Aesthetics thus demands hiddenness and rewards it, ethics demands disclosure and punishes hiddenness.
True poetry is antibiographical. The poet’s homeland is his poem and changes from one poem to the next. The distances are the old, eternal ones: infinite like the cosmos, in which each poem attempts to assert itself as a — minuscule — star. Infinite also like the distance between one’s I and one’s You: from both sides, from both poles the bridge is built: in the middle, halfway, where the carrier pylon is expected, from above or from below, there is the place of the poem. From above: invisible and uncertain. From below: from the abyss of hope for the distant, the future-distant kin.
Poems are paradoxes. Paradoxical is the rhyme, that gathers sense and sense, sense and countersense: a chance meeting at a place in language-time nobody can foresee, it lets this word coincide with that other one — for how long? For a limited time: the poet, who wants to stay true to that principle of freedom that announces itself in the rhyme, now has to turn his back to the rhyme. Away from the border — or across it, off into the borderless!
“Automatic” poetry: unconscious, and it too thus reminiscence — and thus why not quote the brought-along, impregnated as it is with the spiritual, and therefore also points more clearly towards the spiritual. —
Process, event in the poem
descriptions — static
hence no actual “theme” possible.
prose line to the end
poem line —
man remains an interlocutor though you have to know how to captivate him
if from naturalism or through it there is a way to lyric poetry —
Not Rilkean enjambment!!
He who catching his breath between two lines of poetry looks around for comma or conjunction, misses out.
also pre-membering, pre-thinking and storing of what could be
Yeats: I certainly owe more to that poet than to Fr. surreal.
Strange. In front of a candle
Now I tried to render visible the grain of sand (Buber, Chass. — //Nibelungens[on]g) that had to have been sunk into me too at some time.
Mother, candles, sabbath
But the poem lead me out of this idea, across to a new level with this idea
It is part of poetry’s essential features that it releases the poet, its crown witness and confidant, from their shared knowledge once it has taken on form. (If it were different, there would barely be a poet who could take on the responsibility of having written more than one poem.)
— Poetry as event
Event = truth (“unhiddenness,” worked, fought for unhiddenness)
Poetry as risk
Creation = / power-activity / Gewalt-tätigkeit (Heidegger)
Truth ≠ accuracy (-i-: consistency)
Endnote: Poetry “a shrine with no temple”
It belongs to the poem’s essence, that it will release the author, the confidant from its confidence. If it were different, no poet would write more than one poem.
The conjunction of the words in the poem: not only a conjunction, also a confrontation. Also a toward-each-other and an away-from-each-other. Encounter, dissent, and leave-taking all in one.
— handiwork: hand / think through connections
such as “hand and heart”
handiwork — heartwork
In our polychrome, not color-happy dailiness,
the language of the poem, if it wants to remain the language of
the p., will by necessity be gray.
“Nobody becomes what he is not”
Paul Celan was born Paul Antschel in Czernovitz, Romania, to a German-speaking Jewish family. His surname was later spelled Ancel, and he eventually adopted the anagram Celan as his pen name. In 1938 Celan went to Paris to study medicine, but returned to Romania before the outbreak of World War...