#vipers - Hello Poetry

Todesfugue ("Death Fugue") by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry. Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts

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Mar 11, 2020

Mar 11, 2020 at 11:03 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Paul Celan "Death Fugue" translation

Todesfugue ("Death Fugue") by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” Paul Celan (1920-1970) was a Romanian Jew who wrote poems in German. He survived the Holocaust, despite the loss of his mother and father, to become one of the major German-language poets of the post–World War II era. His parents' deaths and the horrors of the Holocaust have been called the "defining forces" in Celan's poetry. Keywords/Tags: Paul Celan, Holocaust poems, Holocaust poetry, Shoah, German, translation, black, milk, drink, vipers, serpents, hounds, grave, graves, golden, hair, Margarete, Shulamith, sing, dance, Death, master, Germany, Nazis, racism, antisemitism, injustice, brutality, genocide, ethnic cleansing, World War II, world conflicts

43

**Twin vipers on the windowsill chasing young ****** moons send a shadow off to fetch me gnashing gears 'tween ink skin skewing snake tales so that the venom won't kiss my cheek g o o d n i g h t .**

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Jun 22, 2015

Jun 22, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC

Skaidrum

Don't look now, but there's----

**Twin vipers on the windowsill chasing young ****** moons send a shadow off to fetch me gnashing gears 'tween ink skin skewing snake tales so that the venom won't kiss my cheek g o o d n i g h t .**

13

No, mother, I am not The fairy tale girl with vipers sliding from her throat; But rather, the vipers coil In the pit of my stomach where my anger would rot; So I dip my words in their poison Lest it eats a hole in my skeleton; Lest the world should see The viper's nest inside of me.

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Apr 24, 2017

Apr 24, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC

girloutofmyth

No, mother, I am not...

No, mother, I am not The fairy tale girl with vipers sliding from her throat; But rather, the vipers coil In the pit of my stomach where my anger would rot; So I dip my words in their poison Lest it eats a hole in my skeleton; Lest the world should see The viper's nest inside of me.

8

its a vipers nest, and they are on the lookout -to strike whenever they can

0

Mar 6

Mar 6, 2026 at 6:58 AM UTC

nivek

vipers along the path

its a vipers nest, and they are on the lookout -to strike whenever they can

2