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| | | From: _susan_ (Original Message) | Sent: 10/18/2008 5:54 AM |
O Little Root of a Dream
by Paul Celan
Translated by Heather McHugh and Nikolai Popov
O little root of a dream
you hold me here
undermined by blood,
no longer visible to anyone,
property of death.
Curve a face
that there may be speech, of earth,
of ardor, of
things with eyes, even
here, where you read me blind,
even
here,
where you
refute me,
to the letter.
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| was he not a marvelous poet? |
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indeed.
Homecoming
-Paul Celan
Snowfall, denser and denser,
dove-coloured as yesterday,
snowfall, as if even now you were sleeping.
White, stacked into distance.
Above it, endless,
the sleigh track of the lost.
Below, hidden,
presses up
what so hurts the eyes,
hill upon hill,
invisible.
On each,
fetched home into its today,
an I slipped away into dumbness:
wooden, a post.
There: a feeling,
blown across by the ice wind
attaching its dove- its snow-
coloured cloth as a flag.
from fun neat little site (http://www.artofeurope.com/poetry/index.html)
it only lacks in crediting translators.
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| | | From: _susan_ | Sent: 10/19/2008 5:13 AM |
i've used that site a lot. posted here from it. here's the main URL: |
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i find myself whistling mama and papa's dream a little dream
whipping up some amish bread dough |
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