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Wittgenstein Elegies
Complex, intricately textured and polyphonic, this sequence of five long poems enacts the fulfilment of poetry and philosophy in one another. "In Schiller's terms, it is the elegiac longing for unity of soul and world, here expressed in some of the most beautiful poetry of 1986." -- Ronald B. Hatch, University of Toronto Quarterly
- GenresPoetryPhilosophy
72 pages, Paperback
First published January 16, 1986
About the author
Jan Zwicky
32 books52 followersJan Zwicky’s books of poetry include Songs for Relinquishing the Earth, which won the Governor General’s Award, Robinson’s Crossing, which won the Dorothy Livesay Prize, and, most recently Forge, which was short-listed for the Griffin Prize. Her books of philosophy include Wisdom & Metaphor, Lyric Philosophy, and Alkibiades’ Love (forthcoming 2015).
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
February 2, 2026
I have always liked what I've read second-hand about Wittgenstein, I am making my way towards someday reading him. Zwicky provides not an easy access point, as the text is quite difficult, but certainly a beautiful one. I hope to return to this someday when I am more clever and to understand even more.
February 5, 2026
Admittedly, this was a little hard to get into since I am not very familiar with Wittgenstein's philosophy. However, Sue Sinclair's introduction provided a place of grace from which to approach difficulty, and the effort was amply worth it. This book challenged and inspired me, bringing me back to times when philosophy, poetry, and life have been inextricably linked for me. I also think this is a wonderful book for (young) poets to read because it wrestles with the gaps and impossibilities of language and with the dangers of abstraction, without becoming cynical. It's a book that I know I'll reread, slowly inching toward some form of understanding of its philosophy and peace with its gestures. As Zwicky writes: "Most answers squat / before us, humble questions."
July 19, 2025
A collection on abstraction + navigating philosophical arguments of the 1900s. Really fascinating, but very complex in its endeavor.
January 23, 2022
I
Head down, imponderable coffee cold,
Black stretch, brown depths, the far reach
Of lead-skyed November afternoons. His seriousness
A lump, a great huge lump:
He staggers underneath it like a saint.
What has he seen? Or do those eyes
See only through? He never speaks.
A sigh, perhaps, a sign: the vacancy
Of imbeciles, the simply mad or talented
Is not so vibrant. Darkly luminous.
*
Beautiful is the stillness of night.
On a dark plain
We meet with shepherds and white stars.
When autumn has come
A sober clarity appears in the grove.
Soothed we wander beside red walls
And our round eyes follow the flight of birds.
*
Sometimes he speaks: echoes.
He speaks echoes. So pure, almost
Unrecognizable - strain every nerve to catch.
This is what one must wish:
No clutter, stripped bare, colours
Pure, original; unsaying itself
Directly echoed. I have scraped and cut,
Struck, cauterized; but unforgivable the
Clumsiness: agile as a club.
Limbless truths show nothing, little heaps
Of rags and dust. Purity of heart
Eludes me. Absence,
Clear still space where truth might echo
Chokes, these thick haphazard days.
This soul is made of sand, slides down itself,
Collapses under every press of structure;
Even, shapeless, yellow, same.
I cannot help these words as he can:
Mute radiance, the empty shining valley.
I cannot keep them clean, they suffocate,
Small limnesses, fall stillborn from my mouth.
Prod them for signs of life like poisoned mice.
*
It is like this: We are asleep.
Our life is like a dream.
Only in better hours do we wake,
Enough to realize we dream. Too rare:
I cannot shake myself to consciousness.
At most I can endure, which is not courage
But the mindless strength of animals. What is most
Simple has no way of being said, can only show itself
A pure outstretch of arm. My words
Are useless as my hands: try hard,
Dream bodies move, but real ones do not stir.
*
II
Wealth clutters, opulence breeds death.
Enough to stay clean, sanity is nothing more.
Make art: the clean-souled starve:
Give strength of strength. And never say
From whom to whom. Namelessness is
Blessedness; and what is hidden
Does not interest us.
*
Objects are simple. They are named
By simple signs. They are only named.
Signs are their representatives.
We can only speak about them,
Cannot put them into words. In language
We can only state the how of things,
Now what they are. What signs
Fail to express, their application shows.
In logic, no thing is accidental.
Somewhere the questions must be
Simple, essence etched in every word.
There must be a realm in which the answers
A priori form a system:
simplex sigillum veri.
What signs fail to express, their
Application shows. If only we
Are strong enough to see. If only
We endure the blindness and the loss.
*
What is seen in essence cannot be
Immediately open to their view,
But something hidden, essence hidden
From them, unrecoverable by mere
Artifice. Strict cleavages,
The lovely logic, winter mornings with sunshine
Unrecoverable, buried in the background
Medium of understanding hidden.
Nothing can be explained or deduced.
It is all before us.
*
Mighty are you, dark mouth within me,
Shape formed from autumn clouds,
Gold evening stillness.
Greenly twilit mountain stream
In shadows, broken pines; a village
Meekly perishes, brown images.
Black horses leap upon the misty meadow.
You soldiers!
From the hill where the sun rolls dying
The laughing blood plunges
Under oaks
Speechless. O angry melancholy
Of the army. A shining helmet
Clatters down from the purple forehead.
So cool the autumn night comes;
With stars
The silent nun shines
Over the broken bones of men.
*
Leave. Drum fingers on metal desk.
Dug in. Dimness of oak-panelled offices -
What past? Blue crystal eyes
Drip moons in urgent hospitals. Deep gratitude,
Express myself; please come, please come.
Oak-panelled trench, please come,
Stuck fast in mud, next door, now,
Angles shatter purple light against
High faces.
All the dead brothers,
Brilliant, stretch, twist, gleam.
*
III
Strung up like crows, he saw them
Clear as night against the clear dawn,
Black stretch, sharp as a caw against the sweet light
Spread like a breath across a winter window.
Love of the weak ones, ninety,
Still on his hands blood of the helpless.
Bu his own hand, stone agony.
He saw them. Frozen echoes, catch of breath
By simple trees. Hung. Still. There. His.
*
The great clear space, against pale innocence, his guilt,
At last unhidden eyes see through.
Through emptiness to some blank place, smudged, filled with
Sand. Crumble these shadows, indecipher them, make dust.
*
But answers only clarity and light, mute
Radiance of the shining valley. No words to
Hide, catch, hold the wild simplicity,
Black aureoles. Fill him now with pendent echoes,
Fill him. Offer. Burn the stone his eyes. Split
Silent light, black foetuses.
Break, world, apart.
*
IV
Smooth sheets, cool golden afternoon
Above the oak-furred ridge.
What failure does this signify, arrival
Three days late? Cold forehead, temples thin
Masked mirrors, blue bruise
Of fingertips. The
Silence.
Wild white silence.
A fence before the gate of heaven,
Path of the extinguished angel.
Language is a public phenomenon.
*
We will never know
Whether it is a strength or a weakness
To have survived where others could not.
Head down, imponderable coffee cold,
Black stretch, brown depths, the far reach
Of lead-skyed November afternoons. His seriousness
A lump, a great huge lump:
He staggers underneath it like a saint.
What has he seen? Or do those eyes
See only through? He never speaks.
A sigh, perhaps, a sign: the vacancy
Of imbeciles, the simply mad or talented
Is not so vibrant. Darkly luminous.
A stupid dream, all emptiness.
What we have seen is what the world acquires
From the strangeness of the way we see,
Have seen, what we have heard:
Mere echoes of ourselves, of others.
*
Beautiful is the stillness of night.
On a dark plain
We meet with shepherds and white stars.
When autumn has come
A sober clarity appears in the grove.
Soothed we wander beside red walls
And our round eyes follow the flight of birds.
*
Sometimes he speaks: echoes.
He speaks echoes. So pure, almost
Unrecognizable - strain every nerve to catch.
This is what one must wish:
No clutter, stripped bare, colours
Pure, original; unsaying itself
Directly echoed. I have scraped and cut,
Struck, cauterized; but unforgivable the
Clumsiness: agile as a club.
Limbless truths show nothing, little heaps
Of rags and dust. Purity of heart
Eludes me. Absence,
Clear still space where truth might echo
Chokes, these thick haphazard days.
This soul is made of sand, slides down itself,
Collapses under every press of structure;
Even, shapeless, yellow, same.
I cannot help these words as he can:
Mute radiance, the empty shining valley.
I cannot keep them clean, they suffocate,
Small limnesses, fall stillborn from my mouth.
Prod them for signs of life like poisoned mice.
*
It is like this: We are asleep.
Our life is like a dream.
Only in better hours do we wake,
Enough to realize we dream. Too rare:
I cannot shake myself to consciousness.
At most I can endure, which is not courage
But the mindless strength of animals. What is most
Simple has no way of being said, can only show itself
A pure outstretch of arm. My words
Are useless as my hands: try hard,
Dream bodies move, but real ones do not stir.
*
II
Wealth clutters, opulence breeds death.
Enough to stay clean, sanity is nothing more.
Make art: the clean-souled starve:
Give strength of strength. And never say
From whom to whom. Namelessness is
Blessedness; and what is hidden
Does not interest us.
A philanthropic fluke, you think, a whim?
School-children's exercise books and a mark pad
On my desk - "Why use a jeweller's knife
To open orange crates?"
Because you gawp
Behind sealed windows, cannot know
What storm is raging, with what effort
Passers-by must struggle just to stand.
The truth is hidden, though it is
Before you: simplicity once seen that is
Most striking.
Pull the shutters. Leave us
Stumble past your doorsteps
Dumb as stones.
*
Objects are simple. They are named
By simple signs. They are only named.
Signs are their representatives.
We can only speak about them,
Cannot put them into words. In language
We can only state the how of things,
Now what they are. What signs
Fail to express, their application shows.
In logic, no thing is accidental.
Somewhere the questions must be
Simple, essence etched in every word.
There must be a realm in which the answers
A priori form a system:
simplex sigillum veri.
What signs fail to express, their
Application shows. If only we
Are strong enough to see. If only
We endure the blindness and the loss.
*
What is seen in essence cannot be
Immediately open to their view,
But something hidden, essence hidden
From them, unrecoverable by mere
Artifice. Strict cleavages,
The lovely logic, winter mornings with sunshine
Unrecoverable, buried in the background
Medium of understanding hidden.
Nothing can be explained or deduced.
It is all before us.
All that happens, is the case,
Is accidental:hardness of the logical must.
*
Mighty are you, dark mouth within me,
Shape formed from autumn clouds,
Gold evening stillness.
Greenly twilit mountain stream
In shadows, broken pines; a village
Meekly perishes, brown images.
Black horses leap upon the misty meadow.
You soldiers!
From the hill where the sun rolls dying
The laughing blood plunges
Under oaks
Speechless. O angry melancholy
Of the army. A shining helmet
Clatters down from the purple forehead.
So cool the autumn night comes;
With stars
The silent nun shines
Over the broken bones of men.
*
Leave. Drum fingers on metal desk.
Dug in. Dimness of oak-panelled offices -
What past? Blue crystal eyes
Drip moons in urgent hospitals. Deep gratitude,
Express myself; please come, please come.
Oak-panelled trench, please come,
Stuck fast in mud, next door, now,
Angles shatter purple light against
High faces.
All the dead brothers,
Brilliant, stretch, twist, gleam.
So too at death the world does not alter
But comes to an end.
*
III
Strung up like crows, he saw them
Clear as night against the clear dawn,
Black stretch, sharp as a caw against the sweet light
Spread like a breath across a winter window.
Love of the weak ones, ninety,
Still on his hands blood of the helpless.
Bu his own hand, stone agony.
He saw them. Frozen echoes, catch of breath
By simple trees. Hung. Still. There. His.
*
Turn, world, against
The great clear space, against pale innocence, his guilt,
At last unhidden eyes see through.
Turn, world, away
Through emptiness to some blank place, smudged, filled with
Sand. Crumble these shadows, indecipher them, make dust.
*
But answers only clarity and light, mute
Radiance of the shining valley. No words to
Hide, catch, hold the wild simplicity,
Black aureoles. Fill him now with pendent echoes,
Fill him. Offer. Burn the stone his eyes. Split
Silent light, black foetuses.
Break, world, apart.
*
IV
Smooth sheets, cool golden afternoon
Above the oak-furred ridge.
What failure does this signify, arrival
Three days late? Cold forehead, temples thin
Masked mirrors, blue bruise
Of fingertips. The
Silence.
Wild white silence.
A fence before the gate of heaven,
Path of the extinguished angel.
Language is a public phenomenon.
*
When the answer cannot be put into words,
Neither can the question be put into words.
There are, indeed, things that
Cannot be put into words. They make
Themselves manifest.
We will never know
Whether it is a strength or a weakness
To have survived where others could not.
Only what is simple is hidden:the leaf is springthis gesture, the mindof God.
- The Death of George Trakl, pg. 21-34
March 17, 2016
Deep and beautiful. I need to read more of Zwicky's work, and I need to go back to my long-past studied (actually just a brief overview from philosophy classes) of Wittgenstein. This book is meditative. It's a seamless blending of the abstraction of philosophy and the emotion and imagery of poetry...and it evokes a persona without calling too much attention to the 'mask' of the speaker--which is a tricky thing to accomplish.
February 5, 2024
"My words
are useless as my hands:
dream bodies move, but real ones do not stir."
Beautiful book of poems. Words and meaning acquire even more meaning in Wittgenstein's philosophy as poetry. I loved the Tractatus and Investigations dialogue with each other. Jan Zwicky shows a careful reading of Wittgenstein's work and never loses perspective of its entirety.
are useless as my hands:
dream bodies move, but real ones do not stir."
Beautiful book of poems. Words and meaning acquire even more meaning in Wittgenstein's philosophy as poetry. I loved the Tractatus and Investigations dialogue with each other. Jan Zwicky shows a careful reading of Wittgenstein's work and never loses perspective of its entirety.
July 29, 2023
first book of poetry that really sang for me
Read
May 27, 2023Absolutely beautiful. For some time I've been obsessed with the subject of language, this basic tool has been an obstacle in my life. I, like Wittgenstein, have longed for clarity and understanding, but I have always encountered misunderstandings, what I would like most would be to be able to cross that wall.
[...]
Tractatus:
When the answer cannot be put into words, neither can the question be put into words. There are, indeed, things that
cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest.
Georg Trakl:
We will never know
whether it is a strength or a weakness to have survived where others could not.
Stillness:
Only what is simple is hidden: the leaf in spring,
this gesture, the mind of God.
[...]
Our language is an ancient city, maze of interlocking streets and squares. To know it, we must
walk it, crawl through sewers, feel our way
by night along the walls. Most answers squat
before us, humble questions.
[...]
But wholeness is a gift of art, its essence transcendental.
The most that we can hope
is steadiness of soul, courage
to render with exactness what is set before us, love what must
each time we grasp it vanish.
[...]
Tractatus:
When the answer cannot be put into words, neither can the question be put into words. There are, indeed, things that
cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest.
Georg Trakl:
We will never know
whether it is a strength or a weakness to have survived where others could not.
Stillness:
Only what is simple is hidden: the leaf in spring,
this gesture, the mind of God.
[...]
Our language is an ancient city, maze of interlocking streets and squares. To know it, we must
walk it, crawl through sewers, feel our way
by night along the walls. Most answers squat
before us, humble questions.
[...]
But wholeness is a gift of art, its essence transcendental.
The most that we can hope
is steadiness of soul, courage
to render with exactness what is set before us, love what must
each time we grasp it vanish.
September 12, 2021
I wanted to like this more than I did. The various introductions and afterwords say lots of interesting things about how Wittgenstein's work inspires poetry, and the author is a well-read philosopher, as well as poet. But then, when it comes to the poetry, I can't quite get it. I'm sure that's mostly my fault, for being rather unpoetic. Oh, well--I keep trying.
December 30, 2015
Based on a reading of the 2015 revised edition published under Brick Books Classics.
An excellent work. My review is forthcoming, depending first on if I can get it published or not.
An excellent work. My review is forthcoming, depending first on if I can get it published or not.
Read
April 19, 2025I think, sometime in my life, I will read and enjoy Wittgenstein.
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews