THE H FUGUE
– In the Hütte, in the beautiful hair, in the garden, in the heart, in the hard, in the half – “This is compulsion,” I tell myself. But I instantly make the realization that the best poetry around is the poetry that dares to aspirate its consonants. The diacritic for aspiration in the phonetic alphabet is the superscript "h", [ʰ]. Language in vacuum. I continue with my imaginary reading. In t[ʰ]e [ʰ]ouse „dein goldenes Haar Margarete, dein aschenes Haar Sulamith“. Obviously Celan knew what he was doing – „der Tod ist ein Meister.” – “he grants us a grave in the air”. In the [ʰ]air the breath is bereaved. When Eliza tried to learn aspiration she couldn’t say: "In Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen.” This English Shulamith spoke no Hebrew. Cruel consonants are hard to caress. Hark! Fight the snakes with your hair. Entangle their tails with your string, and drink, and drink, and then ding. The bell tolls for der Tod. Aspire „der Tod“, Shulamith, louder and more, and haunt, and let your hurricane happen – in dein aschenes Haar – Etch your Hs, imprint them on skin and let them burn it. It burns. The “Ah,” loses its first born. The H remains and it haunts.