Paul Celan has been on my mind, particularly his most known poem, Death Fugue. The Romanian poet and translator wrote in German, but lived and died in Paris. I came to know his writings when I took a class on Eastern European writers, and never looked back because I found a lot in common with African writing. Imagine working in a language ‘that’s not your own,’ (you and/or the language have to break), whose politics you despise, professing a religion that casts you among the hated and hunted, living in a country you can no longer call home, and being in a place that’s shifting under your feet until you’re forced, for strategic reasons, to take on multiple identities, including changing your name. Familiar?
No wonder he wrote mainly about the holocaust, as if propelled by some inner force to focus on a central thing that wasn’t changing, but was part of his history and also part of what had ‘robbed’ him of his being. So he gave us this quote, in addition to his admirable poems. “There is nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even when he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.”
I’ll leave you to reflect on his two poems: Death Fugue, and my favorite, Tenebrae, with its chilling and acerbic quality. Apparently, Tenebrae is Latin for ‘shadows’ or ‘darkness.’ It might also mean the ‘religious ceremony of gradual extinguishing of candles while readings and psalms are chanted or recited.’
Enjoy.
Death Fugue
translated by Jerome Rothenberg
Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing he whistles his
dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us to play for the dance
Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
There’s a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it’s nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie
He calls jab it deep in the soil you lot there you other men sing and play
he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you men you other men you others play up again for the dance
Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes
He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it’s roomy to lie
Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink
Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue
he shoots you with leaden bullets his aim is true
there’s a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky
he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite
Tenebrae
We are near, Lord,
near and at hand.
Handled already, Lord,
clawed and clawing as though
the body of each of us were
your body, Lord.
Pray, Lord,
pray to us,
we are near.
Wind-awry we went there,
went there to bend
over hollow and ditch.
To be watered we went there, Lord.
It was blood, it was
what you shed, Lord.
It gleamed.
It cast your image into our eyes, Lord.
Our eyes and our mouths are open and empty, Lord.
We have drunk, Lord.
The blood and the image that was in the blood, Lord.
Pray, Lord.
We are near.
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