Death Fugue Poem by Paul Celan

Paul Celan

Paul Celan

(Cernăuţi, Bukovin) Chernivtsi, Ukraine

Death Fugue

Rating: 4.0


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 night
we drink you in the morning at noon we drink you at
sundown
we drink and we drink you
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents
he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair
Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the breezes
there one lies unconfined

He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you
others sing now and play
he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his
eyes are blue
jab deper you lot with your spades you others play
on for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at at noon in the morning we drink you
at sundown
we drink and we drink you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents
He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master
from Germany
he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then
as smoke you will rise into air
then a grave you will have in the clouds there one
lies unconfined

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink
and we drink you
death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in
the air
He plays with the serpents and daydreams death is
a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith


Translated by Michael Hamburger

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Fabrizio Frosini 20 May 2015

Deathfugue '' Hamburger’s translation of ''man'' into ''one'' provides an uncomfortable answer to this question. By differentiating the ''one'' from the ''you'' early in the poem, Hamburger makes it even more clear in the latter parts of the poem that there is a distinction between what could happen to anyone versus what is happening to the we, the speakers, the labor camp prisoners. ''Then a grave you will have in the clouds'' Hamburger translates, the ''you'' spoken to the Jews by the camp guard, ''there one lies unconfined''. A crucial placement of ''one'' Hamburger creates a distance between the grave that ''you'' are digging and the instruction that anyone can lie in it, unconfined. This leaves room in the sky not only for the Jewish prisoners who are digging the grave —their grave— but for the guard, for his serpents, for Margarete, for Shulamith, for Celan, for his readers. Because the grave has been dug by the Jews, with day after day of forced labor, then it should belong to the Jews, and they should find the comfort of lying there no longer chained, imprisoned, or confined. However, the discomfort rooted so deeply in this ''one'' little word is that Hamburger suggests they might inevitably share this grave, this death, with those experiencing the Holocaust opposing them, whether through action or through written word. Uncomfortably, unconventionally, Hamburger lets ''der Mann'' lie beside ''seine Juden'' even in the afterlife. '' [Goodrich, J., Rhyme or Reason? : Successfully Translating the Poetry of Paul Celan,2008]

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Fabrizio Frosini 20 May 2015

Deathfugue In Celan’s ''Todesfuge'', Celan presents his readers in his opening two lines with four different times of the day. A reader understands that this 'black milk' is forcefully constant yet darkly discomforting, and its repetition scores the image of black milk into nearly every stanza. Though they might come across as merely subtle differences, the translations of these pairs —''evening'' and ''midday''; ''sundown'' and ''noon''— structure the time and place around which the poem centers. Felstiner’s translations suggest general times. Evening and midday blend ranges of hours together, without specificity. Oppositely, Hamburger’s translations are more definite. His ''sundown'' and ''noon'' provide exact times in the day in which ''we'' drink the black milk, almost like clockwork. Rather than the hours that pass through the evening, Hamburger’s ''we'' drinks the black milk at precisely sundown; rather than the hours surrounding midday, Hamburger’s ''we'' drinks the black milk at precisely noon. The rigidity, the exactness, of Hamburger’s word choices hint at the structure present in the camp system —the wake up call, the evening roll call, and the slim rationings of food at specific times during the day— and therefore offer the reader a more uncomfortable, somewhat tangible sense of the activities of the camp and of the Jewish experiences there. [Goodrich, J., Rhyme or Reason? : Successfully Translating the Poetry of Paul Celan,2008]

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Fabrizio Frosini 20 May 2015

''Todesfuge'' is an 'expression born of the poet’s experience of the crisis of language, the imminence of silence, and the magic of the word' (Weimar 94)

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Fabrizio Frosini 18 May 2015

I've written a poem, 'ASHEN HAIR', which is sort of humble tribute to Paul Celan's masterpiece, TODESFUGE.. hoping that readers can catch a glimpse of that ''your ashen hair Sulamith'' that reverberates in my verse.. Fabrizio Frosini

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Fabrizio Frosini 21 April 2015

I prefer the original German text - of course! :) - and the one in English translated by John Felstiner: TODESFUGE Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sic nachts wir trinken und trinken wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei er pfeift seine Juden hervor lässt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends wir trinken und trinken ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen * * * Er ruft spielt süsser den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith DEATHFUGUE Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night we drink and we drink we shovel a grave in the air where you won't lie too cramped A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling he whistles his hounds to stay close he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground he commands us play up for the dance Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening we drink and we drink A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta Your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air where you won't lie too cramped He shouts dig this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are so blue stick your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening we drink and we drink a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margareta your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers * * * He shouts play death more sweetly this Death is a master from Deutschland he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise up as smoke to the sky you'll then have a grave in the clouds where you won't lie too cramped Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air he plays with his vipers and daydreams der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith

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Fabrizio Frosini 10 December 2017

1. on the Holocaust theme, a poem by Barbara Sonek: Holocaust We played, we laughed we were loved. We were ripped from the arms of our parents and thrown into the fire. We were nothing more than children.

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Fabrizio Frosini 10 December 2017

2. We had a future. We were going to be lawyers, rabbis, wives, teachers, mothers. We had dreams, then we had no hope. We were taken away in the dead of night like cattle in cars, no air to breathe smothering, crying, starving, dying. Separated from the world to be no more. From the ashes, hear our plea. This atrocity to mankind can not happen again. Remember us, for we were the children whose dreams and lives were stolen away. (Barbara Sonek)

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Bernard F. Asuncion 06 December 2017

Such an interesting write by Paul Celan as translated by Michael Hamburger👍👍👍

2 1 Reply
Edward Kofi Louis 06 December 2017

Black milk! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

1 1 Reply
D Priyanka Singh 06 December 2017

we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined Beautiful poem shared. 10

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Paul Celan

Paul Celan

(Cernăuţi, Bukovin) Chernivtsi, Ukraine
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