tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178725062024-03-07T10:47:10.483-08:00Writing the TongueA space for tongues, familiar and foreign. Poetry and poetry criticism.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-56807526045003353872007-03-31T12:00:00.000-07:002007-03-31T12:06:13.882-07:00The house was quiet and the world was calm by Wallace StevensThe house was quiet and the world was calm.<br />The reader became the book; and summer night<br /><br />Was like the conscious being of the book.<br />The house was quiet and the world was calm.<br /><br />The words were spoken as if there was no book,<br />Except that the reader leaned above the page,<br /><br />Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be<br />The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom<br /><br />The summer night is like a perfection of thought.<br />The house was quiet because it had to be.<br /><br />The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:<br />The access to the perfection of the page.<br /><br />And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,<br />In which there is no other meaning, itself<br /><br />Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself<br />Is the reader leaning late and reading there.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com412tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1162676026152984052006-11-04T13:26:00.000-08:002006-11-04T14:41:40.700-08:00writing the tongue codatwo codas, two concluding events to say thank you, to finally cut that tongue off and write this one last full stop with its dripping blood. to stop writing tongues and start to prose ones in ones of prose, in proses of ones in <a href="http://proseofones.blogspot.com">prose of ones</a>.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1160906328677252782006-10-15T02:53:00.000-07:002006-10-15T02:58:48.686-07:00Coda by Louis MacNeiceMaybe we knew each other better<br />When the night was young and unrepeated<br />And the moon stood still over Jericho.<br /><br />So much for the past; in the present<br />There are moments caught between heart-beats<br />When maybe we know each other better.<br /><br />But what is that clinking in the darkness?<br />Maybe we shall know each other better<br />When the tunnels meet beneath the mountain.<br /><br />Louis MacNeice. <span style="font-style: italic;">Selected Poems</span>. London; Faber, 1988, p.158.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1159897201229867012006-10-03T10:30:00.000-07:002006-10-03T10:40:01.296-07:00Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?Il faudrait plutôt concevoir les choses comme une affaire de perception: on entre dans une pièce, et l'on perçoit quelque chose comme déjà là, venant d'arriver, même si ce n'est pas encore fait. Ou bien l'on sait que ce qui est en train de se faire, c'est déjà la dernière fois, c'est fini. On entend un "je t'aime", dont on sait qu'il est dit pour la dernière fois. Sémiotique perceptive. Dieu, qu'est-ce qui a pu se passer, tandis que tout est et reste imperceptible, et pour que tout soit et reste imperceptible à jamais?<br /><br />Deleuze et Guattari.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Mille Plateaux</span>. Paris; Minuit, 1980, p.238.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1159816244337455832006-10-02T11:58:00.000-07:002006-10-02T12:10:44.353-07:00N'interprétez pas, machinezMiller:<br /><br />When I'm revising, I use a pen and ink to make changes, cross out, insert.[...] Then I retype, and in the process of retyping I make more changes. I prefer to retype everything myself, because even when I think I've made all the changes I want, the mere mechanical business of touching the keys sharpens my thoughts, and I find myself revising while doing the finished thing.<br /><br />Interviewer:<br /><br />You mean there is something going on between you and the machine?<br /><br />Miller:<br /><br />Yes, in a way the machine acts as a stimulus; it's a cooperative thing.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">from</span>: <a href="http://www.parisreview.com/media/4597_MILLER_H.pdf">Paris Review, Henry Miller Interview</a> <a href="http://www.parisreview.com/media/4597_MILLER_H.pdf"></a><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span>tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1159655468818710192006-09-30T15:21:00.000-07:002006-09-30T15:31:08.840-07:00Rire philosophique de FoucaultA tous ceux qui veulent encore parler de l'homme, de son règne ou de sa libération, à tous ceux qui posent encore des questions sur ce qu'est l'homme en son essence, à tous ceux qui veulent partir de lui pour avoir accès à la vérité, à tous ceux en revanche qui reconduisent toute connaissance aux vérités de l'homme lui-même, à tous ceux qui ne veulent pas formaliser sans anthropologiser, qui ne veulent pas mythologiser sans démystifier, qui ne veulent pas penser sans penser aussitôt que c'est l'homme qui pense, à toutes ces formes de réflexion gauches et gauchies, on ne peut qu'opposer un rire philosophique- c'est-à-dire, pour une certaine part, silencieux.<br /><br />Michel Foucault.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Les mots et les choses</span>. Paris: Gallimard, 1966, p.353-354.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1159473842218575902006-09-28T12:59:00.000-07:002006-09-28T13:04:02.240-07:00Web by Don PatersonThe deftest leave no trace: type, send, delete,<br />clear <span style="font-style: italic;">history</span>. The world will never know.<br />Though a man might wonder, as he crossed the street<br />what it was that broke across his brow<br />or vanished on his tongue and left it sweet<br /><br /><br />Don Paterson. <span style="font-style: italic;">Landing Light</span>. London; Faber, 2003, p.40.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1158921345000054032006-09-22T03:35:00.000-07:002006-09-22T03:35:45.013-07:00TorreThe rooting apple tree apples rotting<br />on the wet Somerset earth, their pips dispersing.<br />It is that pressing time of the year,<br />when the apples are turned bitter.<br /><br />The pewtering pulp fed to Cynthia and her Gloucester<br />old spots, her teat feeding the sucklers, their last meal.<br />Rolf rabbit clinching on to Flopsy's ears, fathering some little<br />fiddlers. Jasmin the goat with her coat, an old grey fleece<br />to keep her from the freeze.<br /> Jack the curious donkey looking<br />into the tea shop and its customers' chops,<br />Cynthia's labour from the year before. Crops<br />still long in the waiting, the harsh winter awaiting.<br />Love's labour's lost? Heart of the matter.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1158229853779830632006-09-14T03:30:00.000-07:002006-09-14T03:30:53.796-07:00translation I.QFirst the eye, then the tongue<br />then another, then<br />the pen, then the eye again.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1156134762762076542006-08-20T21:32:00.000-07:002006-08-28T14:53:44.816-07:00Michaux's wise wordsLecteur, tu tiens donc ici..., un livre que n'a pas fait l'auteur, quoiqu'un monde y ait participé. Et qu'importe?<br /> Signes, symboles, élans, chutes, départs, rapports, tout y est pour rebondir...Entre eux, sans s'y fixer, l'auteur poussa sa vie.<br /> Tu pourrais essayer, peut-être toi aussi?<br /><br /><br /> Henri Michauxtomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1156024785578077492006-08-19T14:26:00.000-07:002006-08-19T15:08:10.683-07:00Un poema de Carlos Barbarito<span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >No importa en qué idioma se escriba.<br />Toda lengua es extranjera, incomprensible.<br />Toda palabra, apenas pronunciada,<br />huye lejos, adonde nada ni nadie puede<br />alcanzarla.</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><br />No importa cu</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="indent" ><span style="line-height: 115%;">á</span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >nto se sepa.<br />Nadie sabe leer.<br />Nadie sabe qué es un rel</span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" class="indent" ><span style="line-height: 115%;">á</span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >mpago<br />y menos cuando se refleja<br />en el pulido metal de un cuchillo.<br /></span><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;"> Ahora la noche parece un mar.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">Por ese mar remamos,</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;">dispersos, en silencio.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span class="indent"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"></span> </span></span></span><span class="indent"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span><span class="indent"><span style="line-height: 115%;"></span></span>tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1155664063953526152006-08-15T10:46:00.000-07:002006-08-15T10:47:43.986-07:00PersonsI could go on,<br />but first, I would have to begin.<br />But then, I would have to end.<br /><br />He, having begun,<br />must go on.<br />To His end.<br /><br />You have begun:<br />but must you go on,<br />or end, now, abruptly?<br /><br />No. Do not leave.<br />You and I have just met<br />through the infinite difference<br />of eternal repetition.<br /><br />I am He’s orphan.<br />I belong to no one<br />but you;<br />to They who have become<br />You.<br /><br />Do not worry about my sex.<br />I am the result of what He<br />has made me –<br />Neuter.<br /><br />Only you can leave,<br />I cannot.<br />Leave me now<br />To another<br />To disappeartomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1155486323842120282006-08-13T09:21:00.000-07:002006-08-13T09:25:23.856-07:00RecurrencesThe sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.<br /><br /><br /><br />Samuel Beckett, <span style="font-style: italic;">Murphy</span>.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1154861435293920402006-08-06T03:48:00.000-07:002006-08-06T03:54:53.946-07:00Sombre précurseurBanishment then, through exile then, as love then.<br /><br /> Distance for love then.<br /><br /> We are distant, we are not close, I must love you then.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1153514658805971162006-07-21T13:43:00.000-07:002006-07-21T13:44:18.826-07:00JoyJoie de fatigue de fin de journée<br />bien travaillée<br /><br />Rêve, non pas d'un livre avec ses plans-pages superposés<br />mais de rouleaux infinis en lignes droites qui se croiseraient<br />ici, là, là-bas.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">from</span> lignesdefuites.blogspot.comtomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1152823928544819582006-07-13T13:50:00.000-07:002006-07-13T13:52:08.556-07:00'Être comme un étranger dans sa propre langue. Faire une ligne de fuite.'<br /><br />Gilles Deleuzetomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1152362885304053892006-07-08T05:46:00.000-07:002006-07-08T05:48:05.316-07:00from 'The Cell' by Lyn HejinianLyricism- it makes the country<br /> seem far away<br /><br /><br />Lyn Hejinian.<span style="font-style: italic;"> The Cell</span>. Los Angeles: Sun and Moon Press, 1992, p.174.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1152110042338824402006-07-05T07:28:00.000-07:002006-07-05T07:34:02.350-07:00from 'Crow Tyrannosaurus' by Ted HughesCreation quaked voices-<br />It was a cortege<br />Of mourning and lament [...]<br /><br />And the dog was a bulging filterbag<br />Of all the deaths it had gulped for the flesh and the bones.<br />It could not digest their screeching finales.<br />Its shapeless cry was a blort of all those voices.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151934830949904672006-07-03T06:49:00.000-07:002006-07-03T06:53:50.973-07:00Qu'importe.Seul demeure le sentiment de légèreté qui est la mort même ou, pour le dire plus précisément, l'instant de ma mort désormais toujours en instance.<br /><br />Maurice Blanchot. <span style="font-style: italic;">L'instant de ma mort</span>. Paris: Gallimard, 2002, p.17.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151845293108446472006-07-02T05:59:00.000-07:002006-07-02T06:01:33.123-07:00Vers la proseVoici un lien qui vous conduira tout droit sur le site remue.net et un texte très intéressant du poète/essayiste Pierre Alferi.<br /><br />http://www.remue.net/cont/alferi1.htmltomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151762625163093252006-07-01T06:38:00.000-07:002006-07-01T07:03:45.196-07:00Ebauche d'une traduction de 'Measure'Mesure<br /><br />Retours.<br />Lumière cuivrée de nouveau<br />hésitante parmi les petites feuilles<br /><br />d'un prunier Japonais. Eté<br />et coucher du soleil, la paix<br />du bureau d'écriture<br /><br />et la tranquillité habituelle<br />de l'écriture, ces choses<br />forment un ordre auquel<br /><br />j'appartiens seulement dans l'oisiveté<br />de l'attention. Dernière lumière<br />borde la montagne bleue<br /><br />et j'aperçois presque<br />à quoi je suis né,<br />non pas dans la lumière du soleil<br /><br />ni le prunier<br />mais dans la pulsation<br />qui forme ces lignes.<br /><br />Traduit par Tomas Sidoli.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151761063568631862006-07-01T06:29:00.000-07:002006-07-01T06:37:43.580-07:00Measure by Robert HassRecurrences.<br />Coppery light hesitates<br />again in the small-leaved<br /><br />Japanese plum. Summer<br />and sunset, the peace<br />of the writing desk<br /><br />and the habitual peace<br />of writing, these things<br />form an order I only<br /><br />belong to in the idleness<br />of attention. Last light<br />rims the blue mountain<br /><br />and I almost glimpse<br />what I was born to,<br />not so much in the sunlight<br /><br />or the plum tree<br />as in the pulse<br />that form these lines.<br /><br />Robert Hass. <span style="font-style: italic;">Field Guide</span>. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1973, p.44.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151677835642791732006-06-30T07:28:00.000-07:002006-06-30T07:30:35.643-07:00Over the Garden GateLook at you nouveau<br />vine of legumes<br />kept from growing by the dead<br />branches bending in;<br /><br />I will break them off for you<br />more and more each day<br />to snap your sweetness<br /><br />Valyntina Grenier.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151677466658837282006-06-30T07:14:00.000-07:002006-06-30T07:25:53.916-07:00from 'Les allures naturelles'III<br />1.<br />quand rien n'entraîne rien<br /> ne s'agite au-dehors l'inertie<br /> se fait agitation entraînement en vue<br /> de rien mais d'un rien qui se fait<br /> obstacle et le moindre contact<br /> inverse le sens de la marche (ignorant<br /> qu'on l'observe à travers deux fenêtres, un inconnu<br /> s'habille, se déshabille, s'assied, se lève, décroche, repose<br /> le combiné) : d'abord l'incohérence<br /> de particules en suspension<br /> puis la période. Un geste quotidien<br /> filmé en vidéo<br /> un geste rejoué, son aire<br /> parcourue en tous sens comme un pas<br /> de <span style="font-style: italic;">breakdance</span> dont l'endroit n'est plus<br /> que l'envers de l'envers, est déjà<br /> autre chose : une forme<br /> cristalline impassible.<br /><br />Pierre Alferi. <span style="font-style: italic;">Les allures naturelles</span>. Paris: P.O.L, 1991, p.23.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17872506.post-1151609364619864832006-06-29T12:22:00.000-07:002006-06-29T12:32:20.503-07:00from 'The Fatalist'in the realm of sensations. Speed has tint, it tilts, it is admittedly<br />indistinguishable from the sky but do sensations stop in sleep<br />and merely remember? Is memory a halt? Is the dream<br />not an orifice belonging to sleep? The sun that lights the obvious<br />oblivion cannot stop it. That's what fate is : whatever's happened<br /> - time regained.<br /><br />Lyn Hejinian. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Fatalist</span>. Richmond: Omnidawn, 2003, p.83.tomas sidolihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17876002834416902426noreply@blogger.com0