Free Breathturn into Timestead by Paul Celan Page B

bloom—,
    pore-eyed,
    pain-scaly, on
    horseback.
    Â 
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    T HE UPWARD-STANDING COUNTRY ,
    cracked,
    with the flightroot, to which
    stonebreath accrues.
    Here also
    the seas rush in, out of the steep ravine,
    and your speech-
    pocked, panic
    heretic
    cruises.
    Â 
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    Â 
    T HE PUSHED-AROUND
    ever-light, loam yellow,
    behind
    planetheads.
    Invented
    looks, see-
    scars,
    carved into the spaceship,
    beg for earth-
    mouths.
    Â 
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    Â 
    A SHGLORY behind
    your shaken-knotted
    hands at the threeway.
    Pontic erstwhile: here,
    a drop,
    on
    the drowned rudder blade,
    deep
    in the petrified oath,
    it roars up.
    (On the vertical
    breathrope, in those days,
    higher than above,
    between two painknots, while
    the glossy
    Tatarmoon climbed up to us,
    I dug myself into you and into you.)
    Ash-
    glory behind
    you threeway
    hands.
    The cast-in-front-of-you, from
    the East, terrible.
    No one
    bears witness for the
    witness.
    Â 
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    Â 

IV
    T HE WRITTEN hollows itself, the
    spoken, seagreen,
    burns in the bays,
    in the
    liquified names
    the dolphins dart,
    in the eternalized Nowhere, here,
    in the memory of the over-
    loud bells in—where only?,
    who
    pants
    in this
    shadow-quadrat, who
    from beneath it
    shimmers, shimmers, shimmers?
    Â 
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    Â 
    C ELLO-ENTRY
    from behind pain:
    The powers, escheloned
    as the counterheavens,
    roll inexplicables before
    approach lane and arrival,
    the
    scaled evening
    stands full of lungbranches,
    two
    blaze-clouds of breath
    dig in the book
    which the temple-din opened,
    something comes true,
    twelve times glows
    the arrow-riddled yonder,
    she, black-
    biled, drinks
    the blackbiled’s seed,
    all is less, than
    it is,
    all is more.
    Â 
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    Â 
    FRIHED
    In the house of the doubled delusion,
    where the stone boats fly
    over
    Whiteking’s pier, toward the secrets,
    where finally with
    cut cord the
    man-of-war-word cruises,
    I, reed-pith nourished, am
    in you, on
    wild ducks’ ponds,
    I sing—
    what do I sing?
    The saboteur’s
    coat
    with the red, with the white
    circles around the
    bullet
    holes
    â€”through them
    you sight the with us driving
    free-
    starry Above—
    covers us now,
    the verdigris-nobility from the quay,
    with its burned-brick thoughts
    round about the forehead,
    heaps the spirit round, the spindrift,
    quick
    the noises wither
    this side and that side of mourning,
    the crown’s
    closer-
    sailing pus-prong
    in the eye of one
    born crooked
    writes poems
    in Danish.
    Â 
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    Â 
    T HE SILICIFIED SAYING in the fist,
    you forget that you forget,
    blinking, the punctuation marks
    crystallize at the wrist,
    through the earth
    cleft to the crest
    the pauses come riding,
    there, by
    the sacrifice-bush,
    where memory catches fire,
    the One Breath
    seizes you.
    Â 
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    Â 
    W HERE ?
    In night’s friable matter.
    In grief-debris and -drift,
    in slowest uproar,
    in the wisdom-shaft Never.
    Waterneedles
    sew the burst
    shadow together—it fights its way
    deeper down,
    free.
    Â 
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    Â 
    K ING’S RAGE , stonemaned, up front.
    And the prayers,
    gone up in smoke—
    stallions, pain-
    accrued, the
    untamable-obedient
    irregulars:
    psalm-hoofed, singing across
    open-, open-, open-
    leafed Biblemountains,
    toward the clear, also
    clattering,
    mighty seagerms.
    Â 
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    Â 
    SOLVE
    De-easterned tomb-
    tree, split into
    firebrands:
    past the Poison-
    Palatinates, past the cathedrals,
    upstream, down-
    stream rafted
    by the tiny-flaring, by the
    free
    punctuation mark of the
    script salvaged and dis-
    solved into the count-
    less to-be-
    named un-
    pronounceable
    names.
    Â 
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    Â 
    COAGULA
    Your wound
    too, Rosa.
    And the hornslight of your
    Romanian buffaloes
    in star’s stead above the
    sandbed, in the
    talking, red-
    ember-mighty
    alembic.
    Â 
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    Â 
    S KULLTHINKING , dumb, on the arrowtrace.
    Your song of
    song, into the hard
    February-spark clamped,
    half-shattered
    jaw.
    The one, still
    to be traveled