O Little Root of a Dream

O little root of a dream
you hold me here
no longer visible to anyone,
undermined by blood,
that there may be speech, of earth,
property of death.
Curve a face
here, where you read me blind,
of ardor, of things with eyes, even even
to the letter.
here, where you
refute me,

Reproduced from The Griffin Poetry Prize Anthology: Selections from the 2001 Shortlist, published by House of Anansi Press. Originally from Glottal Stop: 101 Poems by Paul Celan. Copyright © 2000 by translators Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved.

No comments:

Post a Comment