Ich gieße auf mir meinen Tee,

seh' braunes Laub im Nebelsee,

die Welt ergraut, der Wald ergold't,

verkündet, wie auf- bald sich rollt

der Igel, wie noch nicht gebor'n,

und hoch in Eichen auch das Horn,

an Scheiben regnet's, ich bin drinne,

lausch' dem Lied der Regenrinne.

~

Pflaumen spring'n mit einem Sätzchen,

in den Teig, woll'n warmes Plätzchen,

doch die gibt es erst im Winter,

jetzt schnei'n erstmal Streusel munter

und das Wetter, nebst dem Ofen,

lässt auch noch auf Wärme hoffen,

auch wenn's regnet. Ich bin drinne,

lausch' dem Lied der Regenrinne.

~

Wo man noch Hagel grad geschossen

jetzt schon still die Pilze sprossen,

über Nacht zum Monatsbruch,

da brachten sie den Wohlgeruch,

von Herbst und Regen, nassen Wegen,

Nebelbänken, die sich legen

und ich seh' das still von drinne,

lausch' dem Lied der Regenrinne.

---

Rainer Maria Rilke, "Herbsttag", Das Buch der Bilder

(An English translation of Rilke's "Autumn Day" from The Book of Images by J. Mullen)

Lord: it is time. The summer was great. Lay your shadows onto the sundials and let loose the winds upon the fields.

Command the last fruits to be full, give them yet two more southern days, urge them to perfection, and chase the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who now has no house, builds no more. Who is now alone, will long remain so, will stay awake, read, write long letters and will wander restlessly here and there in the avenues, when the leaves drift.

[Text ID of the original German:]

we slumber like wine in the seashells,

like the sea in the moon’s blood-beam

–

It is time.

-Paul Celan, "Corona" (trans. Susan Gillespie)

Time turns back on its shell.

In the mirror is Sunday.

It is time.

“Corona,” from Paul Celan, Romanian Austro-Hungarian German Jew (all identities not quite defined as such in his youth). Celan was the sole survivor from his family; his parents died in Nazi labor camps.

Celan became the great poet of the postwar, but the language of his executioners was lifelong source of both torment and creativity.

Writing in German was to redeem it, while “passing through the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech”

[Anselm Kiefer, after Celan, 2006]

I love this poem for all the reasons but also because Celan echoes Rilke’s famous opening cry, “Herr: es ist Zeit” (“Lord, it is time”) and responds definitively, “Es ist Zeit.”

It is time.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Herbsttag, trans. William Gass, “Autumn Day”