Paul Celan

Paul Celan

Paul Celan (/ˈsɛlæn/;[1] German: [ˈtseːlaːn]; 23 November 1920 – c. 20 April 1970) was a Romanian-born German-language poet and translator. He was born as Paul Antschel to a JewishБольше
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#schibboleth1 мин. чтения

Schibboleth

Mitsamt meinen Steinen, den großgeweinten hinter den Gittern, schleiften sie mich in die Mitte des Marktes, dorthin, wo die Fahne sich aufrollt, der ich keinerlei Eid schwor
Flöte,
Doppelflöte der Nacht: denke der dunklen Zwillingsröte i...

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#mandorla1 мин. чтения

Mandorla

In the Almond – what dwells in the Almond
Nothing
Nothing dwells in the Almond
There it dwells and dwells

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#stuttered-over-again world1 мин. чтения

Stuttered-Over-Again World

Stuttered-over-again World,where I shall have beena Guest, a Name,sweated down from the Wall,that a Wound licks up

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#psalm1 мин. чтения

Psalm

No-man kneads us again out of Earth and Loam,no-man spirits our Dust
No-man
Praise to you,
No-man

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#illegibility1 мин. чтения

Illegibility

Illegibility of
World
All twice-over
Robust Clocksagree the Cracked-Hour,hoarsely

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#you1 мин. чтения

You Were My Death

You were my death:you I could holdwhen all fell away from me

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#stand1 мин. чтения

To Stand In The Shadow

To stand in the Shadowof the Wound’s-Mark in the Air
For no-one and nothing to Stand
Unknown,for youalone
With all, that within finds Room,even

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#the trumpet-part1 мин. чтения

The Trumpet-Part

The Trumpet-Partdeep in the
Text-Voidat Torch-Height,in the Time-Hole: listen inwith your Mouth

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#tenebrae1 мин. чтения

Tenebrae

We are near,
Lord,near and at hand
Handled already,
Lord,clawed and clawing as thoughthe body of each of us wereyour body,

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#halme1 мин. чтения

Halme Der Nacht

She combs her hair, like the dead are combed,
She carries the blue fragments under her robe
She bears the fragment-world on a single skein
She knows the words, but she only beams

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#twelve years1 мин. чтения

Twelve Years

The linethat remained, thatbecame true:


yourhouse in Paris — becomethe alterpiece of your hands

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#i hear1 мин. чтения

I Hear

I hear, the Axe has flowered,
I hear, the Place is un-nameable,
I hear, the Bread, that looks on him,heals the Hanged-Man,the Bread, his Wife baked for him,
I hear, they name Lifeour sole Refuge

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