Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Vasco Graça Moura

a word in the heart

    . . . mit einer Hoffnung auf ein kommendes Wort im Herzen
                        Paul Celan




when celan visited heidegger and they walked
in the woods before it rained, on leaving he wrote
in the visitors’ book about his hope in a
word to come in the heart. and in todtnauberg,

two years before dying, he again referred to the obscure
phrase written in that book, about a hope that a word
would come (to a thinking being? from a thinking being?)
in the heart. in the heart, that place where

the word is able to reconcile since it’s there beforehand,
ardently waiting. to the heart would be less visceral.
either it’s already there, ready to come out, or there’s no point
in breaking the silence with so much expectation.

the roots of fire and of blood are the poem’s same violent
roots, in its convulsive magma of wondrous things
or in a tenuous flame bluing into syllables
delicate as wings. planted in the heart,

a word, an offering of music and wild plants,
would come from out of the dew and bless, if not
with forgetting, then at least with peace.
that was all celan asked for and we don’t know if he obtained it

or if he still sought it, one april night, in the seine.

uma palavra no coração

uma palavra no coração

                   . . . mit einer Hoffnung auf ein kommendes Wort im Herzen
                                                                                Paul Celan




quando celan visitou heidegger, e passearam
pelo bosque antes da chuva, ao despedir-se escreveu
no livro da casa sobre a esperança de uma
palavra a vir no coração. e repetiu em  todtnauberg,

dois anos antes de morrer, a referência obscura
à linha escrita nesse livro, de uma esperança, então, de que,
a um ser pensante?, de um ser pensante?,
viesse uma palavra no coração. no coração, no lugar onde

a palavra reconcilia por lá se encontrar desde antes,
esperadamente. ao coração, seria menos visceral.
ou já lá estava pronta a vir ou não valia a pena
fosse quebrado o silêncio em tanta expectativa.

as raízes do fogo e do sangue são as raízes
violentas do poema, no seu magma revolto de estranhezas
ou nalguma ténue chama azulando-se em sílabas
delicadas como asas. instalada no coração,

uma palavra, uma oferenda de música e plantas silvestres,
viria a irromper do orvalho, benfazeja, transportando
se não o esquecimento, a paz. uma palavra.
tudo o que celan pedia e não sabemos se obteve

e talvez ainda procurasse numa noite de abril, no rio sena.
Close

a word in the heart

    . . . mit einer Hoffnung auf ein kommendes Wort im Herzen
                        Paul Celan




when celan visited heidegger and they walked
in the woods before it rained, on leaving he wrote
in the visitors’ book about his hope in a
word to come in the heart. and in todtnauberg,

two years before dying, he again referred to the obscure
phrase written in that book, about a hope that a word
would come (to a thinking being? from a thinking being?)
in the heart. in the heart, that place where

the word is able to reconcile since it’s there beforehand,
ardently waiting. to the heart would be less visceral.
either it’s already there, ready to come out, or there’s no point
in breaking the silence with so much expectation.

the roots of fire and of blood are the poem’s same violent
roots, in its convulsive magma of wondrous things
or in a tenuous flame bluing into syllables
delicate as wings. planted in the heart,

a word, an offering of music and wild plants,
would come from out of the dew and bless, if not
with forgetting, then at least with peace.
that was all celan asked for and we don’t know if he obtained it

or if he still sought it, one april night, in the seine.

a word in the heart

    . . . mit einer Hoffnung auf ein kommendes Wort im Herzen
                        Paul Celan




when celan visited heidegger and they walked
in the woods before it rained, on leaving he wrote
in the visitors’ book about his hope in a
word to come in the heart. and in todtnauberg,

two years before dying, he again referred to the obscure
phrase written in that book, about a hope that a word
would come (to a thinking being? from a thinking being?)
in the heart. in the heart, that place where

the word is able to reconcile since it’s there beforehand,
ardently waiting. to the heart would be less visceral.
either it’s already there, ready to come out, or there’s no point
in breaking the silence with so much expectation.

the roots of fire and of blood are the poem’s same violent
roots, in its convulsive magma of wondrous things
or in a tenuous flame bluing into syllables
delicate as wings. planted in the heart,

a word, an offering of music and wild plants,
would come from out of the dew and bless, if not
with forgetting, then at least with peace.
that was all celan asked for and we don’t know if he obtained it

or if he still sought it, one april night, in the seine.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
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