Posts Tagged ‘ Celan ’

Art in a Time of Atrocity – The New York Times

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Night Theater, by Meena Alexander

Night Theater

by Meena Alexander

Snails circle
A shed where a child was born.
She bled into straw —
Who can write this?

Under Arcturus,
Rubble of light:

We have no words
For what is happening —

Still language endures
Celan said

As he stood in a torn
Green coat

Shivering a little,
In a night theater, in Bremen.

 

Meena Alexander at the Academy of American Poets

 

Interview: Dan Beachy-Quick on Keats, the Agonal, and the Sublime | The Arcadia Project

Interview: Dan Beachy-Quick on Keats, the Agonal, and the Sublime | The Arcadia Project.

Pierre Joris talks about Paul Celan and “The Meridian” / Jacket2

Paul Celan, Pierre Joris / Jacket 2

Reading the Living Archives: The Witness of Literary Art by Carolyn Forché

Reading the Living Archives: The Witness of Literary Art by Carolyn Forché [article/magazine].

Paul Celan / Language Mesh (Sprachgitter)

LANGUAGE MESH

Eye’s roundness between the bars.

Vibratile monad eyelid
propels itself upward,
releases a glance.

Iris, swimmer, dreamless and dreary:
the sky, heart-grey, must be near.

Athwart, in the iron holder,
the smoking splinter.
By its sense of light
you divine the soul.

(If I were like you. If you were like me.
Did we not stand
under one trade wind?
We are strangers.)

The flagstones. On them,
close to each other, the two
heart-grey puddles:
two
mouthsfull of silence.

Paul Celan
Michael Hamburger, trans.

Corona by Paul Celan, Michael Hamburger, translator

Corona

Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.

 

In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.

 

My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moon's blood ray.

 

We stand by the window embracing, and people look up 
  from the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time.

It is time.

Paul Celan
Michael Hamburger, trans.