23 January 2020

As global leaders gather in Jerusalem …

Landscape with urn beings.
Conversations
from smoke mouth to smoke mouth.
They eat:
the madhouse-truffle, a slice
of unconcealed poetry,
found tongue and tooth.
A tear rolls back in its eye.
The orphaned, left
half of the scallop-
shell – they gave it to you,
then they bound you –
illuminates the space listening:
the clinker game against death
can begin.

“Landschaft” by Paul Celan and below the opening, repetitive, lines of his ‘Death Fugue’ …

Black milk of the morning we drink it evenings
we drink it at noon and at morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink …

And these words:

I know,
I know and you know, we knew,
we did not know, we
were here and not there,
and occasionally, when
only Nothingness stood between us, we
found our way to each other.

In 1982 Jacques Derrida wrote: And near the end, at the bottom of the last page, it was as though you had signed with these words: “There are cinders there,” “Cinders there are.” I read, reread them, it was so simple, and yet I knew that I was not there; without waiting for me the phrase withdrew into its secret.

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