Bubblehammerblog

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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