Occupation: Poet Birth: November 23, 1920 Death: April 20, 1970
With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode God far--I rode God near, he sang, it was our la….
Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!.
They've healed me to pieces..
There was earth inside them, and they dug..
German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry.... Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts "beauty." ….
rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this..
Poetry is a sort of homecoming..
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown..
Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, clim….
Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem..
There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German..
The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere..
A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea with the-surely not always stron….
Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle.
Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live..
The two heart-grey puddles: two mouthsfull of silence..