A song at the year’s end

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:
logy for the last

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 will undergo a transformation. In addition to a change in title, the focus will change to reflect my literary interests. You will find me under “Things whole and not whole”.

With best regards,



One Response

  1. Spies should read more poems.

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