{"id":1545,"date":"2009-06-11T08:48:43","date_gmt":"2009-06-11T12:48:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/?p=1545"},"modified":"2009-06-11T08:48:43","modified_gmt":"2009-06-11T12:48:43","slug":"another-mandelstam-poem-via-celan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/another-mandelstam-poem-via-celan\/","title":{"rendered":"Another Mandelstam Poem via Celan"},"content":{"rendered":"

From Paul Celan\u2019s radio-essay on Osip Mandelstam, here is a further Mandelstam poem \u2014 a very literal translation of Celan\u2019s German version. Earlier extracts of this piece can be found here<\/a>, here<\/a> and here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

JANUARY 1, 1924<\/strong><\/p>\n

Whoever kisses time\u2019s sore brow
\nwill often, like a son, think tenderly
\nhow she, time, laid down to sleep outside
\nin high heaped wheat drifts, in the corn.<\/p>\n

Whoever has raised the century\u2019s eyelid
\n\u2013 both slumber-apples, large and heavy \u2013 ,
\nhears noise, hears the streams roar
\nthe lying times, relentlessly<\/p>\n

Imperious century, with loam-beautiful mouth
\nand two apples, asleep \u2013 yet
\nbefore it dies: to the son\u2019s hand, so shrunken,
\nit bends down its lip.<\/p>\n

Life\u2019s breath, I know, ebbs away each day,
\none more small one, a small one \u2013 and
\ndeceased is the song of mortification, loam and plague,
\nwith lead they seal your mouth.<\/p>\n

Oh loam-and-life! Oh centrury\u2019s death!
\nOnly to the one, I\u2019m afraid, does its meaning reveal itself,
\nin whom there was a smile, helpless \u2013 to the inheritor,
\nthe man who lost himself.<\/p>\n

Oh pain, oh to search for the lost word.
\noh lid and lid to raise, sick and weak,
\nfor generations, the strangest, with lime in your blood
\nto gather the grass and the weed of night!<\/p>\n

Time. The lime in the blood of the sick son
\nturns hard. Moscow, that wooden coffer, sleeps.
\nTime, the sovereign. And no escape anywhere\u2026
\nThe snow\u2019s apple-scent, as always.<\/p>\n

The sill here: I wish I could leave it.
\nWhereto? The street \u2013 darkness.
\nAnd, as if it were salt, so white, there on the pavement
\nlies my conscience, spread out before me.<\/p>\n

Through winding lanes, through slipways
\nthe journey goes, somehow:
\na bad passenger sits in a sled,
\npulls a blanket over the knees.<\/p>\n

The lanes, the shimmering lanes, the by-lanes
\nthe runners crunch\u2019s like apples under the tooth.
\nThe strap, I can\u2019t grab it,
\nit doesn\u2019t want me to, and the hand is clammy.<\/p>\n

Night, cartwoman, with what scrap and iron
\nare you rolling through Moscow?
\nFish thud here, and there, from pink houses,
\nit steams toward you \u2013 scalegold!<\/p>\n

Moscow, anew. Ah, I greet you, once more!
\nForgive, excuse \u2013 my misery wasn\u2019t very great.
\nI like to call them, as always, my brethren:
\nthe pike\u2019s saying and the hard frost!<\/p>\n

The snow in the pharmacy\u2019s raspberry light\u2026
\nA clattering, from afar, an Underwood\u2026
\nThe coachman\u2019s back\u2026 the roadway, blown away\u2026
\nWhat more do you want? They won\u2019t kill you.<\/p>\n

Winter \u2013 beauty. And skyward the white,
\nthe starmilk \u2013 it streams, streams away and blinks.
\nThe horsehair blanket crunches along the icy
\nrunners \u2013 the horsehair blanket sings!<\/p>\n

The little lanes, smoking, the petroleum, always \u2013 :
\nswallowed by snow, raspberry colored.
\nThey hear the Soviet-sonatina jingle,
\nremember the year twenty.<\/p>\n

Does it make me swear and damn?
\n\u2013 The frost\u2019s apple-scent, again \u2013
\nOh oath that I swore to the fourth estate!
\nOh my promise, heavy with tears!<\/p>\n

Oh whom will you kill? Whom will you praise?
\nAnd what lie, tell me, are you going to make up?
\nTear off this cartilage, the keys of the machine:
\nthe pike\u2019s bones you lay open.<\/p>\n

The lime in the blood of the sick son: it fades.
\nA laughter, blissful, frees itself \u2013
\nSonatas, powerful\u2026 The little sonatina
\nof the typewriter \u2013 : only its shadow!<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From Paul Celan\u2019s radio-essay on Osip Mandelstam, here is a further Mandelstam poem \u2014 a very literal translation of Celan\u2019s German version. Earlier extracts of this piece can be found here, here and here....<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[103],"tags":[583,1730],"class_list":["post-1545","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-translation","tag-osip-mandelstam","tag-paul-celan"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1545","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1545"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1545\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1545"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1545"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/pierrejoris.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1545"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}