I've written quite a lot about Romanian German-language poet Paul Celan over the years. In particular, more than a decade ago I published a book of versions of all the poems he'd sent - with explanations, vocabulary lists, and even (in some cases) complete dual-text translations - to his French wife, the artist Gisèle Celan-Lestrange.
Her German was too limited to understand his work fully without these aids to understanding, which makes their correspondence extremely valuable to other readers in the same position - which is pretty much everyone. He's not the easiest of writers to fathom.
The facts of his life and death can be stated simply enough:
Paul Celan was born Paul Antschel [later Ancel] in Czernovitz, Romania, to a German-speaking Jewish family ... he eventually adopted the anagram Celan as his pen name. In 1938 Celan went to Paris to study medicine, but returned to Romania before the outbreak of World War II. During the war Celan worked in a forced labor camp for 18 months; his parents were deported to a Nazi concentration camp. His father most likely died of typhus and his mother was shot after being unable to work. After escaping the labor camp, Celan lived in Bucharest and Vienna before settling in Paris. Celan was familiar with at least six languages, and fluent in Russian, French, and Romanian. In Paris, he taught German language and literature at L’École Normale Supérieure and earned a significant portion of his income as a translator, translating a wide range of work, from Robert Frost, Marianne Moore, and Emily Dickinson to Arthur Rimbaud, Antonin Artaud, and Charles Baudelaire. ...So, he was a Holocaust survivor; his parents died in the camps; he lived most of his adult life in Paris, where he worked as a teacher and a translator - with occasional visits to Germany, the only place his writing was in demand, but also the place he feared and resented the most. Like so many other victims of the Nazis, he ended up committing suicide.
Though he lived in France and was influenced by the French surrealists, he wrote his own poetry in German. His first collection of poems ... was published in Vienna in 1948; his second collection, Poppy and Memory (Mohn und Gedächtnis, 1952), brought him critical acclaim ...
While Celan is perhaps best known for his poem “Death Fugue” (or “Todesfuge”), it is not necessarily representative of his later work ... Celan received the Bremen Prize for German Literature in 1958 and the Georg Büchner Prize in 1960. He suffered from depression and killed himself in 1970.
Celan had a difficult life. It's not exactly surprising, then, that his poetry, too, was difficult. American poet Charles Bernstein has written of him:
Perhaps the greatest risk for the reading of Celan in our time is that we have venerated him … crippling exceptionalism has made his work a symbol of his fate rather than an active matrix for an ongoing poetic practice.This sense of awe, of his life-experience having somehow placed him above the scope of mere poetic appreciation - let alone criticism - is indeed an obstacle to a closer understanding of his work.- "Celan's Folds and Veils.” Textual Practice 18, 2 (Summer 2004): 200-01.
On the other hand, there may be an even greater danger in over-familiarity - the kind of critique which tries to reduce every obscurity or obstacle to understanding to the same lowest common cultural denominator. Here, for instance, is "metropolitan critic" Clive James on why we needn't take Celan's poetry too seriously:
We should remember that he was never in Majdanek or in any Vernichtungslager as such, although as a forced labourer in Romania he might as well have been.So the main reason “Todesfuge" [Death-fugue] is successful as a poem is because it "got him out of himself"? After all, what better way to sidestep all that unhealthy brooding on the past and his parents' death in the camps than by by ogling a few "beautiful girls"!
... no poem ever got quite so much force, from quite so much death, as “Todesfuge.” There are no points to be scored by calling it a great poem: of course it is. What is harder is to risk opprobrium by saying that Celan might have written more poems of its stature if he had not written so many poems about himself. His hermetic poetry no doubt reflected, and possibly controlled, his mental distress. Judging from his biography, it was a sufficient miracle that he could concentrate at all. But “Todesfuge,” by reflecting the physical destruction of its beautiful girls, got him out of himself.
I'll have more to say about “Todesfuge" - by far his most famous poem - below; for the moment, though, I can't help feeling that this summary tells us rather more about Clive James than it does Paul Celan. I particularly like the section where the smug Aussie reminds us of the true nature of the camp the poet was in - a mere Zwangsarbeitslager [forced labour camp], not the more impressive-sounding Vernichtungslager [Extermination camp]. James sums up by reminding us that:
There are no simplistic rules for poets: if there were, any duffer could write poetry. There are, however, rules of thumb, and one of the best is that getting the focus off yourself gives you the best chance of tapping your personal experience. For anyone with a personal experience like Celan’s, of course, detachment from the self would be an impertinent recommendation.Great to have that cleared up at last. We can conclude, then, that Celan's poetry (with the solitary exception of “Todesfuge") is largely unsuccessful because of his failure to get "the focus off" himself ...
Which is worse - false reverence, or philistine incomprehension (accompanied, I'm bound to suspect, by almost complete ignorance of Celan's poetry post-1948)? Is it possible to find some more manageable ground between the two?
In 2001 I wrote a kind of poem-collage called "The Britney Suite." I had two rather obsessive proccupations at the time: the Young American singer Britney Spears; and the poetry of Paul Celan. It occurred to me one day that I might combine them. They were - at least apparently - such polar opposites that something odd or arresting might take place.
I suppose, in retrospect, this might be equated with Clive James's suggestion that the relative success of "Todesfuge" as a poem was the presence in it of "beautiful girls" rather than the poet's usual gloomy self. I don't think that's quite how I meant it, though.
What was my surprise, some time later, to receive a comment on a Celan essay I'd posted online from that doyen of Celan translators and commentators, Pierre Joris!
Asked to contribute to an anthology called "My poem is my knife," Celan wrote back to the editor suggesting that for him, Celan, the poem "was a handshake" — i.e. an encounter. Which buttresses your sense of the importance of the encounter in Celan's work.I've already quoted this comment in yet another Celan essay, together with my answer:
Maybe I have spent too much time these last 40 years thinking about Celan & translating his work, & maybe Celan's work has been too essential for my own writing for me to have a detached view on this, but the association of PC with Britney Spears makes me shudder ...
I guess, in a way, that was the point I was trying to make. What ontological manoeuvrings could ever reconcile the universe of Celan with that of Britney Spears?I didn't hear anything further from Joris, but there were quite a number of interesting and supportive messages from other blog readers.
It would be a completely idle question if it didn't happen to be the universe I find myself living in every time I turn on the television or the computer ... I know it seems almost blasphemous to those who revere the memory of Celan – an attitude I sympathise with very much – but, as a writer, I guess I also have a duty to report the world I see around me. If it weren't jarring, it wouldn't make its point.
A few years later I published a post called "Collecting Paul Celan", which listed as many as possible of the materials on the poet I'd managed to access to date. Pierre Joris commented again:
looking forward to hear what you have to say about the big MERIDIAN book (took me 7 years to translate it...). Glad to have your selection of Celaniana to send people to. & thanks for the good words re my translations. Wish you could be at the performance presentation “Paul Celan—Pierre Joris: Celebrating 45 Years of Translation & Reflection” I'll be giving at harvard in November, backed by Nicole Peyrafitte's audio-visual collages.The book he's referring to is his translation of a German edition of Celan's touchstone "Meridian" speech, given when he received the prestigious Georg Büchner Prize in 1960:
Paul Celan. The Meridian: Final Version — Drafts — Materials. Ed. Bernhard Böschenstein & Heino Schmull. 1999. Trans. Pierre Joris. Stanford CA: Stanford University Press, 2011.These throwaway comments certainly can't be taken as an endorsement of my own work on Celan, but they're encouraging nevertheless, especially coming from a scholar and linguist as rigorous as Pierre Joris.
But enough of all this. Let's cut to the chase and take a look at one of Celan's poems. Not "Todesfuge" - which I've included below in a number of different versions - but one of my own favourites, written a decade or so later, in the late 1950s:
Matière de Bretagne Ginsterlich, gelb, die Hänge eitern gen Himmel, der Dorn wirbt um die Wunde, es läutet darin, es ist Abend, das Nichts rollt seine Meere zur Andacht, das Blutsegel hält auf dich zu. Trocken, verlandet das Bett hinter dir, verschilft seine Stunde, oben, beim Stern, die milchigen Priele schwatzen im Schlamm, Steindattel, unten, gebuscht, klafft ins Gebläu, eine Staude Vergänglichkeit, schön, grüsst dein Gedächtnis. (Kanntet ihr mich, Hände? Ich ging den gegabelten Weg, den ihr weisst, mein Mund spie seinen Schotter, ich ging, meine Zeit, wandernde Wächte, warf ihren Schatten - kanntet ihr mich?) Hände, die dorn- umworbene Wunde, es läutet, Hände, das Nichts, seine Meere, Hände, im Ginsterlicht, das Blutsegel hält auf dich zu. Du du lehrst du lehrst deine Hände du lehrst deine Hände du lehrst du lehrst deine Hände schlafen - Paul Celan (13/8/57)• Gorselight, yellow, slopes against the sky Thorn disinfects your wounds Ring out, it’s evening Nothing crosses the sea to pray The bloodred sheet sets sail for you Arid, dried-out, bed behind you Scar- invaded Star- embossed milky inlets in the vase Date stones underneath, furred blue tufts of forgetfulness your memory (Do you know me hands? I went by the forked route you showed me, my mouth spat pebbles, I walked through snowdrifts, shadow – do you know me?) Hands, the thorn- burnt wound rings out Hands, nothing, the sea Hands, in the gorse-light the bloody sheet sets sail for you You you teach your teach your hands you teach your hands, you teach you teach your hands to sleep
- trans. Jack Ross (9/3-29/4/10)
•
So what's all that about? When I included this translation in the essay I mentioned above, in the Australian literary magazine Rabbit, I said of it, and of Celan's work in general:
I acknowledge how allusive he is – how necessary annotations and marginal comments can be to a deeper understanding of his work. The same is true of most poets, after all. There’s a tone, an ambience which surrounds him, though – what Jorge Luis Borges (speaking of aesthetics in general) called “this imminence of a revelation that does not occur” ...The Celan family, Paul, Gisèle, and their son Eric, were, it would appear, fond of going camping in Brittany [Bretagne]. And there is something of the air of a holiday snap about this poem: the landscape descriptions - sea, yellow gorse-flowers, arid riverbeds ...
I don’t how else to explain it than by trying to show it to you in action: in that early, much-translated poem “Matiére de Bretagne” [Matter of Britain], where the props of the Tristan story (the blood-red sail, the two Iseults) are deployed to produce an almost literal sense of haunting: the ghost of a life that might have been, of a world that might not have split from top to bottom, of a man who might not have had to drown in the icy waves of the Seine.
But, being Celan, "Matter of Britain" was bound also to evoke the Arthurian legend. That, in its turn, suggested a spiritual quest - if not a grail quest, at any rate a journey through the "snow-drifts" which he tended to associate with his mother's death on the steppes.
I've always found it among of the most moving of his poems. But to be honest I'm not quite sure why. It's certainly been translated a lot, which is usually a sign that a particular poem of his (or anyone else's, for that matter) has hit a nerve.
Anyway, let's move on from that and take a look at another of his poems, "Corona" - perhaps the most famous of them all after "Todesfuge." It was composed at much the same time, in 1948. I can also recommend the fascinating podcast discussion of it by Pierre Joris, Anna Strong, and Ariel Resnikoff on the Jacket 2 website.
Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde. Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn: die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale. Im Spiegel ist Sonntag, im Traum wird geschlafen, der Mund redet wahr. Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten: wir sehen uns an, wir sagen uns Dunkles, wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis, wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln, wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes. Wir stehen umschlungen im Fenster, sie sehen uns zu von der Straße: es ist Zeit, daß man weiß! Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt, daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt. Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird. Es ist Zeit. - Paul Celan (1948)• Autumn gnaws its leaves from my hands we're friends we crack time from nutshells till it runs free time returns to its shell in the mirror it's Sunday in dreams it's sleep we mouth our truth my eye goes down to my lover's sex we look at each other darkly we mutter we love each other like poppy and memory we sleep like wine in mussel shells like the sea in the blood moon we hug in windows they watch from the street it's time they knew it's time the stone burst into flower the heart beat unrest it's time it were time It's time
- trans. Jack Ross (17/8/2006-15/4/26)
•
As well as a crown, a corona is also the ring of fire that appears when the sun is eclipsed by the moon. It reverses the normal appearance of dark and light. The inversion suggested by this "black sun" seems to be the central idea behind Celan's poem.
It's a love poem - of sorts - but clearly not a happy one. Biographical commentators will tell you that it was inspired by Celan's affair with the Austrian poet Ingeborg Bachmann. The season, Autumn, is one he associated with the camps and (in particular) the death of his mother, so there may be something of that in there, too.
Rather than translating it directly, when I first read it I felt a strong urge to fold it into another image: a photograph of the small New Zealand town of Coromandel taken by my friend Simon Creasey.
There was something subtly ominous about his picture, I thought. No one was on the street, and yet you couldn't help feeling that there was something terrible going on just out of sight. It reminded me of the people in the street looking up at Celan's lovers in the window.
You can, if you wish, read my poem here. The point I'm making, though, is not so much that it's necessary to reinvent Celan's poems in order to try and make sense of them, but rather that the images and incantatory language he creates are so strong that they inspire such visionary responses almost in spite of themselves.
Where does the action of "Corona" take place? Not Coromandel, obviously: some place with drifts of autumn leaves, scattered nuts, but also streets - a city park? the Wienerwald? Are these two lovers on the run? Their position in the window puts their love on display to onlookers in the street. Is that a bad thing?
It's hard not to sense a certain feelng of danger about it all. Ingeborg Bachmann's father was a fervent Nazi, an early convert to National Socialism. Take a refugee Jew as her lover was the ultimate statement of disdain for his values.
"Hermetic", Clive James would call it. And so it is. But it's not its obscurity but its clarity that makes it so hard to sum up. Celan was notoriously prone to inventing neologisms and torturing German syntax in - particularly - his later work. Even at this early stage in his career he wasn't interested in providing pat solutions for lazy readers.
One of the most horrible shocks of his life came when he learned that German school-children were being taught that "Death-Fugue" was about the reconciliation between victims and torturers. He vowed never again to write a poem which could be so misconstrued. You have to work at them to get what they have to give.
Celan would have heard about the death-camp tango. He would have heard about it, but he would not have actually heard it. ... Majdanek was liberated by the Russians in 1944 and Celan probably heard about its sinister tango immediately afterwards. After he had the idea for the two contesting visions of love, however, it had to be a fugue.- Clive James, Cultural Amnesia (2007)
Whether it was the Majdanek tango or the Auschwitz orchestra that inspired him, James is no doubt correct that the germ of Celan's "Todesfuge" came from the Nazi obsession with providing background music for their atrocities.
As you'll see below, despite the deliberate simplicity of each line, there are many different ways to approach the poem. There are seven English translations here, but there are many, many more out there.
I've tried to choose versions which would do justice to this diversity of responses to Celan's masterpiece. They're arranged chronologically:
-
Todesfuge
- Death Fugue
- Death Fugue
- Fugue of Death
- Deathfugue
- Death Fugue
- Death Fugue
- Todesfuge
- Paul Celan (1948)
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne
er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr anderen spielt weiter zum Tanz auf
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
- trans. Jerome Rothenberg (1959)
Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it's roomy to lie
There's a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it's nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and walks from the house and the stars all start flashing
he whistles his dogs to draw near
whistles his Jews to appear starts us scooping a grave out of sand
he commands us play up for the dance
Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at dawntime and noontime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
There's a man in this house who cultivates snakes and who writes
who writes when it's nightfall nach Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite we we scoop out a grave in the sky where it's
roomy to lie
He calls jab it deep in the soil you men you other men sing and play
he tugs at the sword in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue
jab your spades deeper you men you other men play up again for the dance
Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at dusktime
we drink and drink
there's a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite he cultivates snakes
He calls play that death thing more sweetly Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
he calls scrape that fiddle more darkly then hover like smoke in the air
then scoop out a grave in the clouds where it's roomy to lie
Black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
we drink you at dusktime and dawntime we drink and drink
Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland his eye is blue
he hits you with leaden bullets his aim is true
there's a man in this house your golden hair Margareta
he sets his dogs on our trail he gives us a grave in the sky
he cultivates snakes and he dreams Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland
your golden hair Margareta
your ashen hair Shulamite
- trans. Michael Hamburger (1972)
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
we drink it at noon in the morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink it
we dig a grave in the breezes there one lies unconfined
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are flashing
he whistles his pack out
he whistles his Jews out in earth has them dig for a grave
he commands us strike up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink in the morning at noon we drink you at sundown
we drink and we drink you
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when dusk falls to Germany your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith we dig a grave in the breezes there one
lies unconfined
He calls out jab deeper into the earth you lot you others sing now and play
he grabs at the iron in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue
jab deeper you lot with your spades you others play on for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon in the morning we drink you at sundown
we drink and we drink you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith he plays with the serpents
He calls out more sweetly play death death is a master from Germany
he calls out more darkly now stroke your strings then as smoke
you will rise into air
then a grave you will have in the clouds there one lies unconfined
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at sundown and in the morning we drink and we drink you
death is a master from Germany his eyes are blue
he strikes you with leaden bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his pack on to us he grants us a grave in the air
he plays with the serpents and daydreams death is a master from Germany
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamith
- trans. Karl S. Weimar (1974)
Coal-black milk of morning we drink it at evening
we drink it at noon and at daybreak we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the skies there is room enough there
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it darkens to Germany your golden hair Marguerite
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are shining
he whistles his dogs to come up
he whistles his Jews to come out to shovel a grave in the ground
he commands us strike up a tune for the dance
Coal-black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at daybreak and noon and we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it darkens to Germany your golden hair Marguerite
Your ashen hair Shulamite we shovel a grave in the skies
there is room enough there
He shouts dig deeper into the earth you here and you there start
singing and playing
he clutches the gun in his belt he waves it his eyes are blue
dig deeper your spades you here and you there keep playing
that dance tune
Coal-black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noon and at daybreak we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your golden hair Marguerite
your ashen hair Shulamite he plays with his vipers
He shouts play the death tune sweeter death is a master from Germany
he shouts strike up the fiddles more darkly you'll rise
like the smoke to the sky
you'll have your own grave in the clouds there is room enough there
Coal-black milk of morning we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Germany
we drink you at evening and at daybreak we drink and we drink
death is a master from Germany his eye is blue
he hits you with bullets of lead his target is you
a man lives in the house your golden hair Marguerite
he sets loose his dogs after us he gives us a grave in the sky
he plays with his vipers and dreams death is a master from Germany
your golden hair Marguerite
your ashen hair Shulamite
- trans. John Felstiner (1986)
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air where you won't lie too cramped
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling
he whistles his hounds to stay close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he commands us play up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margareta
Your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air where
you won't lie too cramped
He shouts dig this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play
he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are so blue
stick your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margareta
your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers
He shouts play death more sweetly this Death is a master from Deutschland
he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise up as smoke to the sky
you'll then have a grave in the clouds where you won't lie too cramped
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland
we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink
this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue
he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete
he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and daydreams der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
- trans. Pierre Joris (2020)
Black milk of morning we drink you evenings
we drink you at noon and mornings we drink you at night
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with the snakes he writes
he writes when it darkens to Deutschland your golden hair Margarete
he writes and steps in front of his house and the stars glisten
and he whistles his dogs to come
he whistles his jews to appear let a grave be dug in the earth
he commands us play up for the dance
Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you mornings and noontime we drink you evenings
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with the snakes he writes
he writes when it turns dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Shulamit we dig a grave in the air there one lies at ease
He calls jab deeper into the earth you there and you other men
sing and play
he grabs the gun in his belt he draws it his eyes are blue
jab deeper your spades you there and you other men continue
to play for the dance
Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noon we drink you evenings
we drink you and drink
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamit he plays with the snakes
He calls out play death more sweetly death is a master from Deutschland
he calls scrape those fiddles more darkly then as smoke you’ll
rise in the air
then you’ll have a grave in the clouds there you’ll lie at ease
Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Deutschland
we drink you evenings and mornings we drink and drink
death is a master from Deutschland his eye is blue
he strikes you with lead bullets his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he sets his dogs on us he gifts us a grave in the air
he plays with the snakes and dreams death is a master from Deutschland
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Shulamit
- trans. A. Z. Foreman (2010)
Black milk of daybreak we drink it come evening
we drink it come midday come morning we drink it come night
we drink it and drink it
we spade out a grave in the air there it won't feel so tight
A man lives at home who plays with the vipers he writes
he writes as it gets dark unto Deutschland
the gold of your hair Margarete
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are aglitter
he whistles his hounds out
he whistles his Jews off has them spade out a grave in the ground
he orders us play up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you come night
we drink you come midday come morning we drink you come evening
we drink you and drink you
A man lives at home who plays with the vipers he writes
he writes as it gets dark into Deutschland the gold of your hair Margarete
the ash of your hair Shulamith we spade out a grave in the air
there it won't feel so tight
He yells you there dig deeper and you there sing and play
He grabs the nightstick at his belt and swings it his eyes are so blue
You there dig deeper and you there play loud for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you come night
We drink you come midday come morning we drink you come evening
We drink you and drink you
a man lives at home the gold of your hair Margarete
the ash of your hair Shulamith he plays with the vipers
he yells play sweeter for death Death is a German-born master
yells scrape the strings darker you'll rise through the air like smoke
and have a grave in the clouds there it won't feel so tight
Black milk of daybreak we drink you come night
we drink you come midday Death is a German-born master
We drink you come evening come morning we drink you and drink you
Death is a German-born master his eye is so blue
He shoots with lead bullets he shoots you his aim is so true
a man lives at home the gold of your hair Margarete
he lets his hounds loose on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and dreams a dream Death is a German-born master
The gold of your hair Margarete
The ash of your hair Shulamith
- trans. Dean Rader (2023)
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at dusk
we drink it at noon in mornings we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we dig a grave in the sky there is plenty of room
A man lives in the house he plays with his snakes he writes
he writes when it darkens in Deutschland your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and steps outside of the house and the strike of the
stars he whistles his hounds
he whistles his Jews dig a grave in the ground
he commands us strike up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you in mornings and midday we drink you at dusk
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his snakes he writes
he writes when it darkens in Deutschland your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith we dig a grave in the sky there is plenty of room
He shouts you there dig deeper the rest of you sing you others play on
he raises the rod from his belt his eyes are blue
drive the spade deeper the rest of you sing you others play on for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday and mornings we drink you at dusk
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with his snakes
He shouts make death sound sweeter death is a Master from Deutschland
he shouts strike the violin darker then rise as smoke in the air
then a grave in the clouds there is so much more room
Black milk of mornings we drink you at night
we drink you at midday death is a Master from Deutschland
we drink you at dusk in mornings we drink and drink
death is a Master from Deutschland his eye is blue
his lead bullets strike you his aim is true
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he whistles his hounds he grants us graves in the sky
he plays with his snakes and he dreams death is a Master aus Deutschland
your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith
Well, you can see how hard they are to judge. "A plea for reconciliation", huh? I don't quite see how you could deduce that from what's printed above. The interesting thing is that each translator must have felt that there were certain deficiencies in the existing versions which it was up to them to correct.
And yet there's very little dispute about the actual meaning of Celan's words.
Let's take the first line, for instance. Celan writes "Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends". This is what our various interpreters do with it:
Jerome Rothenberg:
Michael Hamburger:Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
Karl S. Weimar:Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown
John Felstiner:Coal-black milk of morning we drink it at evening
Pierre Joris:Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
A. Z. Foreman:Black milk of morning we drink you evenings
Dean Rader:Black milk of daybreak we drink it come evening
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at dusk
At times it can sound almost like variation for the sake of it, but there is a logic, a particular choice of idiom behind each translator's choices. Felstiner, for instance, mixes in German with his English to create a discordant, polyglot effect. Rothenberg does something similar with deliberately bathetic macaronic phrases such as "Death is a gang-boss aus Deutschland". Similar, but not the same. Rothenberg tries to make his language sound raucous and uncouth - Felstiner's is more hypnotically repetitive.
When it comes to the later translators, Joris and Rader, the phrases of the poem have become so etched in collective memory that it's mainly clarity and directness they seem to be going for. What need for further eccentricities of wording at this stage?
And then, of course, there's the famous coda to the poem. Celan writes simply:
dein goldenes Haar MargareteThis is what our translators do with it:
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
Jerome Rothenberg:
Michael Hamburger:your golden hair Margareta your ashen hair Shulamite
Karl S. Weimar:your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Shulamith
John Felstiner:your golden hair Marguerite your ashen hair Shulamite
Pierre Joris:dein goldenes Haar Margarete dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
A. Z. Foreman:your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Shulamit
Dean Rader:The gold of your hair Margarete The ash of your hair Shulamith
Is it "Margarete" or "Margareta"? Or, for that matter, as Karl Weimar has it, Marguerite? The allusion is obvious enough. This Aryan blonde Margarete Celan is invoking is a reference to Goethe's heroine Gretchen (short for Marguerite) from Faust. But only the two early translators Rothenberg and Weimar feel that the equation needs to be underlined in this way.your golden hair Margarete your ashen hair Sulamith
What, then, of the ashen-haired "Sulamith"? There are nearly as many spellings as there are translators: Shulamite (x 2) / Shulamith (x 2) / Sulamith (x 2) / Shulamit ... Why?
"The Shulamite" is (of course) the name of the King's beloved in "The Song of Solomon" (1:5-6):
I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.The original Hebrew name is based on the word "Shalom", peace. There are numerous different transliterations of שולמית [Shulamit], depending on which translation of the Bible you're relying on: Shulamite, Shulamith, Sulamith etc.
Look not upon me, because I am black, because the sun hath looked upon me: my mother's children were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.
There's no doubt that Celan is contrasting this Hebrew beauty with the German Gretchen - nor is it difficult to conjecture why the former's hair is full of ashes:
In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are notThis verse from the New Testament (Matthew 2:18), refers (in context) to Herod's massacre of the innocents. It's also, however, a direct allusion to a passage in the Old Testament (Jeremiah 31:15), where the prophet Jeremiah foresees the slaughter of the children of Israel. Rachel was the patriarch Jacob's favourite wife; symbolically, though, the name denotes the mother of the entire Jewish people.
Clashes of idioms, clashes of cultures, genocidal brutality at the hands of the Meister aus Deutschland who is Death itself. It's all there in Celan's poem. Drawing it out into another language requires a certain finesse, however. Biblical references could be decoded immediately by the poem's immediate audience. Is the same true for contemporary readers? In some cases yes - for the most part, I fear, no.
You'd despair of the task altogether if it weren't for the fact that Celan himself was such a consummate and sensitive translator. If you started to list all the writers and languages he'd translated from, we'd be here for a while. Here are some of the major ones:
French: Arthur Rimbaud, Antonin Artaud, Charles Baudelaire, Paul Valéry, Jules Supervielle, Henri Michaux, Jean Cayrol, and André Breton.Two entire volumes - the largest ones - of his Collected Works are devoted entirely to his work in this form. It's hard not to believe that he'd be sympathetic to the quandaries of his own translators!
Russian: Osip Mandelstam, Alexander Blok, Mikhail Lermontov, and Sergei Yesenin.
English: Shakespeare's Sonnets, Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost, Marianne Moore, and A.E. Housman.
Portuguese: Fernando Pessoa.
Romanian: a number of poets (Celan also wrote some poetry in Romanian)
Books I own are marked in bold:
-
Collected Works:
- Gesammelte Werke in fünf Bänden (1983)
- Gesammelte Werke in fünf Bänden. Ed. Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert unter Mitwirkung von Rudolf Bücher. 1983. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 1986.
- Gedichte I: Mohn und Gedächtnis; Von Schwelle zu Schwelle; Sprachgitter; Die Niemandsrose. 1952, 1955, 1959, 1963 (1986)
- Gedichte II: Atemwende; Fadensonnen; Lichtzwang; Schneepart. 1967, 1968, 1970, 1971 (1986)
- Gedichte III: Der Sand aus den Urnen; Zeitgehöft / Prosa / Reden. 1948, 1976 (1986)
- Übertragungen I - Zweisprachig (1986)
- Übertragungen II - Zweisprachig (1986)
- Gesammelte Werke in fünf Bänden. Ed. Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert unter Mitwirkung von Rudolf Bücher. 1983. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 1986.
- Gesammelte Werke in sieben Bänden. 1983. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Verlag, 2000.
- Gedichte I. Ed. Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert, with Rudolf Bücher (1983)
- Gedichte II. Ed. Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert, with Rudolf Bücher (1983)
- Gedichte III / Prosa / Reden. Ed. Beda Allemann & Stefan Reichert, with Rudolf Bücher (1983)
- Übertragungen I - Zweisprachig (1983)
- Übertragungen II - Zweisprachig (1983)
- Das Frühwerk: 1938-1948. Ed. Bertrand Badiou, Jean-Claude Rambach & Barbara Wiedemann (2000)
- Gedichte aus dem Nachlaß. Ed. Bertrand Badiou, Jean-Claude Rambach & Barbara Wiedemann (2000)
- Der Sand aus den Urnen [Sand from the Urns] (1948)
- Mohn und Gedächtnis [Poppy and Destiny] (1952)
- Included in: Memory Rose into Threshold Speech: The Collected Earlier Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.
- Von Schwelle zu Schwelle [From Threshold to Threshold] (1955)
- From Threshold to Threshold. ['Von Schwelle zu Schwelle', 1955]. Trans. David Young. Grosse Point Farms, Michigan: Marick Press, 2010.
- Included in: Memory Rose into Threshold Speech: The Collected Earlier Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.
- Sprachgitter [Speech Grille] (1959)
- Language Behind Bars. ['Sprachgitter', 1959]. Trans. David Young. Grosse Point Farms, Michigan: Marick Press, 2012.
- Included in: Memory Rose into Threshold Speech: The Collected Earlier Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.
- Die Niemandsrose [No-One's-Rose] (1963)
- No One's Rose. ['Die Niemandsrose', 1963]. Trans. David Young. Grosse Point Farms, Michigan: Marick Press, 2014.
- Included in: Memory Rose into Threshold Speech: The Collected Earlier Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.
- Atemwende [Breathturn] (1967)
- Breathturn. ['Atemwende', 1967]. Trans. Pierre Joris. Sun & Moon Classics, 74. Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1995.
- Included in: Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
- Fadensonnen [Fathomsuns] (1968)
- Threadsuns. ['Fadensonnen', 1968]. Trans. Pierre Joris. Sun & Moon Classics, 122. Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 2000.
- Fathomsuns / Fadensonnen and Benighted / Eingedunkelt. 1968. Trans. Ian Fairley. Manchester: Carcanet Press Limited, 2001.
- Included in: Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
- Lichtzwang [Lightduress] (1970)
- Lightduress. ['Lichtzwang', 1970]. Trans. Pierre Joris. Green Integer, 113. København & Los Angeles: Green Integer Books, 2005.
- Included in: Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
- Schneepart [Snow Part] (1971)
- Snow Part / Schneepart. 1971. Trans. Ian Fairley. Riverdale-on-Hudson, New York: The Sheep Meadow Press, 2007.
- Included in: Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
- Zeitgehöft [Timestead] (1976)
- Included in: Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
- Die Gedichte. Ed. Barbara Weidemann (2003)
- Die Gedichte: Kommentierte Gesamtausgabe in einem Band. Ed. Barbara Weidemann. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2003.
- Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris (2014)
- Breathturn into Timestead: The Collected Later Poetry of Paul Celan. A Bilingual Edition. ['Atemwende', 1967; 'Fadensonnen', 1968; 'Eingedunkelt', 1968; 'Lichtzwang', 1970; 'Schneepart', 1971; 'Zeitgehöft', 1976]. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
- Memory Rose into Threshold Speech: The Collected Earlier Poetry of Paul Celan. Trans. Pierre Joris (2020)
- Memory Rose into Threshold Speech: The Collected Earlier Poetry of Paul Celan. A Bilingual Edition. ['Mohn und Gedachtnis’, 1952; ‘Von schwelle zu Schwelle’, 1955; ‘Sprachgitter’, 1959; ‘Die Niemandsrose’, 1963]. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2020.
- Collected Prose. Trans. Rosmarie Waldrop (1986)
- Collected Prose. Trans. Rosmarie Waldrop. 1986. Fyfield Books. Manchester: Carcanet Press Limited, 2003.
- Der Meridian. Ed. Bernhard Böschenstein & Heino Schmull, with Michael Schwarzkopf & Christiane Wittkop (1999)
- The Meridian: Final Version - Drafts - Materials. Ed. Bernhard Böschenstein & Heino Schmull, with Michael Schwarzkopf & Christiane Wittkop. 1999. Trans. Pierre Joris. Meridian: Crossing Aesthetics. Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 2011.
- Mikrolithen sinds, Steinchen: Die Prosa aus dem Nachlaß. Ed. Bertrand Badiou & Barbara Weidemann (2005)
- Microliths They Are, Little Stones: Posthumous Prose. Ed. Bertrand Badiou & Barbara Weidemann. 2005. Trans. Pierre Joris. New York: Contra Mundum Press, 2020.
- "Speech-Grille" and Selected Poems. Trans. Joachim Neugroschel (1971)
- Selected Poems. Trans. Michael Hamburger & Christopher Middleton (1972)
- Selected Poems. Trans. Michael Hamburger & Christopher Middleton. 1962 & 1967. Introduction by Michael Hamburger. Penguin Modern European Poets. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972.
- Nineteen Poems by Paul Celan. Trans. Michael Hamburger (1972)
- Paul Celan, 65 Poems. Trans. Brian Lynch and Peter Jankowsky (1985)
- Last Poems. Trans. Katharine Washburn and Margret Guillemin (1986)
- Selected Poems. Trans. Michael Hamburger (1988)
- Selected Poems. Trans. Michael Hamburger. 1988. Penguin International Poets. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990.
- Glottal Stop: 101 Poems. Trans. Nikolai B. Popov and Heather McHugh (2000)
- Selected Poems and Prose. Trans. John Felstiner (2001)
- Selected Poems and Prose. Trans. John Felstiner. New York & London: W. W. Norton, 2001.
- Poems of Paul Celan: A Bilingual German/English Edition, Revised Edition. Trans. Michael Hamburger (2001)
- The Britney Suite, by Paul Celan, Wendy Nu & Jack Ross (2001)
- The Britney Suite, by Paul Celan, Wendy Nu & Jack Ross (Auckland: Perdrix Press, 2001)
- [Paul Celan]: SCHNEEPART, gebäumt, bis zuletzt … [22/1/68]
- Snowpart (24/10-30/11/2000)
- [Paul Celan]: ERZFLITTER, tief im … [20/7/68]
- Orespark (24/10-30/11/2000)
- [Paul Celan]: KALK-KROKUS, im … [24/8/68]
- Chalk-Crocus (24/10-28/11/2000)
- [Paul Celan]: DAS GEDUNKELTE Splitterecho … [5/9/68]
- Dark (24/10-28/11/2000)
- [Paul Celan]: BEIDHÄNDIGE Frühe … [29/9/69]
- Both-Handed (24/10-28/11/2000)
- [Paul Celan]: SCHNEEPART, gebäumt, bis zuletzt … [22/1/68]
- The Britney Suite, by Paul Celan, Wendy Nu & Jack Ross (Auckland: Perdrix Press, 2001)
- Romanian Poems. Trans. Julian Semilian & Sanda Agdidi (2003)
- Romanian Poems. Trans. Julian Semilian & Sanda Agdidi. Green Integer, 81. København & Los Angeles: Green Integer Books, 2003.
- Selections. Trans. Pierre Joris & Jerome Rothenberg (2005)
- Selections. Ed. Pierre Joris. Poets for the Millennium, 3. Trans. Pierre Joris & Jerome Rothenberg. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press / London: University of California Press, Ltd., 2005.
- Ross, Jack. “Coromandel" (after Paul Celan, 'Corona'). The Imaginary Museum (17/8/06)
- Ross, Jack. “Poems from Schneepart: Translations into English.” Percutio 1 (2006): 60-62.
- Snowpart (24/10-30/11/2000)
- Orespark (24/10-30/11/2000)
- Chalk-Crocus (24/10-28/11/2000)
- Dark (24/10-28/11/2000)
- Both-Handed (24/10-28/11/2000)
- Ross, Jack. “Celanie.” All Together Now: A Digital Bridge for Auckland and Sydney / Kia Kotahi Rā: He Arawhata Ipurangi mō Tamaki Makau Rau me Poihākena (March-September 2010). [visited 25/8/10]
- Leave [24/6/67] (8/2-25/4/10)
- (December 31, 2010) “Celanie: 5 Versions from Paul Celan.” brief 41 (2010): 54-59.
- Maïa [7/1/52] (9/3-11/4/10)
- Islandward [22/6/54] (5/3-11/4/10)
- Matter of Britain [13/8/57] (9/3-29/4/10)
- Heart (for René Char) [6/1/60] (9/3-11/4/10)
- Kew Gardens [6/4/69] (11/3-25/4/10)
- Ross, Jack. Celanie: Poems & Drawings after Paul Celan. Drawings by Emma Smith. Afterword by Bronwyn Lloyd (2012)
- Celanie: Poems & Drawings after Paul Celan. Poems by Jack Ross & Drawings by Emma Smith. Introduction by Jack Ross. Afterword by Bronwyn Lloyd. Auckland: Pania Press, 2012.
- Introduction: The Twenty-Year Masterclass
- Celanie: Poems & Drawings after Paul Celan. Poems by Jack Ross & Drawings by Emma Smith. Introduction by Jack Ross. Afterword by Bronwyn Lloyd. Auckland: Pania Press, 2012.
- Ross, Jack. “Channelling Paul Celan." Rabbit 5 - The RARE Issue (Winter 2012): 118-31.
- Matter of Britain [13/8/57] (9/3-29/4/10)
- Ross, Jack. “Interpreting Paul Celan." brief 46 - The Survival Issue (2012)
- What's stitched [10/1/68] (28/1-14/9/11)
- Corona: Selected Poems of Paul Celan. Trans. Susan H. Gillespie (2013)
- Corona: Selected Poems of Paul Celan. Trans. Susan H. Gillespie. Station Hill of Barrytown. New York: Institute for Publishing Arts, Inc., 2013.
- Paul Celan / Nelly Sachs: Briefwechsel. Ed. Barbara Wiedemann (1993)
- [with Nelly Sachs] Correspondence. Ed. Barbara Wiedemann. 1993. Trans. Christopher Clark. Introduction by John Felstiner. Riverdale-on-Hudson, New York: The Sheep Meadow Press, 1995.
- Paul Celan / Gisèle Celan-Lestrange: Correspondance (1951-1970) (2001)
- [with Gisèle Celan-Lestrange] Correspondance (1951-1970), avec un choix de letters de Paul Celan à son fils Eric. Ed. Bertrand Badiou & Eric Celan. La Librairie du XXIe siècle. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2001.
- Lettres
- Commentaires et Illustrations
- Letters to Gisèle (1951-70): With a Selection of Letters from Gisèle Celan-Lestrange. Ed. Bertrand Badiou. 2001. Trans. & Abridged by Jason Kavett. NYRB Poets. New York: New York Review Books, 2024.
- [with Gisèle Celan-Lestrange] Correspondance (1951-1970), avec un choix de letters de Paul Celan à son fils Eric. Ed. Bertrand Badiou & Eric Celan. La Librairie du XXIe siècle. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2001.
- Paul Celan / Ilana Shmueli: Briefwechsel. Ed. Ilana Shmueli & Thomas Sparr (2004)
- The Correspondence of Paul Celan & Ilana Shmueli. 2004. Trans. Susan H. Gillespie. Preface by John Fesltiner. Introduction by Norman Manea. Afterword by Ilana Shmueli. Conversation between Norman Manea & Ilana Shmueli. Riverdale-on-Hudson, New York: The Sheep Meadow Press, 2010.
- Paul Celan, Ingeborg Bachmann: Briefwechsel. Ed. Bertrand Badiou et al. (2008)
- [with Ingeborg Bachmann] Correspondence: With the Correspondence between Paul Celan and Max Frisch, and between Ingeborg Bachmann and Gisèle Celan-Lestrange. Ed. Bertrand Badiou, Hans Höller, Andrea Stoll & Barbara Weidemann. 2008. Trans. Wieland Hoban. The German List. London: Seagull Books, 2010.
- Bachmann, Ingeborg. Darkness Spoken: The Collected Poems. 1953, 1956, 1978 & 2000. Trans. Peter Filkins. Foreword by Charles Simic. Brookline, MA: Zephyr Press, 2006.
- Chalfen, Israel. Paul Celan: A Biography of His Youth. 1979. Trans. Maximilian Bleyleben. Introduction by John Felstiner. New York: Persea Books, 1991.
- Felstiner, John. Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995.
- Daive, Jean. Under the Dome: Walks With Paul Celan. [La Condition d'infini 5: Sous la coupole, P.O.L. Editeur, 1996]. Trans. Rosmarie Waldrop. Série d'écriture, 22. Anyart, Providence: Burning Deck Press, 2009.
- Paul Celan. Biographie et interpretation/Biographie und Interpretation. Ed. Andrei Corbea Hoișie (Konstanz / Paris) / Iasi, 2000)
- Ross, Jack. “Meeting Paul Celan." Poetics of Exile conference, Auckland University (July 2003)
- Ross, Jack. “The Twenty-Year Masterclass: Paul Celan’s Correspondence with Gisèle Celan-Lestrange (1951-1970)." Literature and Translation conference, Monash University, Melbourne (11-12 July 2011)
- Ross, Jack. “Collecting Paul Celan." The Imaginary Museum (3/9/2011)
- Ross, Jack. “Paul Celan & Leicester Kyle: The Zone & the Plateau.” Ka Mate Ka Ora 13 (2014): 54-71.
- Ross, Jack. “Leicester Kyle & Paul Celan: 2 Corrections.” The Imaginary Museum (23/9/2016)
- Ross, Jack. “Collecting Paul Celan (2)." The Imaginary Museum (4/6/2016)
Poetry:
Prose:
Translations:
Letters:
Secondary:
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William Roberts: The Vorticists at the Restaurant de la Tour Eiffel (1961-62)Modern Poets in English
- C. P. Cavafy (1863-1933)
- Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966)
- Osip Mandelstam (1891-1938)
- Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)
- Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)
- Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
- Paul Celan (1920-1970)
- Eugenio Montale (1896-1981)
- Salvatore Quasimodo (1901-1968)
- Federico García Lorca (1898-1938)
- Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
- Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935)
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