Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of just such a turn? And since the strange, the abyss and Medusa’s head, the abyss and… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk: then… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.' — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
“Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes you lay the table of love: a bed between summer… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
Poetry is perhaps this: an Atemwende, a turning of our breath. Who knows, perhaps poetry goes its way—the way of art—for the sake of… — Paul Celan Copy Share Image
