Paul Celan
Paul Celan
Paul Celanwas a Romanian-born German language poet and translator. He was born as Paul Antschel to a Jewish family in Cernăuți, in the then Kingdom of Romania, and adopted the pseudonym "Paul Celan".. He became one of the major German-language poets of the post-World War II era...
NationalityRomanian
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth23 November 1920
CountryRomania
running art lying
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 here, in this manner, some other thing is also set free?
quotes reality
Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won.
language
I went with my very being toward language.
shade speak
He speaks truly who speaks the shade.
understanding
Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.
invisible enough
who is invisible enough to see you
rowing
you're rowing by wordlight
heart dark stones
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.
language
The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.
heart eye names
Count up the almonds, Count what was bitter and kept you waking, Count me in too: I sought your eye when you glanced up and no one would see you, I spun that secret thread Where the dew you mused on Slid down to pitchers Tended by a word that reached no one’s heart. There you first fully entered the name that is yours, you stepped to yourself on steady feet, the hammers swung free in the belfry of your silence, things overheard thrust through to you, what’s dead put it’s arm around you too, and the three of you walked through the evening. Render me bitter. Number me among the almonds
beauty truth poetry
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.
arrows secret target
Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle
earth humans human-beings
Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!
holocaust black bitterness
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.