass sie einst
in Männerhänden
von Nutzen
waren.
Aber sieh mal –
ihre Knaufen sind glatt.
Auch das war
unnötig.
Nochmal das Gesicht
des unbekannten
Jungen, der am Bürgersteig
an einen Pfosten lehnt
in seinem frisch
aussehendem Anzug
und, von der Wand
einer Galerie
des Metropolitan
Museum of Art, vor wie
vielen in mir
unerinnerten Jahren
das Objektiv, die Kamera
und schwarzweiß
Ferrotypie
selbst hindurch-
blickt, heute morgen
plötzlich wieder
auf einer Parkbank
zu erkennen — wie er kurz
vom Handy hochkuckt,
mein knirschendes
Vorbeilaufen wahrzunehmen
und dann zurück
auf das verborgene
Bildschirm
in seinen Händen
schaut — denselben
durch die Zeit schneidender
Blick jähster
Gleichgültigkeit. Es ist
eine Segnung für keinen
bestimmt, nicht ihn,
nicht ich — dass einer
von uns, dass überhaupt
jemand noch jung
sein kann.
Free translation of “Wings of Desire”
Bist du einmal in den Himmel
aufgestiegen, lass mich
dir sagen — ähnlich, wie wenn
du ein leeres Blatt
Papier anstarrst
und versuchst, ein nicht
begonnenes Wort
festzuhalten
während der Wind
mit den Enden deiner
Feder spielt —
es ist schwer, hier oben
etwas erledigt
zu bekommen, obwohl
dir gesagt wird, dass sie dich
unten auf der Erde
brauchen, deine Gedanken
dort noch Bedeutung
und Gewalt
haben — dass es wirklich deine
Hand ist, die wie in einem
Handschuh alles
Handlung
geschehen lässt.
Und so packe ich das Baby
am Hals, reiße es aus
dem Mittelmeer
und hebe es zurück
auf das Floß. Ich greife
nach dem Joystick, ziehe hoch
und lasse die Ladung
auf die bereits
völlig zerstörte Stadt
fallen — obwohl
ich mich frage: wessen
Hand, welcher
Kalkül die Bombe
eigentlich zu ihrem
Ziel bringt. Das muss
ein Anderer sein.
Mir graut es, zu denken,
ob sie doch nicht
von alleine
fällt.
The same confection you pinch
like grapeshot is shown
there on the cover
of the octagonal box
in your other hand, undressed
of its golden foil
and bisected, its center identical
to the pistachio green
of your vest. And that look
on your face, at once
blasé and pissed, that betrays
just how much you resent
your audience, being
made for nothing more
than to tempt us
with your pursed lip
artifice to ask
ourselves How badly
do I want this — to try
what I’ve never tasted
as part of me — to share
in the fame of the man
in my mouth?
*
But the affront melts
as we follow the course
of your smile, strained
into the dimple
of your left cheek, its surface
guached as though flush
with fluorescent light
landing on powdered skin
pocked with eggplant
and orange peel
as are relics
of industrial printing.
*
No, you aren’t so much
Mozart as you are
the taste of Mozart, maestro of cake
and cotton candy
and little chocolates that jostle
in their boxes, like the one
you hold up to show us
Here — this is it —
the truth of what’s inside —
a ball full of me
just for you.
One of 90 million
produced at a factory
on the outskirts of Salzburg
and exported to over
30 countries per annum
wherein a crumb
of the spirit
abides. A Mozart
in the ether
unborn, waiting
for what he always was
destined to become
the Mozart of.
*
Still, I can imagine
squeezing out of a putrid
basement toilet stall
in the Ringstraße McDonalds
and find you standing
there — a man the same
as I am, waiting
for me to vacate, your look
acknowledging Yes —
how amusing — we are
as brothers in the unsavory
demands of our bodies
and then never see it again,
the face of a man who forgets
mine as well. Turning
away from me, would I be met
with the back of your coat
and bow of your wig
or was that part of you
left blank, the pulp
of your polystyrene ribbing
bare-assed to meet
the dark of a confiserie
closed on Sunday?
Or is it you again, mirrored
in marzipan breeches,
ruby tailcoat, foam whig and
whipped egg merengue
ruffle shirt, one side
determining the outline of
what’s behind it?
*
I encounter another
you, stood up
outside a gift shop
in the Rotenturmstraße
just when a passing
teenager slaps
the candy box, causing
you to spin like a thaumatrope
and, sure enough,
it’s you again — trapped
in the outlines of him
glued to your back.
The Kugel flickers
as you spin — both
here and here — the bend
of your elbow plotting
the only place it could be
on either side
of you, your hand
twinned to hold
each in orbit around
a missing center, facing
the other for no one
else — except
that your likeness
on the foil is printed
looking outward, and so
away from itself.
Not even you can be
bothered by the spectacle
of your own Mozartness.
*
As your rotation slows
and stops with the same you
facing me as before
it’s like you’ve shown me
what your vessel
exists to keep away
from the conflagration
that is hunger
in the living world —
In the space between
my fingers where you see
the Mozart Ball, I in fact measure
the mass of your desire —
the candy of your mind’s eye
in relation to all that
surrounds and ultimately isn’t
this Mozart Ball right here —
one might even say
that Mozart Balls precede
the very want for Mozart Balls
in that they eternally
exceed it
as our souls yearn
for what they’ve never
tasted — such is the misery
you unseal when you
bite down —
that you won’t be
able to stop yourself
wanting more.
*
A few hours later and I’m sat
on a bench inhaling
a twenty-piece of Chicken
McNuggets, watching
a young woman Chaplinwalk
up and down Kärnterstraße
in whig and whiteface,
her justaucorps and knickers
spray-painted gold
like some porcelain fetish
come to life. For dessert I fish
the Mozartkugel
I’ve been saving all day
out of my tote bag, skin its
finely hammered leaf,
tensored squishy between
index finger and thumb
that leave their prints
stuck in the melted surface
muddy on my tongue,
break the seal with a bite
and return my attention
to the artist, now wobbling
alongside two girls in burqas
who laugh as she fleetly
plays her piccolo made of air,
then sneaking up behind
a teenaged couple as they go in
for the kiss, tapping the boy
on the shoulder to wag
her gloved finger
disapprovingly in their faces.
*
A performance I’ve
soundtracked to Kiss my ass
in B-Flat Major (KV 231)
with you part minstrel, part what
I think approximates
an 18th Century fop
and thus, whether rightly
or wrongly, associate
with the historical man, the mortal
Mozart whose placeholder
you are, less you
than a version of you
an actor played
to middling acclaim
in a film based on a play
where your life was recomposed
into a series of vignettes, and where
the ironclad ghost
of a murdered Commendatore
was mingled with the shade
of your father, his austere
bicorne touched
with dust.
*
The week following his death,
you wrote a poem instead
to your dear starling
more recently departed —
that Lieber Narr, darling fool.
It was after you’d wandered
into the pet store
where you first encountered him
that you scratched in your pocketbook
27 May 1784 — Bird — Starling —
34 kreutzer — followed by notation
of the tune you taught him
to sing there in his cage
maybe at the proprietor’s invitation
Ah, Herr Mozart —
here’s a curiosity for you —
look — this fellow without fail
will repeat any melody — go ahead
whistle something of yours
and you will find him
quite the pupil. And so you did
the opening bars
of the allegretto from your newest
Piano concerto in G major (KV453)
though he imperfectly
returned your theme, it’s true,
pausing on the last beat
of the first measure
and singing G sharp in the next.
Or was it because
he improvised, improved,
gave back your music
made his own, that underneath
the bars you penciled in
How wonderful!
*
That Vogel Staar (meaning
both starling and stern,
unyielding) knows neither
that he’s dead
nor that you remained,
left to mourn him
as he sings of Mozart
in heaven, frees the melody
of your grace notes,
embellishments — of you —
the Mozart Ball Mozart,
a vibration, a ripple waning
in the wake of a man
who as Mozart could not be
other than himself.
*
Does music even exist
outside of its performance —
the opera that brings the stage
to life, characters breath,
their words to sing
harmonies unheard as
unplayed —
or do we but interfere
in your self-adequacy? A perfection
that knows not
how it sounds. A clamor
of wings that is music
played, taken off in the reading
as fingers frailly
instrument the air
of halls echoing, alive
with voices, mimicry of birds
in true song.
*
Listen —
only what has ceased can be
abstracted, and only
what is abstract
shut up
to its essence — you are
not ball but man
brimming with gore —
your ears can but hear
one note at a time
after another — that’s why
you fill me
with disgust — with nougat
pistachio marzipan
ventriloquy — but when
you unwrap my body
chewed and swallowed it down
I enter your blood —
so trace amounts of me live
in every love handle —
it’s not the music
that’s mine —
no — it’s your hearing —
your tastebuds
receiving
as if a missing piece
your mind melts to know
completion — well
here I am
inside of you.
*
I swallow what’s left
of the liquified Mozart Ball,
my gums coated
in buttery cud, some still
lodged in a cavity bleeding
a faint slimy twinge
of sugar. Not exactly satisfying
as a dessert in itself, gone
mute before it could
fully register on the tongue.
I notice my reflection
in the dark storefront across
from where I’m sitting —
blue Oxford shirt, shaved head
and drawstring shorts. How cartoonish
this costume seems, as though
belonging to some
bygone era
no living person would ever
dress like anymore.
I watch the man there
crack open a tallboy of Gösser,
close my eyes, lean back
and take a long dram
of lukewarm beer just when
I feel a tapping on my shoulder.
View towards Mauern (May 2007)
Ripply stream that runs the vale taking
its sweet time is maker, and all else
seems bed-mud, placed there
pebbles, slight wake.
The hull manor shelled in wartime
across the road from farm and chapel
hides tulips bedded dense
under its four remnant walls
with render tattered and moss-tinged
canvas crumbling from ragstone
masonry, unrecognizable.
Old orchard pent with juniper
amid the meters of dying apple trees,
limbs buttressed with metal joints :
slant-plumed deviations
from once-mapped growth,
all that bloomed now greying
over disintegrating
barbed wire.
+++
View towards Mauern (September 2023)
The Autobahn howling
behind the first swell
of forest. Crying
of whatever researchable
kind of bird. The old
orchard is thinner
now, almost not
there, other younger
trees grown more
full in a proliferation
of fences. Posts meant
for sighting where
the field stream crosses
under the trail
bright and widened
with new gravel, integrated
into a regional
network of bike routes.
A marker relates
the chronicle of the way:
a Roman thoroughfare
became a road for pilgrims
northward, whose needs
the chapel was raised
to service, making for Speyer
as Christians who could
warred in Palestine.
For the first time, the portal
to the chapel is open
revealing a hayloft
over concrete ground
with barrels, tractor wheels,
harrows long parked
in the dark interior.
A neomodernist house
built in the 2010s
suspended on stilts
5 meters high
within the footprint
of the ruined manor’s
four braced walls containing
no garden, just untended
grass in the shade
of the structure above.
911 Turbo S in burnt gold
behind the hedgerow
flashing as I drive
past. It hurts to look
at the sky. Floaters, scars
cut the retina. Weird flashes
out on the blue that are
neurons firing in corpuscular
conversion of stimulus
into sight. At some point
I sunk into the cold
bed mud of understanding
what I stood on. This is
what I understand: leaves
stepped on, disturbed
do not become
fossils. The very act
of imagining a course
in life will keep it
from taking shape,
coming true.
Unsichtbar ist nämlich alles
und jede Hand
die Schwelle
meiner. Da kommt etwas
Musik entgegen, worin
eine Falle sich
lieblicher
entsinnt. Ob durch
das Lesen
gefälligst filtriert
und entzückend abgespielt
ist doch egal
weil jedes Leben
sich so achtzigmal
einfängt. Nimm fetzen
davon in Anschauung auf
und finde, du hast
das Wort Vögelchen
wieder aus Langeweile
erschlagen.
Aus der Erde
sprichst du —
deine Stimme
unter einem Blatt
die Stille. Du sprichst
zu mir, sprachst
auch damals, als du
am Leben warst
aus einer noch nicht
gekommenen
Zeit. Sprachst sogar
bevor es dich gab,
bevor ich hier
und dein Sohn
war, dir zu-
zuhören. Es gab nur
Sprechen und
Hören — nicht mal
deins und meins,
dich und ich,
uns — Hohlräume
unter Blätter, welche
wir fanden, füllten
auf mit Auf-
klingen unser
zu spätes
Selbst. Neben-
einander saßen wir
vor 30 Jahren
in einem Mietwagen
und fuhren hoch
an der kurländschen
Küste — vorbei
an wie viele
gefallenen, oder
am Stamm noch atmende
Sekunden, wo du
sprachst und
ich hörte
zu. Wir stiegen
an einer Burgruine
aus. Ich kletterte
die Mauernreste, du
nahmst ein Foto, das ich
niemals sah. An nichts
kann ich mich
erinnern — außer,
dass wir da
waren. Wie der Wind
durch die Espen
am Waldrand
rauschte, im Mund-
laut, im Zittern
des Laubes Silber-
bauch, Silben
gaumenauf und ab
fällt im Wehen
dein Wort, immer wo
ich fehle — ich,
der dir nur vermissen
kann, von einem
Ort, eine Zeit zum
anderen — wie ich jetzt
meine Hände dir zu
strecke, bis ich
die narbigen Venen
taste vom Blatt, die Kälte
des frühen Winters
draußen auf der
anderen Hautseite
und versuche, mein Atem
zu halten, mein Herz
zu stillen — deine
zu spüren, dich
zu hören.
Zuhause, in meinem Flannelschlafkleid, wie der Eisbär auf seine Scholle
Kletterte ich ins Bett: die unmöglichen Steilen des Globus aufwärts
Segelte ich die Nacht durch — bis ich endlich, mit meinem schwarzen Bart,
Meinen Pelzen und meinen Hunden, am Nordpol stand.
Dort in der kindlichen Nacht lagen meine Gefährten eingefrohren,
Die steifen Pelzen pochten an meiner hungernden Kehle,
Und ich seufzte tief: um mir engten sich die Flocken,
Waren sie wirklich mein Ende? In der Dunkelheit fand ich meine Ruhe.
— Hier flattert die Flagge in der Blendung und Stille
Des unaufhörlichen Eis. Hier stehe ich,
Die Hunden bellen, mein Bart ist schwarz, und ich blicke
Auf den Nordpol . . .
Und jetzt? Na, umkehren.
Egal wohin ich mich wende, geht mein Schritt nach Süden.
Die Welt — meine Welt dreht sich um diesen letzten Punkt
Von Kälte und Elend: alle Geraden, alle Winde
Münden hier in diesem Wirbel, den ich letztendlich entdecke.
Und es bedeutet nichts. Im Kinderbett
Nach der nächtlichen Reise, in dieser warmen Welt
Wo Menschen streben und leiden um das Ende,
Das den Schmerz krönt — in diesem Wolkenkuckucksheim
Erreichte ich meinen Norden, und er hatte Bedeutung.
Hier an der wirklichen Pol meines Daseins,
Wo alles, was ich erbrachte, bedeutungslos ist,
Wo, allein durch Zufall, ich sterbe oder weiterlebe —
Wo ich, lebend oder sterbend, immer noch alleine bin;
Hier, wo der Norden, die Nacht, der Berg des Todes
Mich aus der unwissenden Dunkelheit verdrängen,
Begreife ich endlich, wie all das Wissen,
Dass ich der Dunkelheit entrissen habe — dass die Dunkelheit mir zuwarf —
Ist, wie Nichtwissen, nutzlos: von nichts kommt nichts,
Aus dem Dunkeln die Dunkelheit. Schmerz kommt aus dem Dunkeln
Und wir nennen es Weißheit. Es ist Schmerz.
+
90 North
At home, in my flannel gown, like a bear to its floe,
I clambered to bed; up the globe's impossible sides
I sailed all night—till at last, with my black beard,
My furs and my dogs, I stood at the northern pole.
There in the childish night my companions lay frozen,
The stiff furs knocked at my starveling throat,
And I gave my great sigh: the flakes came huddling,
Were they really my end? In the darkness I turned to my rest.
—Here, the flag snaps in the glare and silence
Of the unbroken ice. I stand here,
The dogs bark, my beard is black, and I stare
At the North Pole . . .
And now what? Why, go back.
Turn as I please, my step is to the south.
The world—my world spins on this final point
Of cold and wretchedness: all lines, all winds
End in this whirlpool I at last discover.
And it is meaningless. In the child's bed
After the night's voyage, in that warm world
Where people work and suffer for the end
That crowns the pain—in that Cloud-Cuckoo-Land
I reached my North and it had meaning.
Here at the actual pole of my existence,
Where all that I have done is meaningless,
Where I die or live by accident alone—
Where, living or dying, I am still alone;
Here where North, the night, the berg of death
Crowd me out of the ignorant darkness,
I see at last that all the knowledge
I wrung from the darkness—that the darkness flung me—
Is worthless as ignorance: nothing comes from nothing,
The darkness from the darkness. Pain comes from the darkness
And we call it wisdom. It is pain.
Liegt irgendwas zentral?
Obstgärten verstreut durchs Land,
Urbane Wälder, rustikale Plantagen, kniehohe Hügel?
Sind Ortsnamen zentral?
Oak Grove, Adcock Corner, Story Book Farm?
Da diese mit einem Ansturm auf Augenebene zusammenlaufen
Und sich in die Augen prügeln, welche nichts mehr aushalten können
Danke, das war genug, danke.
Und sie tauchen auf wie eine Landshaft, gemischt mit Dunkelheit
Die feuchten Ebenen, überwachsene Vorstädte,
Orte von bekanntem bürgerlichen Stolz, zivile Obskurität.
Diese sind zwar mit meine Version von Amerika verbunden,
Aber der Saft ist woanders.
Heute morgen, als ich dein Zimmer verließ
Nach dem Frühstück schraffiert mit
Blicke rückwärts und vorwärts, rückwärts ins Licht,
Vorwärts ins unvertraute Licht,
War es unser Werk, und war es
Der Stoff, das Nutzholz des Lebens, oder von Leben,
Die wir maßen, zählten?
Eine Laune, die bald vergessen wird
Unter gekreuzte Lichtbalken, kühler Innenstadtschatten
An diesem Morgen, der uns wieder eingeholt hat?
Es ist mir bewußt, ich verflechte zu arg die eigenen
Abgebrochenen Eindrücke der Dinge, wie sie mir begegnen.
Sie sind privat und werden immer so bleiben.
Wo sind dann aber die privaten Zwischenfälle, die später
Dazu bestimmt sind, zu blühen wie goldene Glocken
Erklungen über die Stadt vom höchsten Turm?
Die lustigen Sachen, die mir geschehen, die ich dir erzähle,
Und du sofort weißt, was ich meine?
Welcher abgelegener, über Serpentinen erreichbarer Obstgarten
verbirgt sie? Was sind diese Wurzeln?
Es sind die Knoten und Proben
Die uns verraten, ob wir bekannt werden
Und unser Schicksal vorbildlich sein kann, wie ein Stern.
Alles andere ist warten
Auf einen Brief, der niemals ankommt.
Tag ein, Tag aus, die Verbitterung
Bis du es endlich aufgerissen hast, und nicht wusstest, was es war,
Und die beiden Umschlaghälften auf einem Teller liegen.
Die Botschaft war weise, und scheinbar
Lange her diktiert.
Ihre Wahrheit ist Zeitlos, aber ihre Zeit ist noch
Nicht gekommen. Sie berichtet von Gefahr, und die meist begrenzten
Maßnahmen, die gegen die Gefahr zu ergreifen sind,
Heute und in Zukunft, in frischen Höfen,
In ruhigen kleinen Häusern auf dem Land,
Unser Land, in umzäunten Gebieten, auf kühlen schattigen Straßen.
+
The One Thing That Can Save America
Is anything central?
Orchards flung out on the land,
Urban forests, rustic plantations, knee-high hills?
Are place names central?
Elm Grove, Adcock Corner, Story Book Farm?
As they concur with a rush at eye level
Beating themselves into eyes which have had enough
Thank you, no more thank you.
And they come on like scenery mingled with darkness
The damp plains, overgrown suburbs,
Places of known civic pride, of civil obscurity.
These are connected to my version of America
But the juice is elsewhere.
This morning as I walked out of your room
After breakfast crosshatched with
Backward and forward glances, backward into light,
Forward into unfamiliar light,
Was it our doing, and was it
The material, the lumber of life, or of lives
We were measuring, counting?
A mood soon to be forgotten
In crossed girders of light, cool downtown shadow
In this morning that has seized us again?
I know that I braid too much my own
Snapped-off perceptions of things as they come to me.
They are private and always will be.
Where then are the private turns of event
Destined to bloom later like golden chimes
Released over a city from a highest tower?
The quirky things that happen to me, and I tell you,
And you know instantly what I mean?
What remote orchard reached by winding roads
Hides them? Where are these roots?
It is the lumps and trials
That tell us whether we shall be known
And whether our fate can be exemplary, like a star.
All the rest is waiting
For a letter that never arrives,
Day after day, the exasperation
Until finally you have ripped it open not knowing what it is,
The two envelope halves lying on a plate.
The message was wise, and seemingly
Dictated a long time ago.
Its truth is timeless, but its time has still
Not arrived, telling of danger, and the mostly limited
Steps that can be taken against danger
Now and in the future, in cool yards,
In quiet small houses in the country,
Our country, in fenced areas, in cool shady streets.
Like a ramp
corkscrewing
upward must not
only reach
Heaven, removed
from the plains
of foundation
at a great though
arbitrary height, but also
taper inward, down
to ever finer
scales the closer
its approach
to pierce and pass
through the
Throne, mirroring
the escalation
of man's facility
to build the tower
higher, ever
in the first
place.
Wie die zu Wort
gewordene Stimme
solche Gitter braucht
rattern, so hallt
ihr Heulen im nächsten
Zimmer die Wand
zwischen uns
Hörenden, durch
die Resonanz
entzweit. Sind wir
nur, weil wir
aufgeteilt sind, sie
und ich, oder ist unser
Hören wirklich ein
Warten auf Rückkehr
des fehlenden
Teils. Ein Phantom-
empfinden, der letzte Faden
Erinnerung an die
verlorene
Einheit außerhalb
dieser Räume, viel höher
als die Decke, die wir
getrennt teilen.
Tief in mir
sticht ihre Stimme
wortlos ein. Die Züge meines
Zimmers im Schallen
ihres wieder-
spiegelt. Mit meinen Händen
forme ich eine Schale,
eine Glocke um
mein Ohr, und drücke sie
gegen die Tapete.
Fast kann ich sie sehen,
die unbekannte
Nachbarin — wie
sie reglos da steht
im Kerzenlicht
und über ihr schwebt
im Schattenbahn
die Decke, befrachtet
voller Regen,
der sickert, fällt, fließt über
ihr Gesicht,
alles verschwommen
mit einem Weinen nicht
ihr eigenes. So
schaut sie
im Flackern meine
Vorstellung abgewandt
auf die Tapete,
diese dort abgebildeten
ländlich naïven
Szenen, wo immer die gleiche
Magd demselben
Schurken trifft
in Grüften, an halb-
zerfallenen Scheunen, Stränden,
im Gebüsch, unter Eschen,
Eiben und Palmen,
während die Züge, Glieder
dieser Zweien
zerren, schwellen, zer-
schmelzen wandab-
wärts glitschend
wie der Grund
sich löst, durchdrungen
im Flut niemandes
Tränen. Schwarz glänzt
ihr Haar, das ich auch nicht
sehen kann. Glänzt
wie die Nacht, wie der Frieden
eines Endes, und der Stern,
unzählig, der draußen
auf uns wartet.
The good people
of the town
do not deserve
to die, but
they will
as they have
forever, as
the graveyard
attests to.
They do not
deserve to fall
in love and
watch as despite
their loving
their love
grows old
and dies, to
witness their
records in
baseball or
basketball be
broken by
successive
generations, to
see streets be
renamed as
they were
once already
renamed when
in the Armistace
they were boys
or girls and
there still ran
a street car
electric down
mainstreet.
Boys and girls
stamped.
No one
deserves to
die.
This
narrowly written between walls
pathless-true
going up and down
into the heart-bright future.
There.
Syllable-
jetty, ocean-
colored, way out
into the unvoyaged.
Then:
buoys,
cordon of comma-buoys
with the
breathing bobbing
every second exquisitely —: light-
bell-tones (dum-,
dun-, un-,
unde suspirat
cor),
re-
leased, re-
deemed, ours.
Seeable, hearable, the
freed-
up tent-word:
together.
+
ANABASIS
Dieses
schmal zwischen Mauern geschriebne
unwegsam-wahre
Hinauf und Zurück
in die herzhelle Zukunft.
Dort.
Silben-
mole, meer-
farben, weit
ins Unbefahrne hinaus.
Dann:
Bojen-
Commabojen-Spalier
mit den
sekundenschön hüpfenden
Atemreflexen —: Leucht-
glockentöne (dum-,
dun-, un-,
unde suspirat
cor),
aus-
gelöst, ein-
gelöst, unser.
Sichtbares, Hörbares, das
frei-
gewordene Zeltwort:
Mitsammen.
Notes on poem: this is an example of a Celan poem that *moderately* pushes the limits of what is translatable - which, in this case, includes idiologisms (novel compound words) and enjambments with individual words made twain by the line break, revealing unexpected semantic parallels or meanings that would otherwise be obscured by normal syntax, and which are often so particular to the German as to be impossible to render in English.
A good example of a Celan idiologism that is difficult to translate would be “sekundenschön” which I’ve rendered as “every second exquisite(ly)” but, literally unpacked, would be something closer to [x] every second of which is exquisite/pretty/to be savored — and this all in an elegantly compact adverb! Celan probably had “sekundenschnell” (or “split-second”) in mind, which he tweaked just a little bit so that it is sonically familiar but semantically foreign and thus jars the reader awake - which is a typically Celanian move.
An example of the syntaxis interrupta would be the lines: “re-/leased, re-/deemed, ours.” In the German original, this appears as “aus-/gelöst, ein-/gelöst, unser”. Taken as prose, “ausgelöst” means caused/released/unleashed and “eingelöst” means cashed-in/redeemed/honored {as pertaining to exchange value]. The tricky part is the German verb “lösen”, which on its own means “[to] solve” but also can mean resolve/dissolve/loosen/untie/detach, etc., basically a muddy incline leading into a semantic abyss which Celan excavates by means of his scalpel called enjambment (whether fashioned from sharpened bone, jade, or meteorite, I wonder?). Unfortunately, while I’ve also got some room to play in English with di-/re-/ab-/un- + solve, none of these match the German meaning(s), so I recreated alternate re-/re- echo in the translation. However, who knows; while the meaning(s) are a departure, something like “re-/solved, ab-/solved, ours” might work. It depends on which semantic register is worth preserving here - the larger, syntactically-driven one (i.e. the prosaic) or the slipstream between the fractured lines?
In a word (or two), the sensation of reading Celan in German is jarring and othering; we are reading a language that, while it is semantically accessible, feels alien and removed from any day-to-day human speech. While we might understand, we don’t recognize the language as “German”. This “othering” was a manifestation of Celan’s surviving the Holocaust and writing in the language of those who perpetrated it, utilizing the very tool (language) that facilitated its execution at the most basic level. For many years I’ve contemplated Celan’s German and its gesturing and venturing towards, its disappearing into the incommunicable.
The Latin “unde suspirat cor” translates to “from which our hearts sigh”. This is a quote from the libretto of Exsultate, jubilate (K. 165) by W.A. Mozart. The full libretto is as follows (Latin translation curtesy of Wikipedia):
Exsultate, jubilate,
o vos animae beatae,
dulcia cantica canendo,
cantui vestro respondendo,
psallant aethera cum me.
[Rejoice, resound with joy,
o you blessed souls,
singing sweet songs,
In response to your singing
let the heavens sing forth with me.]
Fulget amica dies,
jam fugere et nubila et procellae;
exorta est justis
inexspectata quies.
Undique obscura regnabat nox,
surgite tandem laeti
qui timuistis adhuc,
et jucundi aurorae fortunatae
frondes dextera plena et lilia date.
[The friendly day shines forth,
both clouds and storms have fled now;
for the righteous there has arisen
an unexpected calm.
Dark night reigned everywhere [before];
arise, happy at last,
you who feared till now,
and joyful for this lucky dawn,
give garlands and lilies with full right hand.]
Tu virginum corona,
tu nobis pacem dona,
tu consolare affectus,
unde suspirat cor.
[You, o crown of virgins,
grant us peace,
Console our feelings,
from which our hearts sigh.]
Alleluja, alleluja!
Everybody’s a critic
when it comes
to the Revolution.
Some sing the chorus
on barricades
while others take aim
to make them stop.
That’s when the scene
of the very first shot
they shot is shot
and the day’s a wrap
for those lucky
to have died.
After which, things
will’ve quieted down
for the friends
we’ll never meet.
Friends — no matter
what was pointed
at us, done with
and to us — no one
will say we didn’t
look damn fine
doing whatever
it is we were
doing a l'ère
du grand écran.
Though the times
needs must
recast us, rolled over
in their greater
sleep — to fashion
of our lives
history, to remodel
our homes into
the glamorous flats
of pilots — ace debonaires
with prudence enough
to know when
to quit, hang up
the hopeless conflict
and go nurse
the dry martinis
they left sweating
at the bar.
There was earth in them, and
they dug. They dug and dug, that's how
their day went, their night. And they praised not god,
who wanted all of this, so they heard,
who knew all of this, so they heard.
They dug and heard nothing anymore;
they grew not wise, made no song,
invented no kind of language.
They dug.
There came a silence, there came a storm also,
the oceans came all.
I dig, you dig, and the worm digs also,
and the singing elsewhere says: they dug.
O one, o none, o no-one, o you:
where was it going, if it was going nowhere?
O you dig and I dig, and I dig myself to you,
and the ring on our finger wakes us.
+
Es war Erde in ihnen, und
sie gruben. Sie gruben und gruben, so ging
ihr Tag dahin, ihre Nacht. Und sie lobten nicht Gott,
der, so hörten sie, alles dies wollte,
der, so hörten sie, alles dies wußte.
Sie gruben und hörten nichts mehr;
sie wurden nicht weise, erfanden kein Lied,
erdachten sich keinerlei Sprache.
Sie gruben.
Es kam eine Stille, es kam auch ein Sturm,
es kamen die Meere alle.
Ich grabe, du gräbst, und es gräbt auch der Wurm,
und das Singende dort sagt: Sie graben.
O einer, o keiner, o niemand, o du:
wohin gings, da’s nirgendhin ging?
O du gräbst und ich grab, und ich grab mich dir zu,
und am Finger erwacht uns der Ring.
The bright
stones are going through the air, the bright
white ones, the light-
bringers.
They will
not go down, not crash,
not collide. They’re going
up,
like the meager
hedge-roses, that's how they go up,
they're floating
towards you, my quiet one,
my true one -:
I see you, you're picking them with my
new, my
Everyman's hands, you place them
in the once-more-bright, which no one
needs cry about or name.
+
Die hellen
Steine gehen durch die Luft, die hell-
weißen, die licht-
bringer.
Sie wollen
nicht niedergehen, nicht stürzen,
nicht treffen. Sie gehen
auf,
wie die geringen
Heckenrosen, so tun sie sich auf,
sie schweben
dir zu, du meine Leise,
du meine Wahre —:
ich seh dich, du pflückst sie mit meinen
neuen, meinen
Jedermannshänden, du tust sie
ins Abermals-Helle, das niemand
zu weinen braucht noch zu nennen.
Hours, may-colored, cool.
That which can no longer be named, hot,
is heard in the mouth.
No one's voice, again.
An eyeball's depth, that aches:
the lid
doesn't block, the lash
doesn't count what comes in.
The tear, half,
the sharper lens, spry,
goes and gets the pictures for you.
+
EIN AUGE, OFFEN
Stunden, maifarben, kühl.
Das nicht mehr zu Nennende, heiß,
hörbar im Mund.
Niemandes Stimme, wieder.
Schmerzende Augapfeltiefe:
das Lid
steht nicht im Wege, die Wimper
zählt nicht, was eintritt.
Die Träne, halb,
die schärfste Linse, beweglich,
holt dir die Bilder.
Notes: several instances of polysemy are unfortunately lost in the translation.
1.) In the second line of the first stanza, “heiß” or “hot” in the German is just one letter away from “heißt” or “is called”, literalizing the inability to name that is indicated in the first part of the line. But the Unable-to-be-named is still a way of, if not explicitly naming, then at least indicating an absence, which is then vocalized, audible in the hollow cavity of the mouth, a voice not belonging to anyone and addressing no-one.
2.) Line four of stanza two has a great albeit oblique pun on “paying admission”. Prima facie, the stanza communicates that neither eyelid or eyelash stand in the way or count (“zählt”) what goes into (“eintritt”) the eye. In addition to counting, the verb “zähl(en)” in German can also mean “to pay”. Furthermore, while “eintritt” appears here as the present tense of the verb “eintreten”, it is also analogous to the noun-form “Eintritt”, or “admission [fee]”. It’s as if the lid and lash are bouncers or ticket agents at the entrance of the eye but are asleep (or is it awake??) on the job.
3.) In a colloquial context, “beweglich” translates to “flexible”, “moveable”, “mobile”, etc. However, this is also the appropriate German term in a clinical context to describe the motility of the eye (e.g. “frei beweglich”). I could see this poem as a relatively straightforward account of a visit to the ophthalmologist, although perhaps one involving a moderate dose of chloroform.
Once having ascended
into heaven, let me tell you —
much like staring
at a blank page and trying to
hold onto the unwritten
word as wind
plays in the ends
of your quill — it’s hard
to get anything done
up here, though you're told
they still need you
down on earth, your thoughts
still have weight there
and meaning — how it's
really your hand
that like in a glove
makes anything happen.
And so I grab the baby
by the neck, pull it
out of the Mediterranean
and lift it back onto
the raft — I grab
the joystick, pull up
and release the payload
on the city almost already
completely flattened
though I wonder
whose hands, what
calculus delivers
the bomb to its target.
That must be
someone else’s job.
I’m afraid to think
whether it falls
of its own
accord.
What is this fire entered
back into the world —
the violence of beginnings
when the hero’s longing cannot be
told from the villain’s, as neither
comprehend how real
the end is —
to be the first one
there in the scene of history
hand on the stone —
believing that the next thing
you do will give shape
to the lives of millions unborn
but god is different —
this one at least
is voiceless, less than
in that he is unspeakably
greater than the one found
in Genesis — entirely
without prophet
or interest of conversing
with man — not noticing him
there — some number
of footsoldiers like beads
pierced on a string
of lightning —
or is it that we are
objects of derision
to be frightened before
he impales our bodies
with light, our faces
melted by the laughing fire
of the holy spirit finally
free of its great
mistake.
Wondering when you last noticed your shadow
is pure cringe. Swatting at the yellowjackets
trying to land on the rim of my beer glass
as if these were poems I’d rather not breathe
life into. My father years dead — his body turned
ATM jackpot. Fast fashion, train tickets, beer.
Welcome to the future. For years I’d wished to be
in this city alone — without family, friends or
loved one — now that I’m here. On the dark screen
of my locked iPhone are intricate smudges
where my fingers have typed all but the letters
P and Q — but that’s not true anymore, is it?
P that’s like kissing one’s own lips, and Q evincing
how cringy it is to have anything to say at all.
Like a wish you made but never seriously wanted
to come true — a grown-up without profession
crossing to walk on the dark side of the street
in a country where all anyone understands
of what I say is my unchained privilege to choose
to stand at this bar attempting to order a drink
not in my mother’s tongue has landed me.
Sun falling behind Montmartre, light curdling
on Fauburg-Saint-Denis — the fizz of the errant
photons on the CMOS sensor in video mode.
And my shadow somewhere under the next table
at the feet of the couple sitting there, holed up
in the chair legs. Maybe it’s already gone — maybe
I’m it. You’re from the States, right? asks the guy.
I can feel all three of us disbelieving as I recite
an abridged biography. Basically on par with what
a pathological liar might embroider, given enough
time and resources — enough to have induced
the fiction he remembers as his life to have
actually occurred, though not entirely convincing
as I am cast. Look — there’s a bench where
I kissed my love’s fingers. Another, where later
she wept for the cysts flowering in her uterus
and pushed me away, so far from home.
Same sky of fresh gauze, post-op hematoma.
Same desire lines in the Place des Invalides lawn
and heat that lives under your shirt and pants
tearing at the soft skin between your legs.
Meme silence dans les squares sur les bancs.
I could not love her like she needed me to
as we were waiting for the bus, eight years ago.
A balcony where we spent the morning drinking
conscious of wasting the day, much as we paid
to be there. Drunk again — just now I walked
through a park where my parents quarreled
as I cried and hid off in the bushes for reasons
I didn’t understand. What year was that even —
1995? 1996? Weren’t we like those lovers of 1905
locked in each other’s arms and legs wishing
for the moment together to be other than what
we were condemning each other to live?
Tout le reste o baiser baiser perpétuel — only you
could fail this poem, having lived through
the loss of your other. Tell me, if it is possible
to love again — was the first love ever real?
How on that morning up there on the balcony
you never thought to look down — see him
tracing below where the light of morning
throws the crowns of roofs on the sidewalk,
moving just past the edge where it’s hard
to make out any features beyond that
it is the shape of a man, yes — facing away
as he’s bent into his pacing, one hand gripping
the other at his back and collar raised in greeting
the current of what he knows there’s no hope
recognizing will have been — no, not even
faint laughter coming from the rooftops.