li po
pg 4
Celan's lyrics seek "and addressable thou": the poet himself, his mother, wife, or sons, a loved one or friend, the Jewish dead, their God, Osip Mandelstam, Nelly Sachs, Rembrandt, Rosa Luxemburg, Spinoza, Saint Francis, Queen Esther, Prague's Rabbi Loew, King Lear, a plant or stone, a word, the Word, the Hewbrew letter Bet, Babel, or often something indeterminable, present only because the speaker calls it du. That word is voiced some 1,300 times in over three decades ofverse. "Hear deep in / with your mouth," a late lyric ends, and Celan's last poem takes the refrain "You read."
pg 5
My body's been
dissolving into this
pour of whimwham
moon floating in 10,000
jittering flashes of river
constancy.
pg 7
Arriving this far
so far
from dust
so close to clean
but this mind builds the city
here
on mountain tops, of
dust the weight of hate.
Like a sparrow
I'll descend to brush the mile wide
thick deep stone,
grain by grain of dust
to dust.
At time
I feel no hurry
to get there
when I do.
pg (?)
This morning on this toilet, trying to shit this transformation of the universe into this transcient pool of hidden water--the fields of grain and herds of cows and gardens of spices and factories of workers that went into Yumiko's raviolis last night--I give up and will carry this body of the Buddha for a few more hours, letting it culminate late into the event of perfection I can imagine will be similar to this fully formed failure.
pg 11
(cross outs)
WRITTEN [ ] TEMPLE
[ ]
you can reach out and touch [ ]
[ ] a low whisper,
[ ] I'll wake the people of heaven.
pg 16
Sadness and beauty are
too easy to contrive; I
wash my feet and, wet,
again go walking.
Now, the paradox is
where can I find
ugliness?
My point?
I wash my feet
in the stream and, wet,
again go walking.
Everything is delusion--
the path remains with me.
This is so
me. Why I love
sadness and beauty.
pg 17
A torn piece of gold
paper from a cigarette box.
I place it on my tongue--
tasting of spiky sweetness--
and then stick it
to the train door's glass.
This is my monument
to you, this act of
temporary vandalism;
the poetics of emptiness
in full play.
Where it dries, falls and floats unknown,
your meaning appears
lost in the context
of
pg 19
My friend,
moving amidst
Buddha Mountain treasures,
sleeping in a different valley
each year;
this is the way
to clean the senses and mind.
Mists settle on forms,
but leave them
shining.
12.5.2
pg 22
(in right margin)
Here
meeting
a summer
peach
sweet
split
for two
one knife
one plate
seed
now
pg 23
(cross outs)
WRITTEN WHILE WANDERING THE WHITE RIVER IN NAN-YANG, AFTER CLIMBING ONTO THE ROCKS
[ ] up [ ] River origins,
[ ] that human wor[ ]d's gone:
[ ] beauty.
river and sky a vast [ ] clarity.
Ocean clouds [ ] the eye [ ] well,
and the mind idly [ ] wanders.
Chanting, I [ ] out a [ ] sun,
then return moon [ ] to a [ ] hut.
pg 24
With nothing to sing
I find the melody
nowhere;
where I sit,
my heart and breath the lined page.
Nothing opens
a mouth
and silence pours forth.
Were I
to translate it would mean
that which I would have sung
without it--something about
the wind, the moon and being lost--
but hardly at the same volume.
2.5.3
pg 25
From distant cloud mountains
you arrive,
leaving only a ripple as
trace of your path.
All the way here
you paddled enough
to tune the river as
perfect silence.
Like a bird's reflection
across a river,
you hold the way as
sacred--
touching surfaces so softly
no ripple appears.
pg 27
(cross outs)
A SUMMER [ ] MOUNTAIN
[ ] a white-feather [ ]
[ ] I go naked; [ ] green forests.
[ ] my cap [ ] a cliff,
[ ] my hair [ ] pine winds.
pg 31
(cross outs)
Waiting for what Do Come
in blue silk . . .
that mountain flowers
the perfect window; dusk.
wandering back again
as spring breezes--
we're each other.
pg 33
There's nothing left
and nowhere
to leave it, thus
to find you
I don't search
for scraps of gold paper
or across open envelops.
Homeless,
I erase you address
from my book
and kiss the empty page.
pg 37 (?)
Turning dharma flowers and bowing
to future families,
this rock knows my name.
It's engraved
all over me in the light
brush of sutras.
Pine needles bristle
and the man who gathers up the offerings
wears one green glove
on his off-box hand.
My bib is getting faded.
I must be
dissolving from this world;
at this rate
only 30 million year left
to befriend every mold spore
and carve each mote of dust.
Then,
lunch.
9.1.3
pg 46
How many times
have I returned home
startled to find my key
fits and people I know
recognize me,
even leaving space
on the floor for my bed?
I've developed an art of
getting lost and part
of its beauty is this
vague aphasia of arriving.
In these trains and lines
writing the city,
I imagine pulling a sky
of concrete beneath my chin--
warm in the robes fo such
invisible brevity.
How old
is this exhalation?
Where's that boy
who cut my/our hand?
pg 47
Asleep
on the other side of the train
a woman's head lolls
to the shudder of the LoopLine.
Her mouth is open
in an endless "Ah."
Her finger keeps
a place in her book.
I don't imagine the world
she is dreaming.
Last year I would have
been so arrogant.
Today it is enough
to see her thumb tap twice
and know she believes her lies
as much as I.
10.19.05
Celan's lyrics seek "and addressable thou": the poet himself, his mother, wife, or sons, a loved one or friend, the Jewish dead, their God, Osip Mandelstam, Nelly Sachs, Rembrandt, Rosa Luxemburg, Spinoza, Saint Francis, Queen Esther, Prague's Rabbi Loew, King Lear, a plant or stone, a word, the Word, the Hewbrew letter Bet, Babel, or often something indeterminable, present only because the speaker calls it du. That word is voiced some 1,300 times in over three decades ofverse. "Hear deep in / with your mouth," a late lyric ends, and Celan's last poem takes the refrain "You read."
pg 5
My body's been
dissolving into this
pour of whimwham
moon floating in 10,000
jittering flashes of river
constancy.
pg 7
Arriving this far
so far
from dust
so close to clean
but this mind builds the city
here
on mountain tops, of
dust the weight of hate.
Like a sparrow
I'll descend to brush the mile wide
thick deep stone,
grain by grain of dust
to dust.
At time
I feel no hurry
to get there
when I do.
pg (?)
This morning on this toilet, trying to shit this transformation of the universe into this transcient pool of hidden water--the fields of grain and herds of cows and gardens of spices and factories of workers that went into Yumiko's raviolis last night--I give up and will carry this body of the Buddha for a few more hours, letting it culminate late into the event of perfection I can imagine will be similar to this fully formed failure.
pg 11
(cross outs)
WRITTEN [ ] TEMPLE
[ ]
you can reach out and touch [ ]
[ ] a low whisper,
[ ] I'll wake the people of heaven.
pg 16
Sadness and beauty are
too easy to contrive; I
wash my feet and, wet,
again go walking.
Now, the paradox is
where can I find
ugliness?
My point?
I wash my feet
in the stream and, wet,
again go walking.
Everything is delusion--
the path remains with me.
This is so
me. Why I love
sadness and beauty.
pg 17
A torn piece of gold
paper from a cigarette box.
I place it on my tongue--
tasting of spiky sweetness--
and then stick it
to the train door's glass.
This is my monument
to you, this act of
temporary vandalism;
the poetics of emptiness
in full play.
Where it dries, falls and floats unknown,
your meaning appears
lost in the context
of
pg 19
My friend,
moving amidst
Buddha Mountain treasures,
sleeping in a different valley
each year;
this is the way
to clean the senses and mind.
Mists settle on forms,
but leave them
shining.
12.5.2
pg 22
(in right margin)
Here
meeting
a summer
peach
sweet
split
for two
one knife
one plate
seed
now
pg 23
(cross outs)
WRITTEN WHILE WANDERING THE WHITE RIVER IN NAN-YANG, AFTER CLIMBING ONTO THE ROCKS
[ ] up [ ] River origins,
[ ] that human wor[ ]d's gone:
[ ] beauty.
river and sky a vast [ ] clarity.
Ocean clouds [ ] the eye [ ] well,
and the mind idly [ ] wanders.
Chanting, I [ ] out a [ ] sun,
then return moon [ ] to a [ ] hut.
pg 24
With nothing to sing
I find the melody
nowhere;
where I sit,
my heart and breath the lined page.
Nothing opens
a mouth
and silence pours forth.
Were I
to translate it would mean
that which I would have sung
without it--something about
the wind, the moon and being lost--
but hardly at the same volume.
2.5.3
pg 25
From distant cloud mountains
you arrive,
leaving only a ripple as
trace of your path.
All the way here
you paddled enough
to tune the river as
perfect silence.
Like a bird's reflection
across a river,
you hold the way as
sacred--
touching surfaces so softly
no ripple appears.
pg 27
(cross outs)
A SUMMER [ ] MOUNTAIN
[ ] a white-feather [ ]
[ ] I go naked; [ ] green forests.
[ ] my cap [ ] a cliff,
[ ] my hair [ ] pine winds.
pg 31
(cross outs)
Waiting for what Do Come
in blue silk . . .
that mountain flowers
the perfect window; dusk.
wandering back again
as spring breezes--
we're each other.
pg 33
There's nothing left
and nowhere
to leave it, thus
to find you
I don't search
for scraps of gold paper
or across open envelops.
Homeless,
I erase you address
from my book
and kiss the empty page.
pg 37 (?)
Turning dharma flowers and bowing
to future families,
this rock knows my name.
It's engraved
all over me in the light
brush of sutras.
Pine needles bristle
and the man who gathers up the offerings
wears one green glove
on his off-box hand.
My bib is getting faded.
I must be
dissolving from this world;
at this rate
only 30 million year left
to befriend every mold spore
and carve each mote of dust.
Then,
lunch.
9.1.3
pg 46
How many times
have I returned home
startled to find my key
fits and people I know
recognize me,
even leaving space
on the floor for my bed?
I've developed an art of
getting lost and part
of its beauty is this
vague aphasia of arriving.
In these trains and lines
writing the city,
I imagine pulling a sky
of concrete beneath my chin--
warm in the robes fo such
invisible brevity.
How old
is this exhalation?
Where's that boy
who cut my/our hand?
pg 47
Asleep
on the other side of the train
a woman's head lolls
to the shudder of the LoopLine.
Her mouth is open
in an endless "Ah."
Her finger keeps
a place in her book.
I don't imagine the world
she is dreaming.
Last year I would have
been so arrogant.
Today it is enough
to see her thumb tap twice
and know she believes her lies
as much as I.
10.19.05
posted by jerry at 8:25 PM
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