inblogcathat.tk No more velvet or jewels, no more swallows or vows, no more rare birds or chickens, no perch, no white path or rose bush, no blouse or beauty, nothing at all—nothing but the great Peacock of Life in all his sapphire glory making a wheel out of our eyes. The splendid Cheek emerges from the hawthorn muslins.
Percez le trou solide au plein du mont. He attended medical school in Brest and went on to become a naval doctor; this led to a post in Tahiti, where he spent two years. His curiosity also took him to China, which provided him with material for his poems. Segalen wrote essays on Rimbaud and Gauguin, and provided libretti for his friend Claude Debussy. Funerary Edict Testament divining the imperial tomb. Here the wind and the water in the veins of the earth and the plains of the wind are propitious.
This pleasant tomb shall be mine. Extend the long ceremonial way: — animals, monsters, men. There you shall place the lofty crenelated fortress.
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Carve in the depths of the mountain a hole without weakness. Murez le chemin aux vivants. Certes la mort est plaisante et noble et douce. La mort est fort habitable. I make my way inside. Behold me there.
And now close the door, and wall up the space before it. Bar the road to all the living.
I do not lament. I rule with gentleness and my dark palace is pleasing. Indeed death is agreeable and noble and sweet. A place one can dwell in. I dwell in death and I am content there. And I shall listen to words. Out of respect for what cannot be said, no one is ever again to reveal the word glory or commit the character happiness. Let them no longer exist. What dazzling brushstroke would dare the gesture that she, in her innocence, imagines. Let it never come to pass. And just, since it has angles but does not cut. And full of urbanity when, hung from a belt, it bends low and touches earth.
And musical, raising its voice, sustained until the sudden fall. And sincere, for its luster is not veiled by its faults nor its faults by its luster. To praise it is thus to praise virtue itself. Ne le dis pas. For I avow that, turned away from you, I seek somewhere beyond you the response revealed by you. And I will go, crying out to the four spaces: You have heard me, you have known me, I cannot live in silence.
He was born in Uruguay to French parents, but both disappeared after the family returned to France when he was just six months old. From an early age Supervielle used poetry to explore his sense of emptiness and loss, though he later turned to themes of coexistence and exchange in his poems, which are convincing and easily grasped. Those who have stepped inside my cold caverns, Are they sure that they can ever leave again?
What else can our hands do for us now? He was educated in the French Mediterranean. After a night of moral and intellectual anguish in October , he renounced poetry for mathematics and the study of mental processes, returning to poetry writing just before World War I. In he moved to Paris and concentrated solely on notebooks that he wrote in the morning before going to work at the French War Ministry. His poems are among the masterpieces of the twentieth century. The Spinner The spinner, seated near the window sash that opens where a melodious garden sways, drowses by an old snoring wheel.
Tired, drunk on azure blue, on guiding Wheedling hairs that dodge her feeble hands, She dreams. And now her tiny head is nodding. A living spring, formed by leaves and air, Rising in sunlight, sprinkles fresh water Over her garden as she slumbers there. Her dream unwinds, as on a gentle spindle That caresses as it rolls around Unendingly, and with the ease of angels.
The deep blue pales beyond so many blossoms. The saint, your sister, smiles in the rose-window, Perfumes your dazed forehead with her innocent breath, And you wither, growing faint in the twilight, Near the casement, where you sat spinning. The sky must yield to the slow tolling of blades. Leur nuit passe longtemps. The pure endless arms of the goddess Vainly oppose me, harassing my strength. But a thousand icy bonds gradually give way And the silver shards of her naked majesty.
The deep current carries me under bridges, Arches full of wind, of murmuring dark, They rush over me, their tedium crushing My proud skull stronger than their doors. Their night passes slowly. Under such weight, My very soul almost yields up its light Until in a gesture that clothes me in stone, I sweep onward to the scorn of such idle sky. Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Wide-open vault and chaste shrine to Athene, deep reservoir of calmly shining money, like an eye the supercilious water-structure lies somnolent beneath its burning veils; and my soul-silence too is architecture, a golden hoard roofed with a thousand tiles. Under this clear sky it is I who change— after so much conceit, after such strange lassitude, but bursting with new power, I give myself up to these brilliant spaces; on the mansions of the dead my shadow passes reminding me of its own ephemeral hour.
Caged though you seem behind a mesh of branches, great gulf, consumer of these meagre fences, a blinding secret on the lids, reveal what body draws me to its indolences, what face invites me to this bony soil. A faint spark ponders these inheritances.
The future, here already, scarcely moves. Dazed with diversity, the enormous swarm of life is bitter-sweet and the mind clear. Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse? Tout fuit!
Where now are the colloquial turns of phrase, the individual gifts and singular souls? Where once a tear gathered the grub crawls. And you, great soul, dare you hypostasize a world untarnished by the luminous lies the sun and sea suggest to mortal eyes? Archaic progenitors, your derelict heads returned to pasture by so many spades, no longer knowing the familiar tread— the real ravager, the irrefutable worm is not for you, at rest now in the tomb; it lives on life and never leaves my side. Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Non, non! Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive! Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent! Il faut tenter de vivre! Rompez, vagues! Its secret mordancy is so intense the silent gnawing goes by many names. Does the twang wake me and the arrow kill? Sunlight, is it merely a tortoise-shade, the mighty hero frozen in mid-stride? She gained as much notoriety for her lifestyle as for her writing, participating in the weekly Friday salon of Nathalie Barney, her lover; eating almost nothing; and keeping mysterious assignations never elucidated to this day that greatly provoked Barney.
Although English was her native language, Vivien wrote exclusively in French. Queen, I raised to you this shining palace, From the remains of a vessel shipwrecked at night. Aspirin by simply standing behind the actor reciting the lines. Standing behind, Warhol seemed to be saying, can be as important as standing for. At that time, almost everyone involved in the arts was exploring things African. In , he and Hugo Ball invented Negro chants.
In drawing or painting, the initial subliminal line that Motherwell termed the doodle—which the poet Robert Desnos had used in his early Surrealist drawings—was the visual equivalent of the unthinking and uncensored speech that was thought to unleash the powers of the subconscious. American painters, and then poets, tapped into this spontaneity and energy, but in the reverse order of the movement in France, where the poets had led the way.
Nor had places like Haiti, Martinique, Guadeloupe, and Senegal remained untouched by Surrealism, for Breton had multiple contacts with poets beyond the six sides of the Hexagon that is France.
La Roche aux Mouettes. Little by little, the countries of the Maghreb Algeria, Morocco, Tunisia gained their independence. That spirit of generosity has become increasingly felt. Selections from his political writings and speeches. Suzanne Normis.
Stopping in Martinique on his way to New York, Breton was moved to write the eulogistic tract Martinique charmeuse de serpents Martinique Charmer of Snakes. In his Le Parti pris des choses Taking the Side of Things he celebrates the dailiness of objects and their mundane but important presence.
Even Breton, after his exile in New York and his encounter with the Native Americans of the Southwest particularly the Hopis in Arizona , developed a strongly mystical streak. By the time he returned to France, Surrealism—and the epoch that had nourished it—had changed, but its legacies remain undeniable. He was born in the fashionable sixteenth arrondissement, where his family ran a pension. Like many other Surrealists of the time, he believed revolution could occur only through a change in the predominant social structure.