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| EC Andersen La Colle s / Wolf (06). Photo Carl Cabe-Maury |
Christian Andersen Erwin, writer and poet French-speaking Belgian, Danish-born father, André Maurits Flemish and Belgian mother, Yvonne Marie Dhuygelaere was born in 1944 and lives in Charleroi. With the publication of his first collections, it has been noticed by Louis Dubost (editor and poet), Werner Lambersy and Marcel Moreau . He had nothing but published nothing for 28 years: his next book (a very large sum poetic) is in press and will appear in the coming days.
To read and learn more about it:
To read and learn more about it:
Poems EC Andersen and interviews : http://fr.netlog.com/CEA7ANE/blog on Art Chignaned : http://www.art-chignaned.com/spip/article . php3? id_article = 170 & recalculation = yes and Francopol : http://www.francopolis.net/salon/Andersen-Salonjanvier2011.html
Article from Telegram : http:// www.letelegramme.com/local/finistere-sud/ouest-cornouaille/capsizun/audierne/christian-erwin-andersen-la-poesie-est-un-combat-10-11-2010-1111051.php
Poems on "Hostel " site of anarchists and Beggars
" Standard jubilant " of EC Andersen : http://endehors.net/news/la-norme-jubilatoire-par-christian-erwin-andersen-poete-et-voyageur
Publications:
Blood Earth Fire Account (author) 1976;
Elements for a Sacrifice
(Ed. the blue die - Louis Dubost) 1977
( Price Maurice Gauchez )
Ligatures & clots, mécrits (1982)
(The blue die & ECA) Preface Werner Lambersy
From 1982 to 2003, Andersen completely stop writing to devote himself entirely to his research "Sahara." Some take it for dead. Nothing more is heard of him. In 2003 he reappeared written Address & Small dogs story of the murder. In 2005, he wrote poems for children sad century unspeakable. He also wrote a few tests: Exorcism sand , Evidence , The poetic function , Standard jubilant , I deserted my beans ...
Erwin Christian Andersen or the "hurtful truth of life"
" men communicate their injuries. Paul Celan
Poet peaks, Charles Erwin Andersen? He scraped the deep human with his claws, his words, his teeth ... and its fangs. He speaks as a survivor of utopias sick tomorrow bleeding. Read this off-the-poet standards, pick up his latest book, take time to understand the pain reaching a savage joy, despair, or a semblance of reason remains. The reason? alibi stunning, deafening. So many poets pleasing shape obsolete subtleties of language where all pretenses of a clever mind, but fret warped disfigure poetry in "highlights" anthologies for academic use.
EC Andersen is a poet decimated by the curse of hypocrisy out of sight, by the sacred spells of a society completely dismantled. He climbs facades steep himself poem after poem. We are here in a thousand places small chapels and worldliness. The excess, he does not fear, however, because he knows that love is burning all the monstrous secret passions without which humans would be unable to revolt against the methods of oppression more more degrading imposed. It basically says, what we certainly do not want to hear. It returns, among the front lines of his fights and his love, the wise words of the Bedouin calmly sipping his glass of black tea in the middle of a sandstorm or that of his gypsy friends outside of propriety and respectability agreed. This word plural, sometimes hard, but a consistency almost unbearable, our civilization condemns magnificently stupid of a sovereign silence.
If I dared, about his poems, I speak of "black writing" as opposed to white writing. After thirty years to escape the world of publishing - and these are not proposals that have failed - he returns with "angels defenestration" (The Thieves of Fire , forthcoming in February 2011). Buy this book from a hundred poems that will lead you in circles Dante's life and death, you will be returned, refreshed, too, because he has lived these last years, without complaint, with only the denier that are thrown to the beggar. This is his kingdom.
Most of the poems he sent to me, are "events" since Christian works in the manner of "damned", never satisfied with the final he writes, and he still recovering even in question. His entire existence has been fertilized by doubt: the Other, I was playing the staff never allows himself to definitively identify, never tame. I keep in
my archive different versions of most of the poems published here, and I think it would be necessary to confront and to compare them at one time or another to decipher the ritual games which, not without an immense verve jubilant, engaged the poet.
; AC
EC Andersen is a poet decimated by the curse of hypocrisy out of sight, by the sacred spells of a society completely dismantled. He climbs facades steep himself poem after poem. We are here in a thousand places small chapels and worldliness. The excess, he does not fear, however, because he knows that love is burning all the monstrous secret passions without which humans would be unable to revolt against the methods of oppression more more degrading imposed. It basically says, what we certainly do not want to hear. It returns, among the front lines of his fights and his love, the wise words of the Bedouin calmly sipping his glass of black tea in the middle of a sandstorm or that of his gypsy friends outside of propriety and respectability agreed. This word plural, sometimes hard, but a consistency almost unbearable, our civilization condemns magnificently stupid of a sovereign silence.
If I dared, about his poems, I speak of "black writing" as opposed to white writing. After thirty years to escape the world of publishing - and these are not proposals that have failed - he returns with "angels defenestration" (The Thieves of Fire , forthcoming in February 2011). Buy this book from a hundred poems that will lead you in circles Dante's life and death, you will be returned, refreshed, too, because he has lived these last years, without complaint, with only the denier that are thrown to the beggar. This is his kingdom.
Most of the poems he sent to me, are "events" since Christian works in the manner of "damned", never satisfied with the final he writes, and he still recovering even in question. His entire existence has been fertilized by doubt: the Other, I was playing the staff never allows himself to definitively identify, never tame. I keep in
my archive different versions of most of the poems published here, and I think it would be necessary to confront and to compare them at one time or another to decipher the ritual games which, not without an immense verve jubilant, engaged the poet.
; AC
Tango asses earth
It stirs up there it looks like
in the sky of
ordinarily so empty
prepares a feast
furniture on the floors slip
tured
water soap soft
vie field
it increasingly agitated
I hear cries tears
laughter of children playing
colors blaze
past few clouds take their
legs to their necks
already
first migrants arrive
grebes
with great blows of wings
godillent in the heavy air
a flight of geese joined the noisy
is spring
what enfant terrible
heaven Will it deliver
what to say to the man who wants to dance
and demands his share of dreams
this man harassed
stitched wounds and scars
eyes filled with horror
refuse does one dance
arms fists
threatening sky
invaded the temple
first steps sketched
irrepressible
O gods
jigs and stuffed
that begin the track
drunken peasants and convicts
sardanes tinkling and sparkling light
lively vine and
blessed a thousand times you're cruel bands
bullfighting
dripping brass
and fury
executioners trusty minions of the mob
bourgeois
shabby preened
the bench awaits
accused
our dancing tangos and lewd
javas Obscene
and goddesses of the drives you
and hands that wander
friction sex sex
belly to belly open wide the doors of Musette
we want to dance a jig around
jitter sources along rivers
jitter always
foot waterfalls dance
vibrate as light vibrates
pitch like pitching
infinity
tremble hussars
pale arm of madness that our men
débraguettés
piss the stars and
women standing in their party favors
we dance
***
My life is an equation
My life is an equation without unknown
a mathematical monstrosity
delirium
Euclidean
all things considered
it would have been better that I do not know
I thought
as all lives
she had a beginning and
it
have an end
have an end
but now
I start doubting
and it puts everything in question
I thought there was an unknown
and there has
not my life is an abomination
not my life is an abomination
mathematical
a train of red stars
neck of a theorem black
a train of red stars
neck of a theorem black
***
The sun beyond
You smile
at the same time
on the ridge beyond the sun
he instills his golds in the dew
a canvas garden spider
questioned the oracle exults
it is bright in his finery Aragn
the breadcrumb
clinging to his leg
suits him perfectly
truth it is not pending
now he delights
and prophesy
c ' Spring is
the mole in his gallery
gives birth to a new moon is red
after autumn and winter
justice
summer comes on top of the tree trembles
day tomorrow
precarious
after autumn and winter
justice
summer comes on top of the tree trembles
day tomorrow
precarious
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