I'm sharing a poem a day during these isolating times, because #poetry keeps the soul company. Since @LiteratiMagzine asked me for–and published yesterday–a new poem, here is "Paul Celan in Paris, 1970." "If I cannot be a story / make me song." pic.twitter.com/RB9dokPTK1
— Joseph Fasano (@Joseph_Fasano_) April 3, 2020
So this is how it ends,
I, whose age was writ in fire.
Let them say
my life was my life.
What else would they say of it?
I remember the dead in it
like boots hung up in the rafters.
I remember men came
and took away my mother,
her dark hair
woven in the wrens’ nests
in the attic.
Once, then, once
I was a music.
Once, in the forests of the Putna,
had hung a buck in the branches.
and filled that hush with honey
as the flocks thrashed through the branches
and slipped in
and writhed inside the body
and swayed it
like the waking in their changes
and made it dance
the dance that outlasts all.
A life is just that, then, a great lie—
silent, wild, madness.
and my one, dumb prayer for it—
my beautiful, useless prayer for it:
If I cannot be a story, make me song.
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