ad__________________Mit
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My interest in French poetry has waned as time goes one its steady beat and I simply think more and more than it is not the language for poetry
in spite of,
____________Maybe so and so was right and
to be continued,
1
Next episode
?
WHo decided which language was preferable? and how and under what circumstances had the Latin getaway gotten into the English gotten?
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O there is blessing in this gentle breeze
OH, there is blessing in this gentle breeze,
That blows from the green fields and from the clouds
And from the sky; it beats against my cheek,
And seems half conscious of the joy it gives.
O welcomeif such bold word acco
Illuminations _ 'After the Flood'
After the Flood
Just as the idea of the Flood went subsiding,
A hare stopped in the swaying clover and flower bells, and said its prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web.
Oh! The precious stones that hid themselves, —the flowers that already were watching.
In the dirty main street, the stalls rose, and some hauled the boats to the sea piled up as on engravings,
Blood flowed, at Blue Beard’s, —in the slaughterhouses, in circuses, and where the seal of God white-washed the windows. Blood and milk flowed.
The beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the coffee bars.
In the big house of glass still dripping, the mourning children looked on the wondrous pictures.
A door slammed; and, on the square of the hamlet, the child waved his arms, understood by the wind vanes and the cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower.
Madame *** set up a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral.
The caravans took off. And Hotel Splendor was built in the chaos of ices and polar night.
And from then on, the moon heard jackals howling through the deserts of thyme, —and the sabot-clad eclogues growling in the orchard. And, in the violet woods, Eucharis told me it was Spring.
Gush, pond; —Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods; —black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll; —waters and sorrows, rise and unleash the Floods.
For since they’ve gone, —oh, the burrowing stones, and the blooming flowers!—the boredom! And the Queen, the Witch who lights her blaze in the earthen pot, won’t ever want to tell us what she knows, that which we do not.
A hare stopped in the swaying clover and flower bells, and said its prayer to the rainbow, through the spider’s web.
Oh! The precious stones that hid themselves, —the flowers that already were watching.
In the dirty main street, the stalls rose, and some hauled the boats to the sea piled up as on engravings,
Blood flowed, at Blue Beard’s, —in the slaughterhouses, in circuses, and where the seal of God white-washed the windows. Blood and milk flowed.
The beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the coffee bars.
In the big house of glass still dripping, the mourning children looked on the wondrous pictures.
A door slammed; and, on the square of the hamlet, the child waved his arms, understood by the wind vanes and the cocks on steeples everywhere, in the bursting shower.
Madame *** set up a piano in the Alps. Mass and first communions were celebrated at the hundred thousand altars of the cathedral.
The caravans took off. And Hotel Splendor was built in the chaos of ices and polar night.
And from then on, the moon heard jackals howling through the deserts of thyme, —and the sabot-clad eclogues growling in the orchard. And, in the violet woods, Eucharis told me it was Spring.
Gush, pond; —Foam, roll on the bridge and over the woods; —black palls and organs, lightning and thunder, rise and roll; —waters and sorrows, rise and unleash the Floods.
For since they’ve gone, —oh, the burrowing stones, and the blooming flowers!—the boredom! And the Queen, the Witch who lights her blaze in the earthen pot, won’t ever want to tell us what she knows, that which we do not.
Arthur Rimbaud,
Illuminations
tr. Alex Rodallec
Illuminations
tr. Alex Rodallec
____________________
Another translation.
Après le Déluge ___
Après le Déluge
Aussitôt que l’idée du Déluge se fut rassise,
Un lièvre s’arrêta dans les sainfoins et les clochettes mouvantes et dit sa prière à l’arc-en-ciel à travers la toile de l’araignée.
Oh ! les pierres précieuses qui se cachaient, − les fleurs qui regardaient déjà.
Dans la grande rue sale les étals se dressèrent, et l’on tira les barques vers la mer étagée là-haut comme sur les gravures.
L
e sang coula, chez Barbe-Bleue, − aux abattoirs, − dans les cirques, où le sceau de Dieu blêmit les fenêtres. Le sang et le lait coulèrent.
Les castors bâtirent. Les “mazagrans” fumèrent dans les estaminets.
Dans la grande maison de vitres encore ruisselante les enfants en deuil regardèrent les merveilleuses images.
Une porte claqua, et sur la place du hameau, l’enfant tourna ses bras, compris des girouettes et des coqs des clochers de partout, sous l’éclatante giboulée.
Madame*** établit un piano dans les Alpes. La messe et les premières communions se célébrèrent aux cent mille autels de la cathédrale.
Les caravanes partirent. Et le Splendide-Hôtel fut bâti dans le chaos de glaces et de nuit du pôle.
Depuis lors, la Lune entendit les chacals piaulant par les déserts de thym, − et les églogues en sabots grognant dans le verger.
Puis, dans la futaie violette, bourgeonnante, Eucharis me dit que c’était le printemps.
Sourds, étang, − Écume, roule sur le pont, et par dessus les bois; − draps noirs et orgues, − éclairs et tonnerres − montez et roulez; − Eaux et tristesses, montez et relevez les Déluges.
Car depuis qu’ils se sont dissipés, − oh les pierres précieuses s’enfouissant, et les fleurs ouvertes ! − c’est un ennui ! et la Reine, la Sorcière qui allume sa braise dans le pot de terre, ne voudra jamais nous raconter ce qu’elle sait, et que nous ignorons.
Un lièvre s’arrêta dans les sainfoins et les clochettes mouvantes et dit sa prière à l’arc-en-ciel à travers la toile de l’araignée.
Oh ! les pierres précieuses qui se cachaient, − les fleurs qui regardaient déjà.
Dans la grande rue sale les étals se dressèrent, et l’on tira les barques vers la mer étagée là-haut comme sur les gravures.
L
Les castors bâtirent. Les “mazagrans” fumèrent dans les estaminets.
Dans la grande maison de vitres encore ruisselante les enfants en deuil regardèrent les merveilleuses images.
Une porte claqua, et sur la place du hameau, l’enfant tourna ses bras, compris des girouettes et des coqs des clochers de partout, sous l’éclatante giboulée.
Madame*** établit un piano dans les Alpes. La messe et les premières communions se célébrèrent aux cent mille autels de la cathédrale.
Les caravanes partirent. Et le Splendide-Hôtel fut bâti dans le chaos de glaces et de nuit du pôle.
Depuis lors, la Lune entendit les chacals piaulant par les déserts de thym, − et les églogues en sabots grognant dans le verger.
Puis, dans la futaie violette, bourgeonnante, Eucharis me dit que c’était le printemps.
Sourds, étang, − Écume, roule sur le pont, et par dessus les bois; − draps noirs et orgues, − éclairs et tonnerres − montez et roulez; − Eaux et tristesses, montez et relevez les Déluges.
Car depuis qu’ils se sont dissipés, − oh les pierres précieuses s’enfouissant, et les fleurs ouvertes ! − c’est un ennui ! et la Reine, la Sorcière qui allume sa braise dans le pot de terre, ne voudra jamais nous raconter ce qu’elle sait, et que nous ignorons.
-___________________
Arthur Rimbaud wrote this when he was somewhere between 17 and 18 .. It was the first prose poem of Les Illuminations which is either the last or second last book of poems that he wrote. Rimbaud won no prizes, nor received no grants for his life or work. He gave up writing poetry at 18 for good. He died at the age of 37.
First poem of Illuminations Arthur Rimbaud
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presenting Jane outtakes 1952 moments of it look like Richter &other stuttering surrealist seconds in time
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__its Charpentier : Sonate à huit. #1/3
dada if I say it is _______________the Calm serene one preceding the quivering wild one!
Charpentier
: Sonate à huit. Orchestre des Folies Françoises - Patrick
Cohen-Akenine. Violons : Patrick Cohen-Akenine, Léonor de Recondo ;
Flutes : Jocelyn Daubigney, Stéfane Troffaes ; Viole : Christine
Plubeau ; Basse de violon : François Poly ; Théorbe : Pascal Monteilhet ;
Clavecin : Isabelle Sauveur (not Béatrice Martin !). Réalisation :
Olivier Simonnet. A l'Opéra Royal du Château de Versailles.
: Sonate à huit. Orchestre des Folies Françoises - Patrick
Cohen-Akenine. Violons : Patrick Cohen-Akenine, Léonor de Recondo ;
Flutes : Jocelyn Daubigney, Stéfane Troffaes ; Viole : Christine
Plubeau ; Basse de violon : François Poly ; Théorbe : Pascal Monteilhet ;
Clavecin : Isabelle Sauveur (not Béatrice Martin !). Réalisation :
Olivier Simonnet. A l'Opéra Royal du Château de Versailles.
Re: Re: is it a bird plane a lover? this is getting a bit ...
___________________
this is getting a bit ...
yes it is so
what herald holds her hat
if she thinks making love to someone'll help she's wrong
she's in the long arms
of another woman
whose loving sighs
and that extra moment of opening world
space categorized by the tip of her finger
your mouth makes for a same lover's kiss
a kiss you never had except from another woman
whose loving arms your wondered for all night
tonight each night holding
round the wondering
of cheap rent
because three was one
was two
because it was
you and me
and
___________
Re: Re: Re: is it a bird plane a lover?
this is getting a bit ...
yes it is so
what herald holds her hat
if she thinks making love to someone'll help she's wrong
she's in the long arms
of another woman
whose loving sighs
and that extra moment of opening world
space categorized by the tip of her finger
your mouth makes for a same lover's kiss
a kiss you never had except from another woman
whose loving arms your wondered for all night
tonight each night holding
round the wondering
of cheap rent
because three was one
was two
because it was
you and me
and
___________
Re: Re: Re: is it a bird plane a lover?
the Prophetic Books.. On Homer's Poetry... William Blake ...
William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
A poem must necessarily be a perfect Unity, but why Homer’s is peculiarly so I cannot tell: he has told the story of Bellerophon, and omitted the Judgement of Paris, which is not only a part but a principal part of Homer’s subject.
Appendix to the Prophetic Books On Homer’s Poetry
1
But when a work has Unity, it is as much in a part as in the whole. The Torso is as much a Unity as the Laocoon.
2
As Unity is the cloak of Folly, so Goodness is the cloak of Knavery. Those who will have Unity
exclusively in Homer come out with a Moral like a sting in the tail. Aristotle says Characters are
either good or bad; now Goodness or Badness has nothing to do with Character. An apple tree, a pear tree, a horse, a lion are Characters; but a good apple tree or a bad is an apple tree still: a horse is not
more a lion for being a bad horse; that is its Character: its Goodness or Badness is another consideration.
3
It is the same with the Moral of a whole poem as with the Moral Goodness of its parts. Unity and
Morality are secondary considerations, and belong to Philosophy and not to poetry, to Exception and
not to Rule, to Accident and not to Substance. The Ancients called it eating of the Tree of Good and Evil.
4
The Classics! it is the Classics, and not Goths nor Monks, that desolate Europe with wars.
5
| Note 1. This and the following piece are engraved on a single plate, in Blake’s Illuminated Printing, circa 1817. [back] |
Hans Richter 1928 Dadaist Film
this film is dedicated to Columbus Ohio Street Performer Th' Rocknroll Reverend, who on the night
of March 1st 2011 during a performance on the corners of 5th and High Streets, was beaten by two
unknown assailants who were instructed by a young man and his overweight "Trick" to beat him. Th'
Rev then made his way to a local tobacco store where he was molested by an elderly hippie with a
blonde fright wig. Th' Reverend was last seen wearing an Elephant Trunk, Red,White and Blue Top
Hat. White Hooded Terry Cloth Robe and Indian Moccasins. Anyone with any information to this
Crime please Contact the Columbus Ohio Police. And the next time you see Th' Rev, Don't take his
coffee...Just give him a cigarette!
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__________OrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrPHhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
______________Breaking in my manarchist booties __________________________________________
- Doan become Blase about the cendres! senders! O shoulder!
- The seconde time I was the TransSibErIan Train you were 16. Wenting east and west lack and berth.
- O saw can you sea the translate banging machine?
- 2h
OrpHeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeCd @orpheecdpoet"O, you mean the struggle for love and the sowiveall of the prettiest?" - legsbrewster: Joyce on marriage? F…http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydlxBB7 - “And you’ll see if I’m selfthought.” - From James Joyce’s ‘Finnegans Wake’ (p. 147) http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydlwHS5
- “Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were…” http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydlsiOK
- champagnechildren: “He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.” — James Joy… http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydk0kjN
- stellavine: ‘Nora’ 51 x 56cmAcrylic on canvas2011(Nora Barnacle - Joyce) O~ this is charmin~ http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydgvl0r
- camberwellfoxes: Meet The Joyces James, Nora, Lucia and Georgio Joyce dining Camberwell Foxes Radio & Blog A…http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydgvc5e
d
8 FebOrpHeeCd @orpheecdpoet
schadenfreudist: Of course, Nora was quite a looker herself. Indeed!http://tmblr.co/Zl7e2ydgu_d6
View photo
8 FebOrpHeeCd @orpheecdpoet
If it gets any colder and windier then this city'll just clamber and become an igloo!
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