Poetry is a sort of homecoming.
Paul CelanRead
With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.
Interpretation
The quote suggests that our perspectives and expressions can unlock deeper emotions and truths that are often hidden or silenced.
Paul Celan's quote reflects on the transformative power of language and expression. It implies that just as a key can unlock a door, the way we communicate—our 'key'—can reveal the layers of our experiences and emotions, many of which remain unacknowledged or dormant ('the snow of what’s silenced'). The imagery of snow and blood suggests the interplay between beauty and pain, where our words carry the weight of our lived experiences and evoke a range of emotions.
In practice
In a poetry reading to evoke the depth of emotional experience.
Poetry is a sort of homecoming.
A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.
Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle
Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.
no one bears witness for the witness
in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air
In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches; in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat. The blood that runs is dark fruit- An effect, a cosmetic. You smile. No, it is not fatal.
n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s
Under your skin the moon is alive.
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
My tears are like the quiet drift of petals from some magic rose; and all my grief flows from the rift of unremembered skies and snows. I think that if I touched the earth, it would crumble; it is so sad and beautiful, so tremulously like a dream.
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