by Emily

Paul Celan

No one kneads us again out of earth and clay,
no one incants our dust.
No one.

Blessèd art thou, No One.
In thy sight would
we bloom.
In thy

A Nothing
we were, are now, and ever
shall be, blooming:
the Nothing-, the

I’ve been making my way through his Selected Poems and Prose for far too long now, but if I don’t slow down, I miss so much. These poems are tremendous, in the smallest and awful way possible. Which is a reflection on his subject matter, NOT his work.