About poetry - III"Now, expressing the difficulty, saying the difficulty of saying, isn't enough to get over it ; quite the contrary. First of all, it isn't saying from which language, from which speaking instance this difficulty is said. Who notices, who expresses the difficulty? It cannot be done in the unattainable and wild silence of madness, nor simply in the language of the jailer, that is to say classical Reason [...]" — Jacques Derrida, Cogito et Histoire de la Folie, in L'écriture et la différence.
When looking at a painting, a flat, black & white, impressionist painting, we never see a person that exists. Yet we accept the metaphor, so deeply that one comes to talk about that person as if she had emotions, to talk about this flat painting's shadows as if they had depths. Our imagination fills inbetween the brush strokes, we see that Kanizsa triangle. But the "triangle" isn't there. It simply doesn't exist.
One would make a terrible mistake if one thought Poetry
About poetry -- IIHaving a meaningless thought, that is to say in our intuition of things lacking the feeling of understanding it. It appears to us unfathomable, yet given, unquestionable. In all its thickness, we come to realize this foreign body isn't subject to the laws of language, and we cannot analyze it in terms of "who? where? why?" -- or rather, doing that is less about finding the explanation that making the whole thing up, fabricating something that would borrow the consistency of discourse but loose the very nature of what it claims to throw light on. The thought is, first, there, and by that we mean it cannot be ignored. Providing it with meaning, on a narrative level, amounts to building an idea that contains it. Reconnecting the idea with the story we made for ourselves, engraving Being in Time. Hence it is not understanding it -- only sketching around so as to forget its originality, its solitude, its true context. Appreciating this foreign in ourselves, embracing its alterity without at
About poetry -- IAll my stories are not sad ones. Don't ask me to explain them! I don't write poetry for the fun of it, rythm reveals the way I am shaken, wording betrays how the idea made its way through me, filtered and filtered again, as crystalline as it spent a long time in there, as raw as it violented me; jerky when hiccup seizes me, breaking what shouldn't be beautiful.
Poetry isn't meant to make sublime. I want to go beyond language to tell what language doesn't enable me to tell. In order to tell, to make visible how hard it is to speak. Feeling behind the broken style the unrest; in a short sentence, the matter of urgency; in a long sentence, asphyxia. Every verse starts with an aimless, vague word, a monster of a word; every rhyme awaits its sisters, or remains a suffering orphan.
Everything is thought-out.
Toutes mes histoires ne sont pas tristes. Qu'on ne me demande pas de
les expliquer ! Je ne cède pas à la poésie par plaisir, le rythme trahit la manière
DrowningInside this thick water, a shapeless mass immerged
Deformed phalanges by bipedal walking constrained
Greasy fur strewn with holes infesting the surface of a flabby water
Stocky worn-out hands, large useless, homeless hands
Risible genitalia squeezed and bloated as a bit of flesh floating under the surface
Endless stomach sheltering a noisy digestion, streaked with pink creases
Everything leaves its trace on it. Clothes. Time. Water.
Soon, furrows groove those trembling fingers
As rubber band frescos fade underwater
Every motion yields waves, moving the liquid as much as the body in it,
Mixing sour lingering whiffs of cheese and vinegar sweat
To the stupid eddies of a soup of hair, fat and other unspeakable fluids
In this bathtub I face myself.
This absence of thought, this meaningless animal, this pain of being.
Who will save me?
Dans cette eau épaisse, j'immerge la masse informe de ce corps
Ces phalanges difformes que la marche bipède à contraint
A dying KnightMy Queen,
An archer cherub stroke me with a bolt
My wounded dark heart sobs heavy drops
Lands of love are hostile valleys
Red with dense forests and harrowing brambles
Licking voraciously the still gaping wounds
Bleeding in drear and pulsating calls.
The freezing dismay of an ancient nostalgy
Is slowly drying the last thoughts,
A black bark grows and invades ideas
That were beautiful and gay and joyful, calm and full and serene.
You hurt me.
Here comes the dark sky as a frowned eyebrow,
Bathing a valley blue of cold slow tears
With the arid reality.
Every word is a weapon, invisible, cutting:
From the creases of such a blade one never heals,
Faceless scars of flying words
Keeping on my sides
And in my memory
That the heavy stare you throw at me
Knows nothing of the whips I endured.
I hid my tears to see how cruel you were.
Today I'm wondering: How far can one go?
My path stops here. You, dare!
You have a life
My Light, Poem in Two PartsI surmised your presence
In a prison of glass
As if crisscrossing a driveway
On a pedestal
I thought I saw you
Trembling and yet so far
Pinned onto the sky
Sparkled over the night
I dreamt I fell on me
Your crazy yellow dance
Ripping wax apart
Shaking the shadows
So, I closed my eyes
Opened wide my hands
My arms to welcome
The valleys of light's endless waters
With material sadness-stained rays
Hears no more the colours of caresses
Dying in ideas and declaiming in rivers
J'ai cru te deviner
Dans une prison de verre
Comme sur un piédestal
Quadrillant une allée
J'ai cru t'apercevoir
Tremblante et si lointaine
Attachée dans le ciel
Saupoudrée dans la nuit
J'ai cru sentir sur moi
Ta danse jaune et folle
Qui déchirait la cire
En agitant les ombres
Alors j'ai fermé les yeux
J'ai ouvert grand les paumes
Les bras pour recevoir
L'eau infinie des vallées de lumière