Summer is a time of growth, fall, a time of harvest and reaping Cycles— death then life will begin again. I've been consumed with Paul Celan, his search for ways out of pain, his longing for normalcy, wanting human connections, his anger, visions of death, and always haunting beauty. His language is passionate
and speaks for the dead, the living, the dying and unborn. I cannot read him without feeling like I am drowning with moments coming out of the waves to breathe. A good feeling? Yes, because, without pain, there is no pleasure. Reminders of suffering are important in order to feel alive, to see a flower and understand its beauty, its meaning. Sometimes, I need a break, however. My mind is filled with counting the dead, the unsaid, silence and aurulent moons.
In celebration of fall, here's a poem Celan wrote based on Rilke's "Autumn Day"
Corona
Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.
In the mirror it's Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.
My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moons blood ray.
We stand by the window embracing, and people
look up from the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time.
It is time.
Translated by Michael Hamburger
Autumn Day
Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.
Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
and on the meadows let the wind go free.
Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;
grant them a few more warm transparent days,
urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Whoever has no house now, will never have one.
Whoever is alone will stay alone,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening,
and wander along the boulevards, up and down,
restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Stephen Mitchell
Here's my version of "Corona"
Blackness Slips Through Sundays
A mirror cannot speak truth
Just as a woman’s face masks
a madness
The man in the mug shot
Could be anyone’s husband, friend, father, —
The woman hides behind
fiction
First published in failbetter
This issue of Scapegoat Review is full of surprises; rogue waves (one of my favorite subjects, it's the super geek in me), conflicts with master, nightmares, the moment before waking, dark rooms, pigs, clouds, wrists and ankles bound.
Poetry by Nin Andrews, Sally Ashton, J.P. Dancing J. Hope Stein, Haiku by Tiberius F, poetry and flash fiction by Alexandra Isacson, and a Photo Essay by Louis Seigal.
I would like to thank Nin Andrews for sending her poems from the forthcoming Accidental Seduction. Reading her poems are like sitting down for an afternoon without knowing anything about the direction you are taking. Sometimes you will double over with laughter, sometimes cry silently, other times, be unsure of what you feel until later in the night, but they will never leave you.
Experiencing Nin's work, is not only a pleasure, I want to savor each poem. She has a rare gift; the ability to take us on a journey which never bores, brings forth emotions of pure joy, anguish, remembrance, and letting go of things we didn't know we were still holding onto.
She uses language as a tool which guides us down treacherous paths, gently holding our hands, so that we safely enter the world once again.
I want to thank all those who are in this issue. Autumn is a time of renewal, and looking toward winter, I am thrilled to let you know that the winter issue will be in magazine form. Details to follow.
Thank you
Erika
