Two Shabbats with Paul Celan
arrowy one, when you whir toward me,
I know from where,
I forget from where.
—Paul Celan, “A Ring, for Bowdrawing,” tr. by Pierre Joris
One Friday it sunned all over
the catmint and coneflowers,
then I read Celan and grew concerned.
“The stone behind the eye,”
he wrote, “it recognizes you,”
“on a Sabbath.” At first
I thought you was him but
what if you was me?
This is from “Vinegrowers,” his
last poem, worked April 1–13,
1970, in Paris. He has gone and left
the work to others, drank from
his last earthcup and leaned
into the river to be drunk instead.
Paul Celan took to the river,
returned to the elements.
I always wanted to be an element,
indisputable as stone, inarguable
as wind and water. Are you thirsty?
Are you seen by that eye-stone?
Every morning I get dressed
in memories of words that told
what every part meant: a girl’s arm,
breath, a girl’s mouth and chest.
Nothing escapes: not electrical outlets,
razors, shirts, ships, gingko trees,
god.
Snow furls down the mountain,
past the prison, river, vineyard, grocery.
Horizon-dividing. The stubblefield
cut to a quarter of itself. As soon as
I can’t see it I forget it. In the light wind
snow falls, unquestionably, up.
