It's probably coincidental that the second poem I'm presenting here in it's entirety is also a masterpiece about Death. I was struck on my first reading by Larkin's Aubade, realising immediately that I'd come upon a great work of art. Such sudden recognitions happen seldom in a lifetime. These moments are what poetry and song are for - music and voices that summon what people used to call grace, that leave you wondering where to direct your gratitude for such a gift.
Like Larkin's poem, Paul Celan's Todesfuge needs no commentary or explanation, both poems are unflinching marvels of directness and clarity. Maybe you should skip my forthcoming ramblings and gropings and simply scoll down to read Celan's poem.
Paul Celan's name came up not long ago in the course of my reading around Martin Heidegger. I knew of Celan's reputation, but wasn't familiar with his work. All I knew of Celan was that he was a German speaking Jewish poet celebrated throughout Europe, that he was a sometime admirer of Heidegger, that his parents had been murdered by the Nazis, and he had spent time in Nazi labour camps, and that after the Second World War he'd visited Heidegger in Freiburg, and been given the opportunity to seek of an explanation for Heidegger's turn to National Socialism in 1933. I also knew that he had got no such explanation from the great philosopher. No one ever did.
Great philosopher? Clearly, many people have thought so. The figure of Martin Heidegger bestrides 20th Century European intellectual life like no other. It's not possible to understand the intellectual climate of modern Europe without engaging with Heidegger's radical critique of modernity. The troubling thing is that it's difficult to see what possible connexion there could be between Heidegger's finely wrought philosophy, with it's celebration of the pre-socratics, and poets such as Hölderlin, and the squalid racism and power worship of the Nazis. Didn't Heidegger think that modern technology, and the instrumental reasoning that makes it possible, were a terrible error? How could he reconcile this with support for National Socialism, the bringer of mechanised death to Europe? Also, Heidegger was the only philosopher or artist of any stature to throw in his lot with the Nazis - Louis Ferdinand Céline's fascism was a symptom of a head injury, while the Nazis pet philosopher Alfred Rosenburg was a bufoon.
In 1957 Heidegger sat in the front row at a reading of poems given by Celan at Freiburg University. The reception given to Celan's poems, which would've included Todesfuge, was rapturous. Impressed, Heidegger invited Celan to spend time at his retreat in the Black Forest. Celan accepted, though obviously this must have been difficult for him given Heidegger's past. The poet and the philosopher wandered the forest pathways. Neither has left any account of what was discussed. Celan later sent Heidegger a very cryptic poem, which the philosopher proudly showed to other visitors to his retreat.
I'm not the only one intrigued by this meeting. I found an Australian radio presentation that bravely attempts to imagine what might have been said. You can listen to it HERE
You should also listen to Todesfuge in the original German. You'll find a version HERE
Hearing the masterpiece in the original it becomes clear that it's not a fugue but a tango. 'Death Tango' was Celan's first title for the poem.
Todesfuge
Black Milk of Daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at noon and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we dig at a Grave in the Air there one lies unconfined
A Man lives in the House he plays with the Serpents he
writes
he writes while it falls dark over Germany your golden
Hair Margerete
he writes and steps from the House and they’re shining the Stars he
whistles his Jews up to dig at a Grave in the Earth
he commands us to strike up the Dance.
Black Milk of Daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and noon we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A Man lives in the House he plays with the Serpents he
writes
he writes while it falls dark over Germany your golden
Hair Margerete
Your ashen Hair Shulamith we dig at a Grave in the
Air there one lies unconfined
He cries dig the soil deeper you there you others sing out and
play
he grabs the Steel at his Belt he waves it his Eyes are
blue
dig your Spades deeper you there you others play on for
the Dance
Black Milk of Daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon and morning we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a Man lives in the House your golden hair Margarete
your ashen Hair Shulamith he plays with the Serpents
He cries play Death more sweetly Death is a Master from
Germany
He cries stroke the Strings more darkly you’ll rise like Smoke in
the Air
then a Grave you’ll 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 evening and morning we drink and we drink
Death is a Master from Germany his Eye is blue
he strikes you with leaden Bullets he strikes you true
a Man lives in the House your golden Hair Margarete
he sets his Dogs onto us and he grants us a Grave in the Air
he plays with the Serpents and dreams Death is a Master
from Germany
your golden Hair Margarete
your ashen Hair Shulamith
Translated by A.S.Klein at Poetry in Translation
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I was carrying a large ripsaw on my shoulder because I'd just borrowed it from my mate, call him Rafiq. He's a plumber. When he's finished work he likes to go straight upstairs to a bedroom and smoke heroin. His missis complains about him sitting on the bed in his filthy overalls, getting the black soot from the bottom of the tinfoil all over their bedspread. The pillows sometimes.
I sit with him now and then on the edge of the bed. He hands me a roll of foil and makes a rolling gesture with his forefinger. This particular day he'd scored on the way home from work and had a half ounce lump. We sat smoking for about an hour, Rafiq tossing noggins onto my foil, discussing matters relating to crime and criminals. His missis, a bustling, tidy, good natured woman with traditional values, probably put her head around the door, then went downstairs tut tutting.
As I was leaving, Rafiq reached into a Kellogg's Cornflakes box and brought out one of his foil tubes. The box is full of them, they all have a thick crust of melted heroin on the inside of the tube. The tubes are his emergency stash. He bit off a chunk from the lump of block and handed it to me along with the tube. I picked up the ripsaw from the kitchen, where Rafiq's missis was washing the dishes. She tut tutted as I went through the door.
I knew there'd been a shooting in Sharrow that afternoon, so when I saw the police cars at the bottom of the hill I wasn't suprised. When I got closer I saw that four scuffers had a tall black youth up against one of the cars. They were holding him while one of them went through his pockets.
I didn't expect the scuffers to pay me any attention, but as I approached one of them began to walk towards me with his arms raised. I was going to be stopped, so I deftly took the tube and the noggin from jeans pocket and flipped them onto the pavement behind me. There was the barest sound as they bounced under a parked car.
'Would you just come and stand beside the car please sir. And pick up what you've just thrown under that vehicle.'
Another scuffer came over and led me by the oxter towards the police car, while the other got on his knees with a torch and searched under the car. Within seconds he was holding the tube and noggin on the palm of his hand and presenting them under my nose.
'These are what you chucked under the car then sir.'
'I've never seen them before in my life. What are they?'
He was Asian, had a rather pleasant face, and I thought he was a bit short for a scuffer. He smiled.
'I heard them drop behind you. I'm not daft sir. I know when someone's got rid.'
'It's not mine. What is it? Why am I being stopped?'
'Section 60 sir. We're stopping and searching everyone in the area.' He sniffed the tube and passed it to his mate. 'Heroin.'
'What's Section 60?'
He looked up at the night sky as though there were something printed on it. 'Section 60 provides for a situation where a serious incident has taken place, and the Assistant Chief Constable or above signs an order requiring that for a certain period officers search everyone found on the streets in a designated area.'
'I've never heard of it. When was this dreamed up?'
'I'm detaining you on suspicion of possession of a Class A drug sir.'
'This is scandalous. When did they pass laws giving these sweeping powers to the police? I'm just a passer-by.'
The other scuffer had the boot of the police car open, and was dropping the tube and the noggin into an evidence bag. Soon I was in the back seat of a police car, handcuffed next to the tall youth. 'Outrageous. Section bloody 60. Searching members of the public and bungling them into the backs of police cars. Handcuffed. Where we going anyway?'
The short scuffer was in the front passenger seat, my ripsaw on his lap, he turned and mentioned some place I'd never heard of. In a chatty sort of way, with lots of smiles, he explained the situation as he saw it. We both knew the heroin was mine, so why didn't I just own up to it? 'Hardly the crime of the century, is it sir?'. Were I to admit it was mine I'd just be a case of filling in a few forms, followed by a caution, and we could both be back on our way in a hour or so. Otherwise, it could all become a bit more drawn out. 'Hardly the crime of the century is it?'
We drove though the night for a good twenty minutes to the outskirts of the city. I'd no idea where we were going. Then we pulled into a wired compound, with a big fortress like building such as you might expect to see in Ulster. We were led through a series of thick electronic doors. Loud buzzers sounded, cameras followed us down long windowless corridors.
We were led into an office, the handcuffs were taken off, and they sat us on a bench.
'How long, you say?' I asked the short copper.
'Two hours, tops. Leave it with me', he said, then went through a door.
He was back about an hour later. He'd been to a canteen and was finishing off a sandwich. Then we sat at a desk, the evidence bag with my tube and noggin in it between us. He had a sheet of paper and was getting ready write. I mentioned a solicitor. He looked disppointed, and explained that at this time a solicitor could take hours to get here. Why didn't I just own up to the heroin, then he could have a word with his sergeant, and we could both get off home? I said I felt a bit uncomfortable acquiring a criminal record in such a peremptory manner. I was thinking of applying for a job at the Post Office, I lied.
'Well, sir', he smiled, putting down his pen, 'it's your time. I mean, I get paid for this, so it's all the same to me. You could be here all night in a cell.'
I coughed up to possession. He wrote some stuff down, and I signed it. Then I was taken back to the bench. Two hours later the short copper reappeared and stood next to me before a tall counter while a sergeant behind it read something aloud from a sheet of paper. The sergeant handed me back my ripsaw, and I was led back down the long corridors, buzzed through the electronic doors, and out into roaring glare of the night.
I hadn't a clue where I was, and couldn't recall the name of this police fort. I couldn't make out where the main road was, so didn't know which direction to set off in. I stood there for a good half hour, freezing cold in the drizzle and wind. When two scuffers emerged from the building I asked them for a lift back to the city, explaining that I couldn't walk the streets, lost, in the middle of the night, carrying a big ripsaw. They obliged, even dropping me off at my front door.
This is how I became a Home Office registered drug addict.
A week or so later I got a letter from some agency or other summoning me to an appointment. I noticed the words 'Substance Misuse' on the letterhead. A photostated map was enclosed. The letter explained that if I failed to attend the appointment I would be arrested.
I wore my dark blue woollen Paul Smith three piece suit to the appointment, light grey button down collared shirt with an olive green silk tie, Hugo Boss black brogues, and carried a black calfskin leather satchel over my shoulder. I'd splashed my upper body liberally with Crabtree and Evelyn's Extract of Jamaican Khus-Khus. My interviewer was a talkative woman of twenty-five, wearing a very short tight navy skirt and purple stockings. I didn't follow much of what she said to me, but I produced a preposterous lie for every question she asked. When I elaborated on the social implications of Section 60 she seemed genuinely concerned.
The next day I was at a chemist's shop cashing a script for Deathamoan, 70ml a day. Of course, I don't drink this filthy stuff. But there are people who are prepared to do so, and thank me for selling it to them at the going price of £10 for a 100ml, bringing in an extra income of around £50 a week. Modest, but not inconsiderable. You see, I managed to make Section 60 work for me.
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