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of poetry

Excerpts from "Exile of Poetry" (2010), unpublished collection of Andre Chenet :



Before sleeping

There are no poets
the ball rolling
little suns
within words

a concentrated space
returns and our silences

truth is that all that questions?


humans struggling to push to grow
daylight

the blind as night
makes them fearful loneliness


edge of death
loneliness
fairy injured

there is no
poets in books or magic

no return of love





; I tell you


I tell you from inside my lip on the edge
blood
I tell you

with filaments and bits of fire
I told you
sacraments
creating
I tell you

beats every moment I tell you

fork winds
language lovers
I tell you what just

far and dear to my heart I tell you

the following dreams
crimes
time I say something
insatiable
of oblivion and sand
I tell you
Islands
ephemeral words of yesterday
I tell you
stammering
the white nights of my
I tell you what

ends and what begins
I
say that almost nothing
of syllables and sounds





The immortal

Tell me the heart and silence

I came to sing
the joy and beauty

your arms wet your hands and your legs
love in the tall grass
I came to you in
uncrossing all
paths through my voice
your eyes saw my pain
already you light up my poems
I came from a country that does violence

where everyone carries his cross
dark beliefs
I spent borders
bristling
suffering Tell me life and embrace infinite

his music and his breath
I came to sing love
and fragility
your mouth red spring
your breasts with salt and equinoxes
and immortality.





Memories of legendary times

A Toothy
the embers of an alphabet disappeared
o Fire
fruit that split to the goddesses
falcon heads

ancient times where we danced naked among the myriad

spiral of the Milky Way
time initiations
virile and solstices

wild feasts when we went to places where nocturnal
reborn
light on the banks of sacred rivers
we climbed from
Finistères
paths through
shifting sands and waves of dream in these times
haloed mystery
peoples obscure signs tattooed purple
Us Currencies
on the wire with
water snakes of the infinite
we have not forgotten how to speak the language
green trees
nor the mockingbirds and
wind made us wings to fly the hippogriff

magnetic storms at this time of moons
prophecies and our wives had huge eyes shone like
where a constellation of mother of pearl beads
creating





Passwords Cristina
Read these suns
fluctuating
on edge
where foraging birds fairy


break any
gap between us and our breaths
with perfumes rare
of loneliness panting


vermilion seal the pact of our eyes
lost wax on our ardent
blinding Hugs

accompany life
to nest at night and we

off in a whirlwind of crazy stars.





The fire of desire

I lived for Sundays sad
tocsins of purple and stormy nights
How to distinguish outside and in? The hem
sleep relaxes
pass between my lips where silences
I have no reason to exist if the world withers
ignorance
I should wander freely through
groves and
fields of country as the seasons turn
I age my desires are rain or shine
age of love, where hordes quench their thirst of life
Only the ashes which the fire resistant bites.





Litteris

We will open new

galaxies at the forefront of our poems

We will open our exiles to
nightlife lights of the earth We will open

what dreams
seal in the enclosures of reason

We will open gestures of prophets
countries destroyed

We will open on the cliffs of gypsum
a road height desires

We will open fire which makes wood
and that water does not tell us

We will discover the major issues
in our deepest sleep

All literature is a theater of signs
between what is thought and accomplished.





Psalm

He does not know that lightning breath
that sticks to the glass like an old dream

within reach Morning


He listens more than stone cold
when you took the time
and he no longer understands

It crosses
things and uses few words to achieve this share

forgetting that swells

It changes the silence in a psalm
absence
and burns to the eyes
distant fires.


Andre Chenet

Nutritional Value Of Homemade Pizza

Poets in the streets of Paris (2)

And the cops fired a bitter attack on the black flag ...


The rotten I am telling you watch these
Tronches these reds these facies
Spaniards Italians Croats Bulgarians
The gooks
Some niggers shit
There are even some who wear hats
and tie like the bourgeois

The rotten I am telling you
dogs hungry for blood Savages
brutes who kill father and mother that
is seen in their wild eyes
A
their fists to their mouths twisted by hatred of honest people


In the street the child hungry
contemplate the dregs of the earth
He said nothing He stubbornly silent
He grits his teeth and he was taught
since the first day

The street whores
pasted on the walls and throw roses
kisses to the insurgents
Ravens obscure distress and derision
religiously deposit their droppings on the statues
Heroes of the Republic

Renée-Maria Little Match
cries and blows his nose in his fingers
lorgnées the corner of his eye by a Mr.
smelling cologne

Renee Maria bite her hand till the blood
not to scream

In the street the sound of hunting humiliated far
; before it leaves
October
Ah! god! it is beautiful!
whispers Renee Maria watching the lead in that

a handsome young man dressed as a carpenter A beard
blonde and carefully combed
fingers thin and very pale

Should all align along a wall that's me
; telling you
a priest whispers in the ear of Master Corporal
Should all thrown into the fiery furnace
said the consumptive seamstress awaiting Prince Charming
Should all taken to the gates of the Champs-Elysees
triumphantly proclaims a former Versailles
converted in the slave trade

In the streets of babies wailing foreseeing the tragedy
Lanterns off
A bearing ascending from the Pont Louis-Philippe
Another replied rolling across the Pantheon
We hear feet pounding the pavement around the gardens
; Luxembourg's

In the street they walk like silences serious armed
; countless courage
They walk like crowds arisen from a dark hole where rats
; They compete for space
walk like oceans united by the blood sweat
; and tears
They walk like swords
As processions of famines and pain, oldest
than older trees
In the streets they walk like despair dressed in rough cloth
as mutilated bodies
as voice broken by emotion

In the street the child looks dumb hungry

curled up on its squalor
He trembles
He's afraid he
cold

But his eyes are those of a son of man has long been an orphan


The street still looks timid
means forging hoarse breasts
In the suburbs the sun shredded
collapses in the midst of gardens distressing

Whoever comes forward head has no love
It has never had time
and whoever follows him has only friend

wind nights
of homeland

He who walks in mind is as beautiful as
;
an archangel and one that
follows a gentle face of a king-mage

Should every swing to the lions
babies wave their little arms sensing
A banker drama
fat and bald so check his portfolio
; is always where it should

they walk in the street without saying a word without fever

They walk at a steady
convinced they are of all races and all
follies

On the street where the whores quick remake

their makeup to be beautiful
On the street where the child hungry
cradles a rag doll
which has only one leg

They walk behind the drums banners lifted high
they walk obscure silent
helmeted figures they walk kicks iron helmets
They march in ranks
They They walk hundreds and thousands walk the walk as always
armed

many minutes they watched each
In Long minutes
And the cops fired lashing out at the black flag ...
The advancing front erupted in mind reddens sidewalk
And he followed that fell with slow shattering
And the child was suddenly hungry tons

white bread in the hollow of your palms.
Late at night when they were on
remained only whores
who sang hymns and psalms divine.


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

Andre Laude This poem is exceptional for several reasons: firstly because he joined the incurable delusion of Rimbaud after the Commune had been crushed, and the other May 68 and it evokes the desperate years of sporadic fighting that continued to be offered for nearly a decade. The Communists' sectarisés "- Maoists, Stalinists, Lambert and other militarized factions trostkystes ... - The slave trade unions tomorrow and forever disenchanted, a little later, the hypocritical party mitterrand (Which had a name of socialist electoral controlled at the expense of a people in the process of surrender) broke all the dreams of the revolutionary utopia. For this poet who lived in his furious flesh breakup of major insurgent movements inaugurated by the French Revolution, " poetry and revolution were one and the same thing ", he understood that poetry "as accompaniment the social and human development towards justice and more freedom possible ". André Laude, who had never inserts, had predicted early on destructive policies and segregation that we suffer today. For him, the Socialist Party of Fabius, Jospin, Lang, Strauss Kahn, Delors and others ... was no doubt that a relay of capitalism triumphant. Anarchist Marxist and stood there, (He explained in this very precisely in the early nineties came ten in the magazine NOT PLAY Jean-Michel Fossey), he lived poetry as a necessary conflict with a reality ; completely deranged and terrifying. He wanted to end the "little man" cowardly and cruel to invent another language " is not that people condemned to think only to survival, to bear the terrible hours of work in factories, when the savage capitalism develops .. . "Son of a proletarian, he said that poetry was written" with the world to show solidarity . "In 1982, he declared:" Poetry might have a chance in the context of a large historical and social upheaval "but he did not want to add with a touch of icy lucidity which characterizes all who have crossed the abyss of human hope," that under the current, I not think that poetry has a chance. She will always remain I'm afraid, the ghetto in which are found those who are different, those who do not work like the others, and then also ... it will remain that little extra something that presents itself in some quarters a little money or we love poets while fucking completely the message of the poem . AC

Biography and publications of André Laude :

- http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/André_Laude

Biography and work of Jean Lebedev, engraver and painter;
- http://militants-anarchistes.info/spip.php?article3181