Frankfurt, September
by Paul Celan
translated by Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh
Blind wall-space
bearded by brilliances.
A dream of a cockchafer
sheds light on it.
Behind that, raster of lamentations,
Freud’s forehead opens up:
the tear
compacted of silence
breaks into a proposition:
“Psycho-
logy for the last
time.”
The pseudo-jackdaw
(cough-caw’s double)
is breakfasting.
The glottal stop is breaking
into song.
—
Thank you for your interest in my blog. In 2009, this blog [...]
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