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Martín Espada, Edward Hirsch, and others speak about poetry
in relation to September 11th . . .
This is the story of two horrific events that changed two countries on September 11th and the undocumented victims of both acts. It is also about Martín Espada, an extraordinary poet and human rights advocate, who wrote the definitive poem about 9/11 and his journey to Santiago to participate in the 100th Anniversary of Chile's greatest poet, Pablo Neruda.
CLICK HERE to view aprox 5 minutes of poignant footage in honor of two September Elevenths.
Showing posts with label Edward Hirsch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Edward Hirsch. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
+ In Memoriam Paul Celan +
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In Memoriam Paul Celan
by Edward Hirsch
Lay these words into the dead man's grave
next to the almonds and black cherries---
tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes,
and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head.
Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids
like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers
that will flourish, this time, in the shade.
Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain.
Lay these words on his drowned eyelids
like coins or stars, ancillary eyes.
Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots
while thunder addresses the ground.
Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled,
the words have united in grief.
It is the ghostly hour of lamentation,
the void's turn, mournful and absolute.
Lay these words on the dead man's lips
like burning tongs, a tongue of flame.
A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks.
Let God pray to us for this man.
+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+
In Memoriam Paul Celan
by Edward Hirsch
Lay these words into the dead man's grave
next to the almonds and black cherries---
tiny skulls and flowering blood-drops, eyes,
and Thou, O bitterness that pillows his head.
Lay these words on the dead man's eyelids
like eyebrights, like medieval trumpet flowers
that will flourish, this time, in the shade.
Let the beheaded tulips glisten with rain.
Lay these words on his drowned eyelids
like coins or stars, ancillary eyes.
Canopy the swollen sky with sunspots
while thunder addresses the ground.
Syllable by syllable, clawed and handled,
the words have united in grief.
It is the ghostly hour of lamentation,
the void's turn, mournful and absolute.
Lay these words on the dead man's lips
like burning tongs, a tongue of flame.
A scouring eagle wheels and shrieks.
Let God pray to us for this man.
+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+
