Paul Celan, An Eye, Open by Caitlin Murray

Hours, May-coloured, cool.
The no more to be named, hot,
audible in the mouth.

No one’s voice, again.

Aching depth of the eyeball:
the lid
does not stand in its way, the lash
does not count what goes in.

The tear, half,
the sharper lens, movable,
brings the images home to you

 

Originally Published in 1959

George Oppen, Discrete Series, 1934 by Caitlin Murray

The mast
Inaudibly soars; bole-like, tapering:
Sail flattens from it beneath the wind. 
The limp water holds the boat's round
                         sides. Sun
Slants dry light on the deck. 
                         Beneath us glide
Rocks, sand, and unrimmed holes. 

 

George Oppen, Discrete Series, 1934

George Oppen, Discrete Series, 1934 by Caitlin Murray

The knowledge not of sorrow, you were
     saying, but of boredom
Is—aside from reading speaking
     smoking—
Of what, Maude Blessingbourne it was, 
     wished to know when, having risen, 
"approached the window as to see
     what was really going on":
And saw rain falling, in the distance
     more slowly, 
The road clear form her past the window-
     glass—
Of the world, weather-swept, with which
     one shares the century. 

 

George Oppen, Discrete Series, 1934