Paul Celan

(23 November 1920 - 20 April 1970 / (Cernăuţi, Bukovin) Chernivtsi, Ukraine)

Paul Celan Poems

1. On My Right 11/23/2011
2. With The Voice 11/23/2011
3. The Poles 11/23/2011
4. Whorish Other-When 11/23/2011
5. The Straitening 11/23/2011
6. Tallow Lamp 11/23/2011
7. The Trumpet-Part 11/23/2011
8. Stuttered-Over-Again World 11/23/2011
9. Only When 11/23/2011
10. Illegibility 11/23/2011
11. Alchemical 11/23/2011
12. There Was Earth 11/23/2011
13. To Stand In The Shadow 11/23/2011
14. Tenebrae 11/23/2011
15. Ice, Eden 11/23/2011
16. With Every Thought 11/23/2011
17. Aspen Tree 11/23/2011
18. Afternoon Of Circus And Citadel 11/23/2011
19. When You Lie 11/23/2011
20. I Hear 11/23/2011
21. Flower 11/23/2011
22. Homecoming 11/23/2011
23. Mandorla 11/23/2011
24. Little Night 11/23/2011
25. Count The Almonds 11/23/2011
26. I Can Still See You 11/23/2011
27. This Evening Also 1/13/2003
28. Twelve Years 1/13/2003
29. O Little Root Of A Dream 1/20/2003
30. Landscape 1/13/2003
31. In Front Of A Candle 1/25/2003
32. Night Ray 1/13/2003
33. Crystal 1/13/2003
34. Your Hand 1/25/2003
35. Corona 1/13/2003
36. Fugue Of Death 1/20/2003
37. Psalm 1/25/2003
38. Death Fugue 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Paul Celan

Death Fugue

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink it and drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents
he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden
hair Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are
flashing he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a
grave
he commands us strike up for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at ...

Read the full of Death Fugue

Night Ray

Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one:
to her I send the coffin of lightest wood.
Waves billow round it as round the bed of our dream in Rome;
it wears a white wig as I do and speaks hoarsely:
it talks as I do when I grant admittance to hearts.
It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn
when I stopped as a tourist in Lateland and wrote my letters
to morning.

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