Todtnauberg by Paul Celan - a translation

Arnika, Augentrost, der Trunk aus dem Brunnen mit dem Sternwürfel drauf, in der Hütte, die in das Buch - wessen Namen nahms auf vor dem meinen?-, die in dies Buch geschriebene Zeile von einer Hoffnung, heute, auf eines Denkenden kommendes  Wort im Herzen, Waldwasen, uneingeebnet, Orchis und Orchis, einzeln, Krudes, später, im Fahren, deutlich, der uns fährt, der Mensch, der's mit anhört, die halb- beschrittenen Knüppel- pfade im Hochmoor, Feuchtes, viel. (Frankfurt, 1. August 1967) Arnica, eyebright, the drink from the well with the star-carved-die on it, into the Hut, into the book —whose name did it take before mine?— in this book, the penned line about a hope, today, for the thinker's coming word from the heart, forest peat-sward, uneven, orchid and orchid, singly, crudeness, after, while driving, explicit, he who drives us, the man, he also hears it, the half- trod log-paved trails on the high moor, cloy-clammy, very much.

English rendering © 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

This poem by Celan, this very difficult poem, is a poem about place, about person, about the potential for healing and about hope unrealized. The brilliance of this piece is its economy (69 words), with at least half the words being each so pregnant with meaning that reams of commentary have been written on them.

I undertake my own variation at great risk—many, many more informed people than I have attempted to render this poem in English. My attempt is particular to me, owing to the presence and symbolism of plant life, and the fact that this poem is an entry in Celan’s internal diary.

This poem is a single-line sketch of the 1967 meeting Celan had with the philosopher Martin Heidegger at his Todtnauberg cabin retreat called “der Hütte.”

For just the barest background, Celan and Heidegger were engaged in intellectual dialogue between the years 1952 and 1970; Celan had a great deal of admiration for the work of the philosopher, discovering similar views on “truth” and “language”, “time” and “being”, and how “language speaks.” But Celan also had a great deal of ambivalence toward Heidegger because of his affiliation, collaboration with Nazism, while Rector of the University of Freiburg, for which he seemed reluctant to express public – or private – regret. For Celan, the German-speaking Jewish Romanian survivor of a labor camp, whose parents were deported and died at an internment camp, this “fact” of Heidegger’s complicity with Nazism created an insurmountable gulf, despite mutual admiration and shared dialogue, despite Heidegger’s support of Celan’s work.

Shortly after giving a Der Spiegel interview, and following Paul Celan’s July 24, 1967 lecture at Freiburg, Martin Heidegger took Celan to see his cabin at Todtnauberg. Celan signed the famous guestbook, the two men engaged in a brief conversation, followed by a short walk and a drive back to town.

Brevity is key. The poem is all too brief; in fact, it seems rushed.

The botanical surroundings, at first, breathe hope into the encounter. Arnica Montana, that bright yellow asterid, dots the landscape surrounding the cabin; so, too, eyebright, another asterid—this one’s flower is shaped like two lips. Arnica, a balm for bruises; eyebright has been used for centuries to quell eyestrain, to bring a return to visual clarity, or to relieve inflammations of the upper respiratory system. The only caveat is that eyebright grows as a semi-parasitic plant in conjunction with various grasses and other plants.

There is a tapped spring, right alongside the cabin, a source of life and renewal. A cube, carved in the shape of a star, adorns the top of the post that houses the waterspout that feeds water into a long stone trough. The poem doesn’t really indicate a cube, however—the word choice indicates that carved block is like a die. So, chance may be at work; the meeting may not be by chance, but the visitor may be taking a gamble. Even so, the scene continues to seem benign and full of potential. The visitor takes a refreshing drink of the pure mountain water.

And then he is brought into the cabin and invited to sign the guestbook, this book that has taken many names before his. Do the names of other Jews reside in these pages? The visitor cannot help but associate this taking of the name and documenting of his name; perhaps in two ways—on one side, in the Book of Life, juxtaposed on another side against the meticulous records Nazis kept with regard to atrocities and thefts against the Jewish people.

The visitor recorded this line in the guest book:

“Ins Hüttenbuch, mit dem Blick auf den Brunnenstern, mit einer Hoffnung auf ein Kommendes Wort im Herzen. Am 25. Juli 1967 / Paul Celan.”

“In the book in the cottage, with a view of the well star, with the hope of a word to come in the heart. July 25, 1967, Paul Celan.” 

In whose heart was the hope of a word, at that moment, I wonder?

In the poem, clearly the word is desired by the visitor of the thinker, the philosopher. This is a kind of pilgrimage.

But the poem does not even hint at discussion. The time in the hut seems but no time at all, and they are back outdoors, walking briefly over the damp ground, one orchid beside one orchid. The mountain orchid has been used medicinally for centuries in Europe to ease gastro-intestinal complaints; the Chinese use orchid medicine to improve eyesight and boost the immune system. More to the point, in this poem, the plants consist of a double bulb, very like testicles in shape; one German word for orchid is Knabenkraut (boy’s weed). Celan refers to orchids in other poems. I am not sure if Celan would have been aware of Zen symbolism of orchid as “poet” and “thinker”, but I will gamble on that. The poet walks alongside the thinker, but they are not joined as brothers; instead, they are just as contained and separate as they were when they arrived at this locus. Further, the ground is uneven, so they are not on the same footing, at the same level.

The pilgrimage fails to ford the chasm, despite the appearance of benignity and healing.

The visit further dispels any notion that such a transcendence of their differences can take place, with unfortunate words being uttered during the car ride back to town. It is unclear who uttered the words, but the visitor claims the driver to be a witness who can verify, leaving the implication towards the thinker, speaking without thinking, perhaps.

As they drive back to town, the occupants of the car pass by and through wooded areas, partially logged, with log covered foot trails, perhaps owing to the moistness of the landscape. The living pines stick up straight, the logs lining the path are likewise straight, like cudgels, in the soggy, peaty ground, dispelling the artifice of the semiotic presence of the benign, the healing, and the hopeful. Now, it seems as if the ground is swollen with rot; this meeting is no longer an idyll with an idol. The idol has proved himself not to be worthy – or, the pilgrim has not brought forth the purpose of his quest.

While others tend to translating “Wort im Herzen” into English more literally as “word in heart,” I chose “word from the heart” because I understand the point of the meeting to be a pilgrimage, in search of a means by which to transcend the gulf of differences into brotherhood, if the thinker could but offer a heartfelt word of some kind. Instead, the meeting seemed perfunctory, and whatever discussion exchanged is either insubstantial (at the cabin) or “crude” and “explicitly so” on the way back, in the car.

The encounter that inspired this poem did not end well; but the two men continued to communicate with one another, even if the communications were somewhat strained, until the end of Celan’s life.

//

Despite this pessimistic reading (really the only choice available), I suggest that implicit in the poem is the endless potential for healing, if the all important (magical?) word will be spoken. The potential for the positive and the healing is always alive, always rich, always supported. The fact that healing and transcendence were not experienced here was a matter of choice, both on the part of the thinker and on the part of the poet. Place was not the primary factor, neither was the timing. Overloaded expectations may have been a factor, as well as courage or lack thereof, toward articulating a question. Certainly, an inner struggle and perhaps a crisis of identity factored into this outcome.

Perhaps I chose to explore this poem on this day is to suggest that brother/sisterhood is always a worthy goal, and always possible – if one can bridge the chasms of ethnicity, class, race, religion, criminal record, victimhood, guilt, shyness… loneliness. And this may be at some cost, but it should never be at the cost of personhood and self-value/self-respect.

Pristine water still wells from the spring; the arnica and eyebright, the orchids still grow and bloom; the turf and the trees provide fuel and shelter. We humans pass through this land of potential, and don’t often enough use the good of what is provided. We opt instead to avoid, or worse utter the unmindful word, and tend toward the destruction of what is good.

My thought and prayer for you, for me, for all of us this day: Positive potential greets you, everyday; don’t be afraid to engage it. Don't let unrealized hope close the book on your quest.

"Seul est mien" by Marc Chagall - a translation

It is mine alone,
the land found within my soul;
I enter it without a passport,
as if into my house,
which sees my sadness
and my loneliness.
It puts me to sleep,
blanketing me like a fragrant tombstone.

Within me, gardens bloom
with all my invented flowers;
the streets belong to me,
but there are no houses;
they were all destroyed during childhood
–their inhabitants float like apparitions
in search of a home;
they live in my soul.

That’s why I smile
when my sun barely shines
or I cry
like a soft rain
in the night.

There was a time when I was of two minds;
There was a time when these two aspects
were veiled with a lovely dew
that faded like the fragrance of a rose.

Now, it seems to me
that even as I retreat,
I move forward,
up towards a high portal
with extended walls beyond which
extinguished thunder
and broken lightning sleep.

It is mine alone,
the land found in my soul.

rendered in English by Elisabeth T. Eliassen © 2017

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Marc Chagall, one of my favorite artists, wrote this poem, perhaps during his years in France; I don’t know. What an extraordinary life he led, and what a testament to life he bequeathed to the world in his art in an evolving style and color sense that boldly strode through the length of the modern period from impressionism, cubism, fauvism, suprematism and symbolist through surrealism and beyond. How difficult it must have been to write this poem, a love letter, as it seems to be, to his interior life.

I have seen many translations of this poem over the years, and felt a need to add my own sense and touch to it. So many of the versions I've seen are too literal, as if the translator knew nothing about Chagall’s life and could not see that there are references embedded in the statement.

I don’t claim to know more than anyone else, but certain choices presented themselves to me, and I take the opportunity to present them.

The soul is the one aspect of life each individual owns completely and utterly. I think this is a very stark and very true, very transparent declaration; less an allusion than a truism. Two bits that were very difficult for me to incorporate in a holistic presentation reside in the expressions, “d'une pierre parfumée,” and “Il fut un temps où j'avais deux têtes / Il fut un temps où ces deux visages.”

In the case of the phrase including “d'une pierre parfumée,” I took a leap, as I am unaware of any idiom that would impart a more specific meaning. (Perhaps someone can enlighten me!) If the artist’s soul is his house, within which an entire world stretches forward, populated by nature and people, but not other structures, because they have been destroyed by war, then the soul that houses that world must be protected by something very strong. The soul can only be known, explored and owned by the individual, and when the individual dies, the world of that soul also dies. While the soul is alive, however, it needs rest and safety. This is what dictated my choices in those lines.

To some extent, Chagall never left the Liozna shtetl near Vitebsk, but he became an international figure. In 1944, a New York newspaper printed Chagall’s open letter to Vitebsk, in which he said, “I did not live with you, but I did not have one single painting that did not breathe your spirit and reflection.” It is on this point that I chose to express “j'avais deux têtes” as “was of two minds” and “ces deux visages” as “these two aspects.” A case could also be made that “j'avais deux têtes” is a reference to his first wife Bella… that is for someone else to explore.

Song IX from Nine Songs: The Mountain Spirit - a translation

By Qu Yuan[i]

There, in the cleft of the mountain[ii],
see the Spirit[iii], arrayed in wild fig[iv] and dodder vine[v],
beaming her enchanting gaze and lovely smile.
“Don’t you find me beautiful?”
Pulled by a red leopard[vi], followed by wild cats,
her magnolia[vii] chariot draped with olive branches[viii],
she is arrayed in orchids[ix] belted with wild ginger[x].
“My love left me on the mountain to gather herbs.
Living deep in a bamboo[xi] grove, we never see the sky.
The way up the mountain was long and difficult;
it is too late to return.”
There, at her summit throne,
she stands, at her feet a wreath of clouds[xii].
As the sun sets, light likewise retires;
the east wind blows up, spreading a holy rain.
“I awaited the return of my love until it was too late to descend.
Now that winter is coming, what shall bloom to clothe me?
I gather lingzhi[xiii] from the mountainside,
where vines grow in a tangle over tumbled boulders.
Left by my inconstant lover, desolation bars my return home.
Though you did not come back, perhaps you gave me a thought.”
She, Mountain Spirit, fragrant with pollia[xiv] flowers,
drinks from a stone-basin spring[xv], shaded by pine and fir.
“You thought of me, my love, but you hesitated.”
Thunder drums, “tian tian”, rain darkens.
Monkeys cry, “jiu jiu”, and wild cats howl all night.
Winds whistle, “sa sa”, the trees moan “xiao xiao.”
“Longing for you, lost love, I sorrow and suffer.”

Translation © 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Reading through an enormous number of translations of this poem, I was struck by two primary aspects, each of which seemed to leap out at me, but to be overlooked by most translators rendering the text into English: The gender of the Mountain Spirit and the presence of herbal/plant medicines that indicate, among other things, the passage of time within the overarching theme of abandonment.

As audacious as it will seem to some, I have undertaken to offer yet another rendering, with a very short commentary and notes. At the outset, I must stress that my intent is to offer more context for the English language reader; I don’t expect that my effort has necessarily resulted in beautiful poetry.

The impression I have is that the Mountain Spirit is most definitely a woman, abandoned by her lover in the wilderness of the mountain. Unfamiliar with the terrain, she nevertheless becomes a part of it, and what plant knowledge she brought with her sustains and clothes her throughout the year. She is a shaman, and a powerful one. Many of the plants she uses support longevity and virility. While this is a poem about alienation and separation, the obvious passage of time does not age this soul. She follows the seasons, yet is timeless. She rises to the summit, and is cut off from the cares of the world below. She may still bemoan the loss of her love, and nature seems to join in her emotions. Does she collude with the mountain to bring on a storm to match her mood?

I leave the transliterated Chinese syllables for the sounds. There are many doubled sounds throughout this poem, lending to the music of it. 

See my notes, below, for information about the medicinal properties of the plants mentioned in the poem.

I owe a debt of gratitude to the 2008 annotated translation of this poem by Feng Xin-ming in a simplified Chinese script version with annotations. I must  have dug around and found more than fifteen renderings of this poem, each with a slightly different perspective. None explored or referred to the medicinal aspect of the plant life.

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[i] Qu Yuan was a poet of the Warring States Period (467 BC - 221 BC) Qu Yuan is remembered as a patriotic poet, statesman, diplomat and reformer in ancient China. The traditional Dragon Boat Festival, held on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month commemorates his death by suicide. (As an aside, I happen to live in an island community that takes a great deal of interest in the Dragon Boat Festival.)  

[ii] Mountains are venerated in China, each has a resident god. In ancient times, it was believed the spirits of the dead lived in the mountains, and young girls were “married” to the mountain. Mountains create weather.

[iii] The gender of the Mountain Spirit is ambiguous. There is a general tendency, when translating this piece into English, toward conforming the text to either a Confucian or a shamanistic interpretation/convention. In either case, the emphasis is on creating a duality, yin/yang, between a god and goddess (perhaps mountain and river) or shaman and human. Most of the translations I have seen vary the gender of the speaker throughout the poem between male and female, artificially suggesting a conversation between two individuals. I have opted to have the reader be a participant-as-observer in the story the author tells; as such, I have the entity, to which I assign female gender, direct the spoken words to the reader. This may solve the ambiguity, while preserving the sense that there is interaction between two individuals. Not being a proper scholar of Asian poetry, I own the possibility that my approach may be problematical, if not downright incorrect.

[iv] 薜荔 bi` li`: ficus pumilis, a member of the fig family. Also known as creeping fig, throughout Asia, the fruit and leaves are galactagogue and tonic; they are used in cases of impotence, lumbago, rheumatism and anemia.

[v] 女萝 nv' luo': custcuta chinensis, the twining dodder herb. It is commonly used as an anti-aging agent, anti-inflammatory, pain reliever, and aphrodisiac.

[vi] Leopards are rare and elusive, so their appearance and disappearance is associated with changing seasons. In China, whereas lions are associated with the sun, leopards are associated with the moon.

[vii] 辛夷 xin­ yi': magnolia liliflora, the flowering magnolia shrub.  The flowers and unopened flower buds are analgesic, anodyne, carminative, febrifuge, sedative and tonic. The main effect of this herb is to constrict blood vessels in the nasal passages; it is most often taken internally to treat sinusitis, allergic rhinitis and catarrh. The flowers are harvested in the Spring, and can be used fresh or dried.

[viii] 桂 gui`: this is 桂花 gui` hua­ , osmanthus fragrans, the miniature olive shrub. In traditional Chinese medicine, osmanthus tea has been used to treat irregular menstruation. The blossoms are associated with the Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival. Osmanthus used as a flavor for wine, confections and teas, is symbolic of reunions.

[ix] 石兰 shi' lan': cymbidium virescens, an orchid.  Blooming in the Spring, this orchid is used in Korean folk medicine to stop bleeding and promote urination, as well as for skin issues, such as insect bites.

[x] 杜衡 du` heng': asarum forbesii, a pungent variety of wild ginger that grows in moist, shady forests and valleys at elevations below 3000 feet. In traditional Chinese medicine to relieve pain, induce fever, promote sweating, as a diuretic, and to lower blood pressure. Prolonged use of the plant gives the body a fragrant aroma.

[xi] In China, bamboo is symbolic of the summer season, simplicity, humility, flexibility, and integrity, equanimity. Bamboo is used in Chinese medicine to speed healing and reduce infections. Bamboo is also used for divination.

[xii] Clouds are a union of yin and yang, mean good fortune, suggest intercourse, and also hint at wu-shamanism.

[xiii] It is unclear whether this is “Three-Flowers” or “Thrice-Blooming” herb. The former does not suggest any reference that I can find, but various texts have suggested the latter. If that is the case, “Thrice-Blooming” is a fungus zhi, perhaps lingzhi or “spirit herb”, better known in the West as Reishi mushroom, revered in ancient China as a magic herb. I cannot verify this, but merely offer the possibility. This fungus is symbolic of longevity and immortality, and the name is mentioned in poems from the earlier Han and Wei periods. The character for ling is made of ideographs for rain, shaman, and praying, and zi speaks to its spiritual potency, and that it is used to prepare elixirs.

[xiv] 杜若 du` ruo`: pollia japonica, a herbaceous plant with longish leaves and white flowers. The rhizome of pollia japonica is used to influence lung, liver, kidney and bladder function, is sedative and carminative, and is used to treat colds and vertigo.

[xv] Springs are yin semantically connected to the concept “origin,” and associated with the moon and night. Water, in general, presents a paradox: One of the most powerful of nature’s forces, it is soft and yielding. Hence, the aphorism in Tao te Ching, “Weak overcomes strong; soft overcomes hard.”