In the short essays preceding each of these sections, poets are discussed by generation—though, when speaking of contemporaries, the discussions are not strictly limited bybirthdates. The present organization highlights six crucial pressure points in modern French poetry. Because poetic endeavors between the s and the current era feel so intensely present, and to some extent continuous, my initial temptation, in the ultimate section, was to separate these forty or so years into two parts, alphabetically by poet: A through K and L through Y.
I have therefore chosen as the starting point for contemporary poets at the end of the twentieth century. Inclusions This collection represents the work of as many poets as possible, including poems by more than a few poets who, according to the cliche of prevailing wisdom, have not yet stood the test of time.
That is not the only risk taken here, as a quick glance at the table of contents confirms. The choices were made with several criteria in mind, some of them made explicit in this introduction, some of them left implicit: all of us who have worked so hard on this volume hope that our best intentions will be met by those of our readers. Poetic Forms In addition to expected poetic forms—rhymed, unrhymed, free, and formal verse—I have included songs, dialogue poems, and a large selection of prose poetry. The interrelation of prose and verse earns the prose poem a respectful place among other forms of twentieth-century French poetry.
Between and the prose poem came to the fore through the work of Max Jacob and Pierre Reverdy. For Jacob, the prose poem conveyed a feeling of closure, of completeness—the style and the situation removing it from everyday life and setting it off as a sort of perfect object. For Reverdy, on the other hand, the prose poem exemplified an openness of form, an undecidability, as well as a kind of uncertainty, both impersonal and obsessive, at once attractive and disquieting. After all, the Pre- Raphaelites had every reason to think of themselves as a rupture from Raphael, and, long before that, Rome was itself in rupture.
Did modern French and Francophone poetry break from the past? Certainly it did from the poetry of, say, Hugo and Verlaine, though less so from a past represented by Baudelaire, Rimbaud, and Mallarme. But continuity, like discontinuity, is in the eye of the beholder. Why not? Poetry is large enough to absorb innovation as it goes along. In a seemingly irrational way, such careful attention to the material word challenges, refashions, and enhances thought.
Note the humor, concision, and irony: feu filant, deja sommeillant. And next the thought came to me that to leave all out would be another, and truer, way. Published in and rediscovered by the Cubists and Andre Gide in , it was revolutionary in its use of typographical space. It is the starting point of what today is widely practiced as both concrete and visual poetry.
Type organizes itself on the page ideogrammatically. When Mallarme first showed part of his Coup de des to Paul Valery, his friend is reported to have burst into tears because he understood at once that everything had been changed by this revolutionary event of poetry and art. What you find in the street or on the Web—all these constitute, inevitably, a sort of reticulated combination poem-painting, a spatialized discourse. Although Pierre Reverdy and Max Jacob would have rejected the label Cubist as having nothing essential to say about their compositions, it is in fact a useful reference.
The shock of their meeting would give off new creative light, allowing new ways of perceiving. This procedure carried straight over to Surrealism and its concept of the image as a composition of farflung elements. Experimental poetry and anything liberating, Ashbery says, are what really claim him. His personal reaction is antitraditional, in opposition to the poetry so often taught in the universities—for example, that of Robert Lowell and John Berryman. As a heart is shaped by what it loves, and a mind by what it admires, a voice may gain its surest tones by what the speaker or singer reads and hears.
The celebrated singer Patti Smith is fascinated by Blake and Rimbaud, and her verses are recognizably Rimbaudian. I believe it also. It is not what you emulate but what you choose to carry with you that matters most. Appropriately, Part 1 of this volume includes the work of two great Symbolists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: Saint-Pol Roux and Paul Claudel. In Valery, Narcissus and Psyche meet contemporary psychological meditation.
The year was certainly an annus mirabilis in many domains. Proust, Gide, and Valery were producing the masterpieces we know, and Apollinaire was busy with the publication of Alcools. Anthropological investigations, such as those in the Swiss journal Anthropos gave credibility and backing to poetic experimentation. A strange coherence is found in these automatic texts. This is the grand epoch of Surrealism. These collective games and experiments were carried on amid a circle of vivid characters and brilliant writers that included the novelist Louis Aragon and the poet Paul Eluard, both of whom would later join the Communist Party and remain two of its staunchest adherents.
No less sacrilegious was the use of the hallowed name of Lautreamont for a popular nightclub. The author of Maldoror and forefather of Surrealism was not to be associated with the light, the frivolous, or the horrors of commercial undertakings. But the Surrealist spirit in poetry, as in life, was to mark successive generations. Breton and several others took refuge in Marseilles at the Bel Air mansion, owned by the American Jane Gold; it was there that Varian Fry ran the Committee for Political Refugees, orchestrating plans for the foremost intellectuals to leave France for the United States.
Breton was among the French refugees in New York, which was not to his liking he preferred the West and Native American culture. Home to the Abstract Expressionists and their expressive personal visions, the magazine occupied an opposite pole from the Partisan Review and The Nation. With the help of the American artist David Hare, Breton, who learned no English, set up a rival magazine called WV, where the Surrealists could publish, as they often did, in French. But once there, he discovered that conditions were no longer as conducive to the kind of poetry he had championed.
In the meantime, Surrealism had spread internationally. Aime Cesaire, Rene Menil, Leon-Gontran Damas, and other Francophone poets held an ongoing belief in the marvelous, that is, the power of surprise, in the Surrealist sense of the word le merveilleux , the overwhelming encounter with a person, an object, or an event that can happen in everyday life to someone in a state of readiness or expectation disponibilite. This openness was to endure beyond the political upheavals of the French presence in Algeria and other tribulations from which poetry often seemed an escape.
Latter-day manifestations of Surrealism, such as those of Joyce Mansour in her violent texts and the incendiary prose of Annie Le Brun, bear witness to the ongoing force of the Surrealist spirit. Ponge placed himself and his work, explicitly based on everyday perception, in a close-up zoom, as he put it in the title Le Parti-pris des choses On the Side of Things , an attitude congenial to that of the concrete poets. As is the case with poetry worldwide, there is now a tremendous emphasis on performance, on the oral manifestation essential to the ever more rapidly moving world with which it has to keep pace.
Technology and creation walk hand in hand: along with rap, slam, and reggae go all varieties of digital practice and Internet enthusiasm. The interactive nature of the contemporary world, psychological and political, local and global, gives poetry a new place. And it is. As Jacques Derrida notes, translation is generosity.
John Ashbery gets it right for all of us: Yet each knew he saw only aspects, That the continuity was fierce beyond all dream of enduring. Small and large journals and presses remain locked in economic crisis, but at least these heated and attention-getting debates focus on the problem of poetry and the ways poems relate to the world around them, and to us.
It imagines itself as a generous, loosely linked offering of poetic works in communication with each other, and with us, aimed at a new range of selections and an increased perception of old and new texts. The enduring wish of all those involved in this production is that through their contribution readers may, in their turn, discover something new that may matter even greatly to their future readings. Notes 1. Jean-Baptiste Para Paris: Gallimard, , p. Paul: University of Minnesota Press, , passim. Paul: Graywolf Press, ], p. The information is based on the informative article by Ronnie Scharfman in Denis Hollier, ed.
Alex Preminger and T. Brogran Princeton: Princeton University Press, , pp. See Warren F. Motte, Jr. Pierre de Ronsard, in Les Amours, ed. Marc Bensimon and James L. Normal, Ill. See Mary Ann Caws, ed. Rosenthal New York: New Directions, , p. Jacques Roubaud, conversation with the author, New York, April Henri Behar, vol. Dictation of thought, in the absence of any rational control, with no esthetic or moral consideration. Zigzag poesie, p. He and Paul Claudel, seven years his senior, represent the ongoing heritage from the great ur-Symbolist Steph- ane Mallarme—a heritage that continues with Paul Valery.
Another extraordinary adventurer into China in the early part of the century was Victor Segalen, doctor, essayist, and poet. The hieratic prose poems collected in Steles Stelae are a haunting presence, at once exotic and strangely familiar. Thence the challenge to whomever would have them say what it is they keep. They scorn to be read They do not express; they signify; they are.
The genre of the stela is unique unto itself, celebrating life, death, and the ongoing construction and duration of poetic monuments. An elegy to him by Tristan Tzara, founder of the Dada movement, is an unforgettable lament. Blaise Cendrars—whose adopted name suggests the embers la braise and ashes les cendres of inner conflagration, of self-immolation, as only the first step toward re-creation of the self—is a poet of tremendous influence whose contagious enthusiasm endures. The interrelations of prose and poetry are always to be reinvented and rethought.
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Particularly in the early years of the century, the interrelating of genres provokes a special excitement. Note 1. Victor Segalen, Steles Paris: Gallimard, , pp. Timothy Billings and Christopher Bush have recently translated and commented upon these poems, at the time of this writing; their work is invaluable. He continues to feel among the freshest of contemporary poets. PART 1. Vitus You were sad enough to die the day you saw yourself in them You looked like Lazarus bewildered by the light The hands of the clock in the Jewish quarter turn backwards And you go slowly backwards in your life Climbing up to Hradchin and listening at night In taverns to the singing of Czech songs Here you are in Marseilles amid the watermelons Here you are in Coblenz at the Hotel of the Giant Here you are in Rome sitting under a Japanese medlar tree n PART 1.
Closely associated with both Cubism and Surrealism, he was a leading figure in the fin-de-siecle literary world. Born to a Swiss father and Scottish mother, he ran away at fifteen to work in Russia. After studying briefly in Bern, he settled in Paris in He served in World War I, losing his right arm in combat. His extensive curiosity about widely differing cultures—particularly black ones—gave him a constantly forward-looking orientation. On dirait un aeroplane qui tombe.
The Kremlin was like an immense Tartar cake Iced with gold With big blanched-almond cathedrals And the honey gold of the bells Je pressentais la venue du grand Christ rouge de la revolution russe Un vieux moine me chantait la legende de Novgorode. I was hungry And all those days and all those women in all those cafes and all those glasses I wanted to drink them down and break them And all those windows and all those streets And all those houses and all those lives And all those carriage wheels raising swirls from the broken pavement I would have liked to have rammed them into a roaring furnace And I would have liked to have ground up all their bones And ripped out all those tongues And liquefied all those big bodies naked and strange under clothes that drive me mad I foresaw the coming of the big red Christ of the Russian Revolution And the sun was an ugly sore Splitting apart like a red-hot coal.
An old monk was singing me the legend of Novgorod. Stop bothering me Although his Catholic upbringing snuffed out his faith, he reconverted dramatically to Catholicism on Christmas Day of after a religious revelation. From to he served in diplomatic posts across America, Europe, and China. He also served as 37 PART 1.
October In vain do I see that the trees are still green. Whether the year is shrouded in a funereal haze or hidden under a long calm sky, we are not one day less close to its fatal solstice. The sun does not disappoint me, or the vast opulence of the landscape, but there is something too calm, a rest from which there is no awakening.
The cricket has no sooner begun to chirp than it stops for fear of being superfluous in the midst of this plenty that alone takes away our right to speak; and it seems as though one can only go barefooted into the solemn fastnesses of these golden fields. No, the sky behind me no longer casts the same light over the huge harvest; and as the road leads me by the stacks, whether I go around a pool or come upon a village as I walk away from the sun, I turn towards the large pale moon you see by day.
It was just as I came out of the dark olive-trees and caught sight of the radiant plain open before me as far as the mountain barriers, that the initiatory word was given to me. Oh, the last fruit of a condemned season! It is all over. No winds tear at her, no frosts cut her, no waters drown her. But more tenderly than May, or when a thirsty vine clings to the source of life in the thrall of noon, the sky smiles on the earth with an ineffable love.
Here now, like a heart that yields to constant prompting, is the time of consent: the grain leaves the ear, the fruit leaves the tree, the earth little by little surrenders to the invincible claimant of all things, death unclenches a hand too full! The words she hears are holier now than those of her wedding day—deeper, richer, more bountiful: It is all over The birds are sleeping; the tree falls to sleep in the lengthening shade; the sun grazes the earth, covering it with an even ray.
The day is done, the year is at an end. Du ciel choit ou de la paupiere deborde une larme identique. Ferme les yeux, ecoute! Ni la monotonie de ce bruit assidu ne suffit a Fexplication. Que ces eaux sont copieuses! Me voici dans la plaine. But, so that you understand the mixture of blessedness and bitterness in the act of creation, I will explain to you, my friend, at a time when the sombre season begins, the sadness of water.
From the sky and the eyelid wells up an identical tear. Do not think of imputing your melancholy to the clouds or to this veil of the dark shower. Shut your eyes, listen! The rain is falling. It is the weariness of a grief whose cause is in itself, the travail of love, the hard toil of work. The skies weep over the earth they make fertile. And it is not, above all, autumn and the approaching fall of fruit whose seed they nourish that draws these tears from the wintry clouds.
Just when the hour before noon is coming to an end, as I go down into the valley full of the murmur of various fountains, I pause, enchanted by the chagrin. How plentiful are these waters! And if tears, like blood, are a constant well-spring within us, how fresh it is to listen to this liquid choir of voices rich and frail, and to match them with all the shades of our grief! There is no passion that can fail to lend you its tears, O fountains! And although I am content with the impact of a single drop falling into the basin from high above on the image of the moon, I will not in vain have learnt to know your haven over many afternoons, vale of sorrow.
Now, once more, I am in the plain. On the threshold of this hut where a candle is lit in the inner darkness for some rustic feast, a man is sitting with a dusty cymbal in his hand. The rain is pouring down; and alone, in the midst of the wet solitude, I hear the squawk of a goose. Souvent on embrouille les anges, Victimes du mancenillier. Nous qui savons ce que ce geste attire: Quitter le bal et les buveurs de vin, A bonne distance des tirs Nous ne dormirons pas en vain.
Dormons sous un pretexte quelconque Par exemple: voler en reve; Et mettons-nous en forme de quinconce Pour surprendre les rendez-vous. He prized poetry above all other art forms and used it across media to explore the origin of artistic inspiration, to navigate between reality and dreams, and to juxtapose symbolic images with narrative form. Cocteau was born to a wealthy family. His father committed suicide when he was nine, an event that would later profoundly influence him. He counted among his friends Picasso, Erik Satie, Marcel Proust, and Sergey Diaghilev and was for years closely associated with the actor Jean Marais, who starred in many of his creations.
Make sure, though, that you locate the right one. We often mix our angels up and then get stuck With casualties done in by a manchineel. Une odeur nocturne Mon chat guette la nuit, tout droit, comme une cruche Un tresor au regard subtil me surveille par ses yeux verts Elle etend ses mains qui apaisent. Elle eclaire les fleurs au bord de la terrasse.
And other options? He quickly moved to adopt a unique style, however, recording his own conversations. A Fragrance of Night A fragrance of night, not to be defined, that brings on an obscure doubt, exquisite, tender, comes by the open window into the room where I am at work My cat watches the darkness, as rigid as a jug. A fortune of subtle seeing looks at me through its green eyes The lamp sings its slight song quietly, subdued as the song one hears in a shell.
The lamp reaches out its placating hands. In its aureole, I hear the litanies, the choruses and the responses of flies. It lights up the flowers at the edge of the terrace. The nearest ones come forward timidly to see me, like a troop of dwarfs that discover an ogre Un papillon blond comme un fetu de paille se traine dans la petite vallee de mon livre Une horloge pleure. Des souvenirs dansent une ronde enfantine Le chat se fend a fond.
Son nez dessine en Fair quelque vol invisible. Une mouche a pose ses ciseaux dans la lampe Des voix contradic- toires jouent a pigeon-vole. Une voiture demarre. Un train crie dans la gare prochaine. One could believe that a person was playing alone in a house at a remote distance. Insects fall with a sidewise fall and writhe gently on the table. A butterfly yellow as a wisp of straw drags itself along the little yellow valley that is my book A big clock outdoors intones drearily.
Memories take motion like children dancing in a ring The cat stretches itself to the uttermost. A fly fastens its scissors in the lamp Kitchen clatter mounts in a back-yard. Argumentative voices play at pigeon- vole. A carriage starts up and away. A train chugs at the next station. A long whistle rises far-off I think of someone whom I love, who is so little to be so separated, perhaps beyond the lands covered by the night, beyond the profundities of water. I am able to engage her glance His dream- inspired work forged a link between Symbolism and Surrealism.
Born to a middle-class Jewish family in the Breton town of Quimper, he worked at a variety of jobs before devoting himself to writing, which led to friendships with Picasso, Cocteau, and other creative giants of the period. In he purportedly saw a vision of Christ and six years later converted to Catholicism, choosing Picasso as his godfather.
His conversion, however, did not prevent him from being arrested by the Gestapo in while attending mass at Saint-Benoit-sur-Loire, the abbey to which he had definitively retired. Jacob died of pneumonia at Drancy shortly after being detained. Pourtant, ce sont toujours les memes qui remontent! Aux memes heures, ils passent gais ou tristes. Vous tous, passants de la rue Ravignan, je vous ai donne les noms des defunts de FHistoire!
Void Agamemnon! Ulysse est un laitier! Castor et Pollux sont les dames du dnquieme. Ma chair est tombee par terre! Le Corps Celeste est sur le mur de la pauvre chambre! Pourquoi, Seigneur? Ses epaules, sa demarche! Il a une robe de soie jaune et des parements bleus. Il se retourne et je vois cette face paisible et rayonnante. Six moines alors emportent dans la chambre un cadavre. Une femme, qui a des serpents autour des bras et des cheveux, est pres de moi. MOI Pleurer! Le demon! Yet it is always the same ones who mount the street! Always at the same time of day they pass by, happy or sad.
All of you, passers-by of the Rue Ravignan, I have named you after the illustrious dead. There is Agamemnon! There is Madame Hanska! Ulysses is a milkman! When Patroclus appears at the end of the street a Pharaoh is beside me! Castor and Pollux are the ladies of the fifth floor. But thou, old ragpicker, who come in the enchanted morning to take away the still living rubbish as I am putting out my good big lamp, thou whom I know not, mysterious and impoverished ragpicker, I have given thee a celebrated and noble name, I have named thee Dostoievsky.
There was someone on the red wallpaper. My flesh fell away! I was stripped naked by a lightning-bolt! Imperishable moment! Truth, oh, truth! Truth with its tears and its joy! Never-to-be-forgotten truth! The Divine Body is on the wall of a shabby room. Why, Lord? Forgive me! How graceful and gentle! The way He bears himself, the way He walks! He wears a yellow silk robe and blue facings. He turns around and I can see that peaceful, radiant countenance.
Six monks now come into the room carrying a dead body. Near me is a woman with snakes around her arms and hair. You have seen God! You do not realize how fortunate you are. I am just a poor human creature. He will be back. Yes, I see! MOI Ravissement! Je comprends, ah! Qui frappe si matin? Reunion Danse solitaire sur les meandres du tapis rouge : on peut arriver a danser en marchant. Think upon it. I understand, Lord; oh, yes, I understand! Room, house, you will always be the chapel of my undying remembrance! I lay there thinking, stretched out on the box-spring held up by four bricks; and the landlord made an opening in the zinc roof to let in more light.
Open the door! How could I get along with a human and not offend him in the name of everyone? Where to escape, if the sky and hell are as closed to me as the earth? A seamstress mends undergarments and not socks, if she mends them, she never finishes, or does it with a thread of another color. Adam depuis ce jour essayait de briser les cailloux qui ressemblaient a un oeuf. Elies etaient dans les stalks de mon eglise : Pune assise a ma place et les autres debout. From that day on, Adam kept trying to break apart the pebbles that looked like an egg. It was a key. I came across this key: it was quite rusty, poor thing.
They were in the stalls of my church: one seated in my place and the others standing. The third was tossing up into the air some pearls that a very large yellow terrier was trying to catch. And I who was hoping for death yesterday, here I am frozen with fear at the idea of the scissors and the thread of my days. It was not until he met Mallarme that he turned his talents toward literature. He was a believer in Unanism and its spirit of universal participation, which led him to volunteer at a military hospital during World War I.
In , Jouve suffered a psychological breakdown. With the benefit of psychoanalysis and the strength of his newfound faith in Christianity, he recovered. Apparais dans un corps Pelage vrai et Chaud, toi qui passes la mort. Oui toi dont les blessures Marquent les trous de notre vrai amour A force de nos coups, apparais et reviens Malgre F amour, malgre que Crache la blessure.
Lament for the Stag Bloody like night, splendid in terror, highstrung, Whimperless you die at our approach. Come forth now above pain and perplexity. However hasty, made impotent by sperm and sweat the Hunter may have been, however culpable his Shadow and feeble the love He held! Come forth corporeal Fur genuine and Warm, crossing your death. The one I am and hate I was hollow and I was wet With rising joy more lava than milk Retaining the stars of my breast And I reached I said this exquisite death Fecund I stood up once more.
Toute chaleur Est morte hier comme une muraille etait noire Que dissipa la nuit avec etoiles claires, Avec vent et silence deja, pensee de la mort. The mountains lie stilled in their light Shadows are quicker to darken and subtle golds Repose within the green. Yesterday The final warmth died out as a wall of darkness That night dispelled with the clarity of stars, With winds and ready silence, a presentiment of death.
He spoke six languages and was responsible for introducing many previously unknown foreign works to the French public. His own work often took Europe as its subject, and he was most noted for his creation of the character A. Barnabooth, to whom several of his works were attributed. Principal works: Les Portiques, ; Poemes par un riche amateur, ou oeuvres frangaises de M. Barnabooth, ; reprinted in A. Barnabooth, ses oeuvres completes, Je parcours en chantonnant tes couloirs Et je suis ta course vers Vienne et Budapesth, Melant ma voix a tes cent mille voix, 0 Harmonika-Zug!
On glissait a travers des prairies ou des bergers, Au pied de groupes de grands arbres pareils a des collines, Etaient vetus de peaux de moutons crues et sales Huit heures du matin en automne, et la belle cantatrice Aux yeux violets chantait dans la cabine a cote. I move through your corridors humming, With you on your race toward Vienna and Budapest, My voice mingling with your hundred thousand voices, O Harmonika-Zug!
For the first time I felt the sweetness of living, In a compartment of the North-Express between Wirballen and Pskow, Slipping through meadows where shepherds, At the foot of tall trees in clusters, like hills, Were dressed in sheepskins rough and gray A fall morning at eight, and a lovely singer with violet eyes, sang in the next compartment. And you, great squares through which I saw Siberia passing and the Samnium heights, Elarsh unflowering Castille and the sea of Marmara under a warm rain! Lend me, O Orient Express, Sud-Brenner-Bahn, lend me Your miraculous muffled sounds and Your vibrant chanterelle voices; Lend me the light free breathing Of the high, slim locomotives, their easy Motions, the effortless locomotives Drawing four yellow cars with golden letters Through Serbian mountain solitudes, And, further, across Bulgaria full of roses In it hatred dies for lack of air, And the greatest love cannot come in.
Un homme mit des baies ameres dans nos mains. Qui passait. Qui riait. Un homme mit ces baies ameres dans nos mains. Bitume et roses, don du chant! Tonnerre et flutes dans les chambres! Recognized by his literary peers for a small but respected body of published work, he eventually won the Nobel Prize in Literature i It has been suggested that his interest in the symbolic and the personal had its origin in his Caribbean upbringing.
Perse did not begin to write poetry until the sudden death of his father in When France was invaded, he refused to act as a collaborator in his post as foreign secretary and in settled in the United States, where he served at the Library of Congress as a consultant in French poetry. Song Under the bronze leaves a colt was foaled.
Came such an one who laid bitter bay in our hands. Who passed. Here comes news of other provinces to my liking. Who laughed. And tells us of an herb. O from the provinces blow many winds. What ease to our ways, and how the trumpet rejoices my heart and the feather adept of the scandal of the wing! Came such an one who laid this bitter bay in our hands. Out of the bronze tree comes a great bruit of voices.
Roses and bitumen, gift of song, thunder and fluting in the rooms. O what ease in our ways, how many gestes to the year, and by the roads of 63 PART 1. Mais de mon frere le poete on a eu des nouvelles. II a ecrit encore une chose tres douce. Et quelques- uns en eurent connaissance Au feu du jour toute faveur! Reprendrons-nous le theme a sa naissance? Roses canines et ronces noires peuplent pour nous les rives du naufrage. Living leaves in the morning fashioned in glory Peace to the dying who have not seen this day!
But tidings there are of my brother the poet: once more he has written a song of great sweetness. And some there are who have knowledge thereof From our dream grown, on our blood fed, and haunting the purple of our nights, they are the fruits of long concern, they are the fruits of long desire, they were our most secret accomplices and, often verging upon avowal, drew us to their ends out of the abyss of our nights.
Praise to the first dawn, now they are ripe and beneath the purple, these fruits of an imperious fate. Sun of being, betrayal! Where was the fraud, where was the offense? Shall we trace the theme back to its birth? Majesty of the rose, we are not among your adepts: our blood goes to what is bitterer, our care to what is more severe, our roads are uncertain, and deep is the night out of which our gods are torn.
Dog roses and black briars populate for us the shores of shipwreck. Now they are ripening, these fruits of another shore. And those who have seen him pass will say: who was 65 PART 1. Allait-il seul au feu du jour montrer la pourpre de ses nuits? Did he go alone at dawn to show the purple of his nights? Sun of being, Prince and Master! At the gait of a binder of sheaves life goes, without hatred or ransom. A child prodigy, he was ably abetted in his early work by his father, an art teacher himself.
Picasso frequented cafes in Barcelona before moving to Paris, where he was influenced by the work of Manet, Courbet, Toulouse-Lautrec, and, most profoundly, Matisse. Je ne sais pas de qui je suis la proie. Born to a wealthy Parisian family, Pozzi frequented the salons of the time. In Pozzi and Valery broke off their relationship. As a result, she lost many of her former friends and contacts, which marked the beginning of a slow decline in her health.
Principal works: Agnes, ; Mesures, ; Oeuvres poetiques, Nyx For Louise also from Lyon and Italy Oh you my nights, oh dark awaited Oh country proud, oh secrets lasting Oh long gazing, oh thundering clouds Oh flight allowed beyond closed skies. He moved from his native Narbonne to Paris in In he moved with his wife to the abbey at Solesmes but frequently returned to Paris.
In the Fields or on the Hill No Historical figure And there the sun was coming to a stop It was a man passing by His horse so thin Not the slightest shadow followed The snow would be enormous A few steps away and everything was white Over all the animals who died of cold Between the trees and the sea Quick lapping water The bitter sky Left alone between the peasants and the moon 73 PART 1. Souffle II neige sur mon toit et sur les arbres. II neige. II y a des accidents obscurs et compliques, impossibles a dire.
Toi, source intarissable de sang. Toi, lumiere. Plafond des idees contradictoires. Vertigineuse pesee des forces ennemies. Chemins meles dans le fracas des chevelures. A hand detached from its arm, a free hand, illumined from below by the glow of the hearth— and that innocent empty head smiling at the spider setting forth in the night its useless masterpiece. The wall and the garden are white, the path black, and the house has given way without a sound.
It is snowing. Obscure and complicated accidents take place, impossible to describe. And nevertheless the spirit of order, the even spirit, the spirit common to all despairs is questioning.
Similar authors to follow
You, unquenchable source of blood. You, disaster intense with gleams which no surging spring, no cooling glacier will ever try to extinguish with its sap. You, light. You, sinuosity of buried love, hiding. You, ornament of heavens nailed upon the pilings of the infinite.
Ceiling of contradictory ideas. Vertiginous balance of enemy forces. Paths confused in the fray of hair. You, gentleness and hatred—horizon chipped away, pure line of indifference and 75 PART 1. Toi, clou de diamant. Toi, purete, pivot eblouissant du flux et du reflux de ma pensee dans les lignes du monde. Toute la fraicheur audedans. Les arbres sont des tetes, ou les tetes des arbres, en tout cas les tetes des arbres me menacent. Sur la route mon ombre me suit, oblique, et me dit que je cours trop vite. Peut-etre est-il question de moi? Au milieu celui qui attend, rouge, ne sachant oil se mettre.
You, diamond nail. You, purity, dazzling swivel of the ebb and flow of my thought in the lines of the world. The curve of the night stopped at the thatched cottage which was still lit up, at the edge of the meadow, in front of the forest which was closing its gates. All the freshness inside. The animals were there only to enliven the landscape while all the rest walked. The trees are heads, or the heads trees, in any case the heads of the trees threaten me. And someone comes to let me in. Through the doorway I notice friends who are laughing.
Perhaps about me? Is Ajar From the triangle of the sidewalks of the square all the wires start, and the scythe of the rainbow, broken behind the clouds. In the center the one who waits, blushes, not knowing where to stand. Everyone is looking and in that same place the wall reveals its wound. On les croirait mecaniques parfois, un oiselier tournant la manivelle. Deja faisan dore, la plus belle est partie — on la dit du berger — partie on ne sait oil garder quelque troupeau de songes.
Par ci par la, ces poules mediocres picorent les perles tombees du tamis de la Lune, si nombreuses que 9a finit par faire un chemin blanc. Jamais le moindre heurt, chaque rythme a sa place toujours. In he founded the journal La Pleiade. Seeking a life of solitude, at the end of the century he moved to the peninsula of Roscanvel, in Brittany, where his daughter, Divine, was born.
In , the Surrealists held a banquet in his honor in Paris, which he fled in panic. It looks as if each single one has been lit up to see like an eye. Stars flapping a wing, planets planing along, they hover over an angled perch without ever alighting. No sooner has one star or planet vanished than in the manner of a round the next jewelled rhyme arrives. Already the prettiest golden pheasant has gone, gone like a shepherd to guard her dream flock. Never any jerkiness, each rhythm always in place. A bit of a flicker, like a crazed match, and phosphorescence in the guise 79 PART 1.
Elle est en vous, pardi! Soudain le simple coq du voisinage lance un grand cri de clef rouillee dans la serrure. But here back on the velvet is beauty all involved with putting on her dawn blouse. Suddenly the neighbourhood rooster lets forth with a great crow of a rusted key in a lock. Venus has just slipped behind a rose bush when from one end of this wretched world to the other the roosters are all flinging open the shutters. Now at last the Aviary opens up, a vast utterly blank eyelid.
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.
Ce tombeau agreable sera le mien. Etendez la longue allee honorifique : — des betes; des monstres ; des hommes. Levez la-bas le haut fort crenele. 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. During his time in French Polynesia he wrote on the influence of French missionaries and colonialism; he was one of the first in the West to take the viewpoint of the colonized. His curiosity also took him to China, which provided him with material for his poems.
Funerary Edict Testament divining the imperial tomb. I, the Emperor, will have my burial place as I desire: this hospitable mountain, fortunate is the field that it surrounds. 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. Carve in the depths of the mountain a hole without weakness. Murez le chemin aux vivants. Je ne gemis point. Je regne avec douceur et mon palais noir est plaisant.
Certes la mort est plaisante et noble et douce. La mort est fort habitable. Par respect Caracteres omis par respect. Par respect de Pindicible, nul ne devra plus divulguer le mot gloire ni commet- tre le caractere bonheur. X- X- X- Silence, le plus digne hommage! 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 am not suffocating. 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. X- X- X- But let that little peasant village over there survive. I wish to savor the smoke from their evening fires. 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 even be effaced from all memory: by these signs the Prince has chosen to identify his reign.
Let them no longer exist. What fury of love ever filled the depths of silence? What dazzling brushstroke would dare the gesture that she, in her innocence, imagines. Let it never come to pass. Let it even be forgotten: let her name never flower within my deepest self, Out of respect.
And prudent: its veins are fine, compact, and solid. 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. As virtue, in the Sage, needs no fine ornament, Jade alone can decently present itself alone. 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? Un arbuste et Fair pur font une source vive Qui, suspendue au jour, delicieuse arrose De ses pertes de fleurs le jardin de Foisive.
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. Le songe se devide avec une paresse Angelique, et sans cesse, au doux fuseau credule, La chevelure ondule au gre de la caresse Le dernier arbre brule.
Ta soeur, la grande rose oil sourit une sainte, Parfume ton front vague au vent de son haleine Innocente, et tu crois languir Tu es eteinte Au bleu de la croisee oil tu filais la laine. And still the sleeper spins a single thread, For a mysterious shadow, braided with the yarn Of her long sleeping fingers, is spun. 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 last tree flames. 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. My heart is hardened to the beauty I cleave, The circles of waves blossoming around me, I will my wide strokes to break the bright world Of leaves and of fire, and sing them in quiet. I pass over trees and full-patterned Water painted with foliage, finally peace, And tear them apart, imprint on them a pleat, Hasten to end the memory of that calm.
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. This secret sound of water, this river strangely Places my sunlit days beneath a band of silk; Nothing more blindly wears down the age-old joy Than a sound of smooth and monotone flight. 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. Selon J. Eichhorn, de Goettingue, en , par la collaboration de F. Wollman : Slavismes et Antislavismes pendant le Printemps des Peuples , p. La bibliographie de F. Les archives p. Hubl se. Masaryk et d'Ed. Les auteurs en sont V. Plusieurs cartes hors texte. Pichlik, V. C'est ce qu'explique M. Dans ce domaine, on rappellera la traduction de l'anglais du livre de J.
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Mencl et J. Salda Rev. L'auteur s'abstient de conclure. Kopal, l'introduction p. Kural consacre un article au mouvement P. Les auteurs en sont J. Belda, M. Deyl, M. Au passage il suit le personnage de Bohuslav Kroupa , ami de J. Le classement est fait par districts kraje , huit en tout, auxquels s'ajoute le petit territoire de Valtice.
La carte porte les limites des districts, des seigneuries et des domaines. A la bibliographie s'ajoutent huit cartes hors-texte. On ne saurait trop insister sur cet incomparable instrument de travail. Au texte proprement dit p. L'ouvrage se lit d'un trait. On trouvera, p. Le second , 97 p. Il compte 58 feuilles portant cartons. Il rejette. Varsik Onom.
A ce propos, L. Ferdinand Buffa Jaz. Peciar ibid. Peciar SI. Oravec Kult.
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Altmann, A. Mlacek ibid. Enfin, toujours J. Mlacek Jaz. Miko ibid. Ferdinand Buffa ibid. S'y ajoutent 20 pages de remarques, une bibliographie 8 p. Rudnay, cf. Bokes et P. En tout, neuf auteurs. Robert A. Zwitter Yougoslavie. Ses membres, partisans eux aussi de l'action violente, avaient fait le sacrifice de leur vie. Bibliographie en slovaque et en magyar ibid. L'historien croate B. De l'ouvrage de R. Bednarek, Les Slovaques en Yougoslavie Bratislava, , p. On ne veut pas manquer de signaler l'ouvrage de K. UMK, 25, p. Gougenheim etc.
Taszycki, p. Jakobson , III, p. Jakobson , II, p. Kuraszkiewicz, p. PAN, XI, p. Wierzbicka pour les usages polonais et russe touchant la voix verbale Ling. PAN, UJ, Pr. PAN w Kr. Naukowych, XI, 1, p. Taszycki voir p. Unbegaun, Bruxelles, p. Opolskiego Tow. Taszycki Wr. Un certain nombre d'articles des Symbolae in honorem V. Brajerski, sur une exten-. D'autres articles touchent aussi ce domaine. Nr , Cracovie, , p. Bardach et G. Labuda, W. Gieysztor, S. Kieniewicz editor in chief , E. Rostworowski, J. Tazbir, H. Wereszycki, W. MON, rendra des services d'orientation.
Stosunki polsko-rosyjskie , W. Serczyk, Koliszczyzna, Cracovie, , p. III, W. Wspomnienia , W. Wspomnienia z lat , W. Sylwetki i wspomnienia, W. Wspomnienia i zapiski, Cracovie, , p. Dzieje gmachu, Cracovie, , p. Chyczewska, Marceli Bacciarelli. Projekty klasycystyczne i neogotyckie , Cracovie, , 46 p.
Przewodnik, Cracovie, , p. Kuraszkiewicz [voir ici p. Janina Heydzianka-Pilatowa continue avec les noms de saisons son analyse des substantifs de temps ibid. Henryk Borek recherche les substitutions allemandes de suffixes slaves en -In- dans les noms de lieux Onomastica Slavo germanica, III, p. Fischer et T. Gruchmanowa, Z. Sobierajski, F. Hinze, voir ici p. Sehnert et H.
Kovaliv sur l'enseignement de Karl Marx touchant la formation des mots en sorabe p. Fafike et S. Michalk F. Gruchmanowa, H. Nowak et Z. Taszycki [voir ici p. Warszawa, , p. Jordan ibid. Lorenc ceux de Johannes Bobrowski avec les Sorabes ibid. Kasper [Kaspor], K.
Schiller et J. FaBke linguistique : pour , A 14, p. Linguistique et philologie. Dans Slovo, 17, Zagreb, , p. Dans les Radovi de l'Institut vieux-slave de Zagreb, 6, , p. Finka et S. Finka et A. Richard L. Schmaus, Band 31, p. Kosta St. Bibliographie, informations. Une contribution de M. Krizman sur le Sabor croate et l'attentat de Sarajevo, p. Plusieurs articles concernent la Dalmatie et en particulier Dubrovnik. L'article de R. Carter dans Balkan studies, 9, , 1, p. Od najstarijih vremena do kraja xii vijeka, Titograd, , p. A partir de documents russes, B. A noter aussi un article de D.
Radenie sur les plans austro-hongrois contre la Serbie p. Une bibliographie p. Dans Jugo- slovenski narodi, op. Signalons un article de P. Mokrov ibid. Linguistique - toponomastique. Nous ferons des observations sur quelques mots. En effet, il ne s'agit pas du slave doga lit. Pierre Seghers, p. Andrejem fait des. Tagamlickaja ibid. Bologan Romanoslavica, XIV, p.
Dans ce dernier article, K. La seconde partie de cet ouvrage p. Vakarelska, T. Kostova, Iv. Iilov, M. Mladenov, St. Stojkov, Hr. Topalova, Hr. Slavische Philologie und Altertumskande, Wies- baden, , p. Otto Harrassowitz. Mladenov ibid. Ce sont : l'article de R. Se- limski E. Dans cet article, P. Petrov, et un article du savant roumain Damian P.
Razlogov et D. Si dans les vues d'ensemble le ton est parfois trop admiratif, il faut signaler dans les portraits un esprit objectif et une absence de dogmatisme chez ce critique marxiste. Stojanov, A. Dimov et S. Todorova-Petkova et Zdr. Bratanov et Sv. Rusakiev ibid. Elisaveta Bagrjana est encore l'objet d'un long. Pierre Seghers. Ve- leva et M. Un rapport fait en commun par R. Arnaudov, St. Histoire politique sociale et religieuse. Velkov Sofia, , p. Ko- ledarov Bybulg. Nichols ibid. Swoboda ibid. Angelov, B. Primov et G. C'est dans la correspondance d'un anonyme grec vers que V.
Andreev Sofia, , p. Cvetkova et Zdr. II, par N. Todorov et B. Nedkov Sofia, , p. Inlassable chercheuse, B. Milkova consacre un article Et. Jonov ibid. En quelques pages denses, B. Hri- stov ibid. Velikov et N. Todorov, ibid. Mitev, ibid. Hristov publie deux documents extraits des archives du Foreign Office. C'est seulement par un compte rendu K. Vasilev ibid. Toncev ibid. Marinov, membre du gouvernement de K. Zlatev ibid. Antonova ibid. Georgieva et N.