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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

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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

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Marriage poetry (poem without words)