5th Post: (Paul Celan, Selected Poems)

"Go. Come.
Love blots out its name: to
you it ascribes itself."

the mathematics of witholding, a tension of revelation and reserve, a paradox of speech. to speak of horrors, of tumults of a spirit, of mothers buried in snow. to tell this to the reader, a reader's heartland, and yet write one's doubt into the form of the poem, to write a poetry that hangs, eternally, on the threshold of breath and absence, on the threshold of being and not being at all. may it be that the message is not in the words themselves, but in the spirit that unfastens them!