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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 ...
further
empty
boatmen bring the drowned
of the night and snow on Christ drawn in chalk on the skin
sidewalks
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
underarm
a
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
Labrunie
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
- http://militants-anarchistes.info/spip.php?article3181

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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 aller.de 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

Shoes Sniff Women Feet

Marriage poetry (poem without words)

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weather is a poet whose poetry

Dom wrote Corriera songs for young and poems for children. He rhymes the weather with the child and it is always the man for him is not yet out of the woods where fabulous Francois Villon sneers with Arthur Rimbaud despairs humans. Thus man is still an idea that very few of us agree. Fortunately (fortunatly), there are women for honor and lift our hearts above shattered. Like most major misogynist, Dom Corriera falls very often worship in the manner of a saint astray without god nor master. Defoliating unrepentant, he would be able to rob the dead to go below the smell of a corolla of layered petticoats. Moreover, each woman will change does not clump of carnations, daisies, roses or lilies in his writing of lovesick? The names of legendary heroines illuminate its firmament. By vagabond noble and proud, he knows the madness of nights that extend up the ecstasy of morning " in the dew of the rut . By itself, it forms a band in turn organized or disorganized depending on the mood and temperature of the moment. He composed more than he writes and goes singing jingles " the proper wind whistling " to make life more beautiful, eternal ... Amateur excellent local wines, much like a jeering Jehan Rictus or Gaston Cost , it impels us in painfully faithful friendship of his intoxication. Listen to him simply sing and say the spells of freedom and rebellion elected idiots on the knees of Beauty:

ONZAIN carmagnolesque

There was an awful winter
Days full of slobs
misery visited upon us poor devils Sandwiches
three euros fifty
Sodas, hot drinks and enjoy freedom
From our formula
Cheques, cash, credit cards accepted
Everywhere, everywhere
spiders invading the stomach Cities
kindergarten where they shouted
Pan, you're dead, lying still!

brainless by destiny
Humanity exactly like we were idiots
Eight percent richer by themselves and
Eight billion disreputable
And retired at twenty, it would be when? Both
resign first wail
Find a job and ensure
enough free time to wank
Everywhere, everywhere viewpoints
In a sky so black with no hallways, no Milky Way

far as I am myself bathed
A water fountain dark
A dirty trick pheromones
Go all drive by Simone
Who knows who you eaten
Look no smallpox
will come in time, bad luck awaits you
Everywhere everywhere kites
cheer fires Midsummer
Where one burns Carnival, Big Business

Then came the summer, going to war
Making raid white canes
bellowing death every Sunday
were made preparing our rags, our banners
On the pyre of utopian dreams Abandoning
hominid
Everywhere, everywhere, our ruins, remains our
gleamed in the eye of Argameddon
Present arms, infantry-citizens
Sink the pasodoble Democratic
Hi come on the threshold of your death.

Dom Corriera / Marseille / June 2010

Hill (enigma syllabic)

Saul and dripping from the terrors of childhood, the ectoplasm of the man climbed the hill illunée. Road at night when unpredictable rain listen to jingle in the branches. With each drop one to one and each offering a sound, a syllable to sing, ectoplasm walking, mumbling. And staggers, gesticulating with great strides, not wrong, welcoming the news that death toads dressed in their Sunday best. He raises his arms toward the fluorescent cloud and speaks only to his mobile phone, seeking a name, one syllable. Cough, spits, still spell the name as if it were a magic formula. Forgotten now friends left the river barges that displayed gray heavy and impassive ducks. Forgotten bottles, laughs, forgotten aria staggering Coltrane and wines of all dresses, all mourning. Distraught, disheveled, ectoplasm climbs painfully on the back of the hill. Behind, beyond, is a Heritage Village and its cemetery. Cries, coughs, spits piss and his lungs, he's falling backwards into a ditch of nettles, imploring, hallucinating, the image that will never be near him, forever distant and silent. Neither the bloated moon, or the gravel along the path of faith will not retain the sweet sounds of these enigmatic syllables that haunt him. He feels the hill, which swells, breathing in his footsteps. Drunk and crazy oozing pity, he coughs, shouts, sings and weeps her face looked, half hidden by her hair at night. From heaven, his face still looks a shadow divided, torn. A voice so pure it pierces that face a constellation of tears ... he falls, slips, skids and flips on the cold earth of the hill panting. Enigma the voice of the breath caressing the curves of crystal fields, the hill that breathes like a woman's breast. Behind beyond, is a village childhood and innocence evaporated, the cemetery blooms missing. La-down, up, so powerful and so deep, a cryptic puzzle, a name that disappears beneath the clouds of torn sails gleaming through which both eyes shine cosmic suspended. Two planets are lustrous black and fierce desperate energy, that which is called "divine light". Imploded A look of love, a great clamor irradiating the Universal vault, unnecessary and serene. Falls, coughs, spits and piss and stumbles ectoplasm of man still rekindling his laptop and then turning it off in the fine mist and the moon May. Where are Coltrane and friends of the river slow? Bottles, glasses and laughter in battle ... You see that hill, which swells, breathing? She is a woman's breast lay on layers of oversight, a sleeper eternal image of a creed impossible to paradise unexplored syllable quivering desire. How long, you cherish the rain ricochets and tinkles cascading arpeggios in boiling liquid on your forehead. Tomb, staggers, shouts and despairs. An uncertain idea of man, under the eyelids where heavenly sleep, go out with the dawning day, the mysterious signs of dawn. Endless barking of childhood, early morning welcomes the barn. The shade dried human wends its way between the cords of wood, sits down and falls asleep by reciting his breviary, his endless enigma syllabic:

" Syllables cryptic
where shoes Sabbath
s 'spoil, spoil, spoil. "

Dom Corriera , unpublished

Links:

- http://domcorrieras.fr/

- http://www.francopolis.net/salon/Corrieras-SalonAvril2010.html

Photo : Dom Corriera the banks of the Wolf by Andre Chenet