Saturday, August 28, 2010

Funny Verse To Put In Wedding Card

Poets in the streets of Paris (1) No. 11 Editorial

From Tristan Cabral (see summary):

at dawn on January 26, 1855 ¹

hanged one day of snow all his fingers and common rooms
s 'lit of mulled wine ...
in Saint-Germain
we play the organ and passing

I think
TB Laforgue ...
train stations are surrounded by crazy
the outskirts of bursts
clench and I tied on fire in the mirror cry ...
boatmen bring the drowned
of the night and snow on Christ drawn in chalk on the skin
lengthen the streets, staggering
pass vans loaded with drunken soldiers and
there are at crossroads
a foreign merchant who sells you
percent in things forgotten ...
sun capsized
closes the eyes of Bateaux Mouches
thousand nights of insomnia my eyes inhabit deserts
I bitter to birds terror belly
I m'enfièvre names of all my failures
wolfhounds slowly invade
docks and at the bottom of a coffee shop I saw Caryl Chessman

supported the silence of a pinball .. .
I stand with difficulty
the street of the Old Lantern
me the sky flows by the temple musicians
found in the black night and turn their faces white
ice in a common room ... Bonnot
it takes justice into the woods beyond
hands taxis
laundresses and full of absinthe cities
dream of a world child ...
angels of Notre Dame
who have more than arms instead of wings
not ensure even more suicides anonymous
Street Traversiere ...
an employee picks up the river
a knife and starry
clots detach

fingers on the window station
tumor sky goes into this box
where young people from Gay Paris
tearing skin to better show their dead bodies ...
an employee spends belts water
drowned the night and picks up the faces of children on the brink of death a little further

he throws in the garden of Doctor White ²
cat riddled with loneliness in
purple murdered the day ...
Pont au Change deliverymen
go to the quarry and the children of the Assumption
wash the eyes of the underground ...
newspapers of the color behind
travelers no longer have to live in stations and lived
Rue Envierges
when Gerard took at dawn
the emergency door .......

Tristan Cabral
in the Ile Saint-Louis - September 1979

In "The Paris Imagination" by Jean Lebedeff
(Ed TV, 1979)

¹ poet of "The Chimaera s", Gerard de Nerval of his real name Gérard Labrunie , hanged himself on the night of 25 to 26 December 1855, rue de la Vieille Lanterne in Paris (IV).
reads the record established 26 January 1855 at the discovery of the body of Gerard: "January 1855, 26 - Labrunie Gerard de Nerval says, forty seven years old, born in ....?, man letters, lodging Street of Bons Enfants, 13, hotel Normandy Heard: Dense, master of the Hotel de Normandie, which recognizes Labrunie; two doctors Berthaux, rue du Pont-Louis No. 1, Dr. Chayet; SUICIDE by strangulation. This morning at half past seven, was found hanging from the bars of the locksmith's shop * Rue de la Vieille-Lanterne declaration Lawrence policeman's fourth district, the individual was already dead, carried to the post City Hall **, rescued by two doctors, but in vain. He hanged himself with a ribbon wire, his body was tied to this bar with this link, no trace of violence on the corpse. " Gerard de Nerval was born May 22, 1808 in Paris.

² Dr. White Spirit (1796 - 1852) was devoted to the study of mental illness. It builds on the heights of Montmartre, a nursing home where he reuses treatment principles developed by Pinel but by putting patients in contact with a new family instead of isolating them. Dr. White scored Maupassant, Nerval or Gounod among his many patients. Source: Wikipedia .

Readings & Links :

Read about Tristan Cabral, an article by Pascal Perrot site bubbling " Drafts cultures "

Also read a moving letter from Gerard de Nerval addressed Venice great love of his life, the actress Jenny Colon on the site " Lands Women .

About Lebedev John, engraver and painter

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Sample Permission Letter From Court To Travel

Poetry as a deep song

" As the gods did not, we invented the oracles. They were both the first priests and poets first.
In the voices of poets, there must be something in the voice of the gods . " Erwin Christian Andersen

The worst of contemporary poetry? - The prolixity, that is a way of grab a mental space too crowded. Putting words when they have nothing else to indicate that the cold corpse, a certain aesthetic originality, thinking devitalized. In short, words egocentric serving a social promotion, for example. This will never poetry, whatever the licensed professional writing.

Any institutional form, in art or literature of any kind, kills poetry by obscuring the brightness of the fire while appropriating an oracular tradition that it distorts in its favor. One of the many powers liberators of poetry, is it not precisely to break taboos qu'entretiennent hierarchies of self-proclaimed elites at the expense of immediate emergency which they call yet? From prolific resist the slaughter of modernity in love with speed and performance?

I do not only target the buzzing swarms poetic Internet. The attitude of some poets who pretend to be rare birds, chirping and boring as starlings over the public square, sometimes gives me nausea. These fanatics vain brew wind and make much ado about not much. They hoquètent, to verbalize an arm, dislocate vainly believing language to show sagacity. However, the corners of the Web, sometimes confusing voices reach those who venture off the beaten path of the sacrosanct sociability. I do not want to demonstrate that some of my meetings with some unexpected pariahs who stand quietly away from the din and worldly flattery. Some of them have become my friends against all odds.

Publishers are beginning to look seriously wild publications on the net, they send emissaries to hunt the beast. But Attention! We could publish only in conceit, to please us, for the glory. The question is, to be aware where you are going, what planet are asked sensitive feet. What realities will we implement? At this stage, proves the decisive battle of man and woman in poetry: either we want to be adored as makers of poetry (like a poem or more per day) or we put into action something which we leaves than to be scorned by the defending champions, this "something" irremediable encouraging us again and again to exceed the permitted limits for the language for the ridiculous charade finally falls apart and the human voice goes deep bowels of the time.

long ago that art for art's sake is a dead letter, had fallen into disuse. However, it does not persist at least wreak havoc. As to the second state of writing, I do not know, unless I'm still more or less naturally inclined toward a state of hypnosis advanced ... A drug? If it were me I would look certainly to detoxify me that, at long, not disdain or the "firecracker" or a drink "purifier" concocted by the Indians Amazon. Poetry has no time, it must be all the time, otherwise we would read neither Virgil nor Villon, or Baudelaire, or Rimbaud or Cendrars Seeing the wiper blades or Artaud the Momo, or the uprooted Celan ...
The author account? It's not so bad for those who have money to waste especially nowadays when it is so easy to make yourself a book.
The enactment of the poem, or rather the poetry we write, and I stress particularly that, actually expressed through what we experience in everyday life, both through our imagination that our ideas, our relationship with the world and others. This is what differentiates, in large part, the poet's literary (the last board it applies as a student during the test - and I do not mean thereby that a poet must leave necessarily his text as the first jet). Emotion Is not this movement within the immediate experience from which "focuses" the poem, the intellect intervenes after the fact? Without emotion, which claims to poetry, is a clever construction (writing) of the intellect, a lure without momentum or inspiration. The musicality of the language can be "worked" strictly on the score page or screen, not the deep song that would lose its "soul" and its intensity. Love does not describe (leave that to the psychologists and behavioral scientists), it is sung, said, breaking us and we in turn raising ... And whatever the time and manner of expression, we do not change anything.

poetry is not restricted to the mental domain, as is too often the case with some poetry called elite vanguard. She is one with which we are overflowing, which releases energy formidable lead us to where we would never have dared our own will. She did not comply. I do not understand those who call themselves poets, even though they owned and the style and intelligence, by arranging ultimately not too bad with what they offer advantages such honorary society totally contaminated. And I would say nothing of poets who are crowned themselves the attributes of the muse, and that merely holding forth in confusing the complexity of the language and the subtleties of their thinking with the irrepressible outpouring of the poem. That they be given the place to which they aspire and you'll see them parading in contemporary festivals such old gentlemen Prudhomme allergic to any competition.

" Who plays this song which is based inside the words? Words within us scratching our flesh ... The wind made tree leaves or chills water, the wind comes up sometimes with a seminal force that stops at nothing. He crossed the mountains by the winds whistling constellations and large processions of hallucinated night. Reread in the light of bright white margins signs of an ink incredibly lifelike, as if blood had been sprayed with precision words retained long trapped in the backyards of memory. The word saved tiny shipwrecks would testify on behalf of all those who have not had the chance or time to tell us the fatal voyage. "

Andre Chenet

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Shoes Sniff Women Feet

Marriage poetry (poem without words)