Over the Garden Gate

Look at you nouveau
vine of legumes
kept from growing by the dead
branches bending in;

I will break them off for you
more and more each day
to snap your sweetness

Valyntina Grenier.

from 'Les allures naturelles'

III
1.
quand rien n'entraîne rien
ne s'agite au-dehors l'inertie
se fait agitation entraînement en vue
de rien mais d'un rien qui se fait
obstacle et le moindre contact
inverse le sens de la marche (ignorant
qu'on l'observe à travers deux fenêtres, un inconnu
s'habille, se déshabille, s'assied, se lève, décroche, repose
le combiné) : d'abord l'incohérence
de particules en suspension
puis la période. Un geste quotidien
filmé en vidéo
un geste rejoué, son aire
parcourue en tous sens comme un pas
de breakdance dont l'endroit n'est plus
que l'envers de l'envers, est déjà
autre chose : une forme
cristalline impassible.

Pierre Alferi. Les allures naturelles. Paris: P.O.L, 1991, p.23.

from 'The Fatalist'

in the realm of sensations. Speed has tint, it tilts, it is admittedly
indistinguishable from the sky but do sensations stop in sleep
and merely remember? Is memory a halt? Is the dream
not an orifice belonging to sleep? The sun that lights the obvious
oblivion cannot stop it. That's what fate is : whatever's happened
- time regained.

Lyn Hejinian. The Fatalist. Richmond: Omnidawn, 2003, p.83.

Page disparu de L'arrêt de Mort

Ces pages peuvent ici trouver leur terme, et ce que je viens d'écrire, nulle suite ne m'y fera rien ajouter ni rien ôter. Cela demeure, cela demeurera jusqu'au bout. Qui voudrait l'effacer de moi-même, en échange de cette fin que je cherche vainement, deviendrait à son tour le début de ma propre histoire, et il serait ma proie. Dans l'obscurité il me verrait; ma parole serait son silence, et il croirait reigner sur le monde, mais cette souveraineté serait encore la mienne, son néant le mien et lui aussi saurait qu'il n'y a pas de fin à partir d'un homme qui veut finir seul.

Que cela soit donc rappelé à qui lirait ces pages en les croyant traversées par la pensée du malheur. Et plus encore, qu'il essaie d'imaginer la main qui les écrit: s'il la voyait, peut-être lire lui deviendrait-il une tâche sérieuse.

Maurice Blanchot.

Littérature et Vie

Ecrire est une affaire de devenir, toujours inachevé, toujours en train de se faire, et qui déborde toute matière vivable ou vécue. C'est un processus, c'est-à-dire un passage de Vie qui traverse le vivable et le vécu. L'écriture est inséparable du devenir: en écrivant, on devient-femme, on devient-animal ou végétal, on devient-molécule jusqu'à devenir-imperceptible.

Gilles Deleuze. Critique et Clinique. Paris: Minuit, 1993, p.11.

from The Pretty Redhead by Apollinaire

Here I am in front of all, a man full of sense
Knowing of life and death only what a living man can
Having experienced the pains and joys of love
Having sometimes been able to get my ideas across
Knowing several languages
Having travelled quite a bit [...]

I know of old and new as much as one man could possibly know

Translation by T.Sidoli.

from Privilege of Being by Robert Hass

Many are making love. Up above, the angels
in the unshaken ether and crystal of human longing
are braiding one another's hair, which is strawberry blond
and the texture of cold rivers.

Robert Hass, Human Wishes. New York: Ecco Press, 1989, p.69.

Exile Magazine link fixed

I have been getting lots of e-mails saying the Exile link was broken. It is now fixed.

If you do visit the site, the editors have told me that they appreciate your comments. So do not be shy and leave a comment under the 'Your views' section.

It is the publication of English-studying French students in Grenoble, France. Considering English is not their mother tongue, the magazine is of an extreamely good quality. The English is very good, the articles always interesting, and the magazine 'design' astonishing.

I invite you to check it out.

Also, should any of you out there contribute to interesting online magazines, please let me know and I'll do my best to get the word out!

Postcard to the Homeland

«What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.»

Samuel Beckett, First Love.


When Beckett wrote Premier Amour in 1946 (later translated into English as First Love in 1972) ten years had already elapsed since he had left Ireland. In 1946, he decided to leave the English language and to go towards the «langue sans style» that is French. Beckett had already written in French before, but he had now had his «vision», he now knew that his art was to be one of impoverishment or «appauvrissement» ; hence the switch to French and it’s stylelessness. So in the year of 1946, Beckett had exiled himself from Ireland and his «borrowed» yet native English.

Love or what we call love is banishment. Banishment is love. Here the narrator seems to be saying that exile is a sort of love, a love kept alive by postcards received from the homeland. The narrator of First Love like those of the novellas 'The End' and 'The Expelled', has been thrown out, expelled, banished from home. He is living his first love whilst an exile. It is not surprising therefore that these two feelings, which are new to him, should become one, or at
the very least interchangeable. But maybe we are simplifying matters. Maybe what he means is that to love something is to be far from it, that love is only possible from a distance. And that the postcards from the homeland, or the loved one, are images sent by memory, an imagination of memory, to keep that love going. If we take banishment as meaning exile that is.

For banishment is not only a synonym of exile, it also means «being dismissed from one’s presence or mind.» Love in this case would be the state of no longer being oneself, of dismissing
oneself from one’s presence, from one’s mind. «One is no longer oneself, on such occasions…» This is what the narrator tells us a few lines before. The «occasion» in question is an erection, or the sign of passion, of irrational thought. Love then is banishment from rational thought, the homeland moments of rationality. But what if we pushed our interpretation a bit further (at the risk of going too far?) and considered the phallus as symbol of the pen, the erection as the act of writing? Then, one is no longer oneself when one writes, one dismisses oneself from one’s presence, into another, from one language to another. «Such is my considered opinion, this evening.» To consider an opinion is to be rational. After dismissing oneself from one’s presence through writing, there is the rationality of re-writing, of considering what has been written.

In one sentence, Beckett manages to sum up his feelings on his exile from Ireland, his exile from English, and his love of both. And maybe to love them both is only possible by banishing himself from them. So that the postcards from the homeland can keep arriving, now and then, and make him go on. So that he may continue writing postcards to the adestination that is the imaginary
homeland. In 1946 Beckett was only beginning to write his postcards in French, hence «What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.» Today, with all the postcards he has written, I believe it is safe to say that «What goes by the name of exile is love, with now and then a postcard sent to the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.»

Anton Derridovitch. from 'Exile', Issue 1, November 2004.

À un ami

Ici, le printemps est arrivé, les choses se meuvent. Les branches ne sont plus nues, de petites tiges vertes les recouvrent désormais. Le ciel dégueule de grosses pluies sans fin. Le soleil se cache ; ses rares apparitions font voir les couleurs aubergine des huiles mélangées à l’eau des pavements gris. Les brins d’herbes se noient dans la boue.

Nous croyions à un matin de dimanche paisible, non à celui d’un lendemain de beuverie.

J.M.Maulpoix's site has reopened.

J.M.Maulpoix has reopened his site. We thank him, whilst deploring the unfair judgment of this sorry affair.

Aidons Jean-Michel Maulpoix

If you wish to know the whole story before deciding to circulate this message, click on the Maulpoix link to the right. You will find all the facts. You can then make your own mind up.


2. Une lettre de Jean-Michel Maulpoix :

Chers amis,Je vous remercie de vos messages de soutien. Le mieux que l'on puisse faire est de donner quelque publicité à cet insensé verdict. Il faudrait que des écrivains, des libraires, des éditeurs, des animateurs de sites internet ou de blogs, et de simples lecteurs, protestent contre l'absence de discernement et de mesure de l'aveugle machine judiciaire qui met en cause la liberté d'expression qui nous est chère.Je vous transmets, à ce propos, le texte d'un communiqué rédigé par mes avocats. Si vous en avez la possibilité, aidez-moi à le répandre...Bien amicalement à vous,JM.Maulpoix

3. Communiqué des avocats de Jean-Michel Maulpoix :

L'écrivain Jean-Michel Maulpoix, également professeur à l'Université de Nanterre et Président de la Maison des écrivains, vient d'être condamné par la Cour d'appel de Montpellier à 5000 euros d'amende et de frais de justice pour avoir relayé sur son site web personnel un témoignage relatif à des violences policières. Par la même décision, la Cour relaxe le poète Brice Petit, auteur de ce récit largement diffusé sur internet.Il n'y a eu aucune instruction du dossier. Jean-Michel Maulpoix n'a jamais eu affaire à la justice. Il ne connaissait ni Brice Petit ni les personnes visées par ce texte. Personne ne lui a jamais demandé le retrait de ce texte de son site, ni de la quinzaine d'autres qui l'ont également publié sans être inquiétés. Il a seulement accompli un geste de solidarité citoyenne sur internet.Dans son texte Brice Petit reprochait aux agents de police de l'avoir brutalisé et mensongèrement accusé d'outrage. Il a été relaxé de l'accusation d'outrage par la même décision qui condamne Jean-Michel Maulpoix. Il a aussi été relaxé des poursuites engagées contre lui pour avoir affirmé que les policiers l'avaient brutalisé. C'est donc qu'il disait la vérité et c'est donc la vérité que le texte publié sur internet dénonçait.Mais Jean-Michel Maulpoix, simple internaute solidaire, a lui été condamné grâce aux règles procédurales de la diffamation qui lui interdisent de démontrer qu'il a dit la vérité et qu'il était de bonne foi. On lui a appliqué à la lettre une loi obsolète au bénéfice de policiers dont les mensonges et la brutalité ne sont pas démentis par la même décision de justiceExiste-t-il une liberté d'expression si elle ne protège pas une personne qui dit la vérité et est de bonne foi ?

Possibility of Being

'fiction et poésie visent l’être, non plus sous la modalité de l’être-donné, mais sous la modalité du pouvoir-être.'

Paul Ricoeur, Du Texte à l’action.

Wordsworthian blank verse

In terms of stress, almost everything is medium to light. The verse is quiet in sound. While it moves, it seems scarcely to be moving. It is like the picture of a cloud in motion rather than that cloud above us in the sky. One is driven in describing this, as so often in poetry, in terms not so much of stress as of voice. It is a quiet voice, the quietest of all voices.

Philip Hobsbaum.

Love

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

Samuel Beckett. First Love and Other Novellas. London:Penguin, 2000.

On Lyricism.

Lyricism, like the term ‘voice’, is one of those all-englobing terms that we often find in literary criticism. Since its origins go back to the lyre, that instrument found in ancient Greece which the Oxford Modern English Dictionary describes as, ‘an ancient stringed instrument like a small U-shaped harp, usually accompanying the voice’[1], it is not surprising that, since then, the term has acquired all sorts of meanings. Indeed, at some stages of its long history, the term as either been used to praise the exalted language of poets, or on the contrary to condemn the over blown style of poets who maybe went a bit too far over the top. The poet indulging in the art of the lyric is always walking on a tight rope. He tries to balance himself by reaching a just equilibrium, but falls flat on his face as soon as he elevates himself too much. What is common to these two views of lyricism is their sense of elevation. We shall not concentrate on the pejorative aspects of the term here, but rather on what the Oxford Dictionary of Modern English calls the ‘songlike’[2] quality of lyricism. For over the years the musical instrument has surrendered its place to the voice of poets. If lyric poems have often been thought of as the expression of the poet’s subjectivity, they are, nevertheless, much more than that.

We still have not defined what we mean by ‘lyricism’, and maybe to define it is very difficult, if not impossible. Maulpoix, who has written an insightful study on the subject of lyricism, gives the following definition:

J’appelle aujourd’hui lyrisme cette en allée qui ne va à proprement parler nulle part, mais durant laquelle le marcheur connaît avec exactitude son poids et son vertige.[3]

Lyricism is language aspiring for height, trying to reach what Gerard Manley Hopkins named ‘heightened language’. Hopkins was referring to poetry when he used the expression. By ‘heightened language’ it seems that he was trying to describe what made poetry different from everyday language. The ‘heightened tongue’ tries to elevate itself above the ordinariness of day to day communication. One of the aspects of poetry which enables this heightening is its lyrical quality. It is the poet’s old dream of chanting as high as the bird, of elevating his song to the gods.
[1] Julia Swannell, ed. The Oxford Modern English Dictionary. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992, p.637.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Jean-Michel Maulpoix, Du Lyrisme. Paris : José Corti, 2000, p.10. English Translation:
Today, I call lyricism this forward leap which does not really go anywhere, but during which one knowns one's weight and vertigo with precise exactitude.

from Tomas Sidoli,Writing the Tongue: A Study of Seamus Heaney's Electric Light. Grenoble: T.E.R, 2005, p.17.

A un ami

Ici, le printemps commence déjà à arriver. Des boutons de fleurs blanches peuplent les extrémités des branches nues. Le soleil, n’ayant pas le choix, se lève de nouveau et les brins d’herbes, caressés par le vent, scintillent comme le large poudroie sous la lumière des beaux jours.

Il y a encore quelques jours, nous ne croyions plus au printemps mais seulement en la nuit.

Littleblood

O littleblood, hiding from the mountains in the mountains
Wounded by stars and leaking shadow
Eating the medicinal earth.

O littleblood, little boneless little skinless
Ploughing with a linnet’s carcase
Reaping the wind and threshing the stones.

O littleblood, drumming in a cow’s skull
Dancing with a gnat’s feet
With an elephant’s nose with a crocodile’s tail.

Grown so wise grown so terrible
Sucking death’s mouldy tits.

Sit on my finger, sing in my ear, O littleblood.

— Ted Hughes

Good News for the New Year

Faber has just published its 2006 Poetry catalogue. Things to look forward to this year include Seamus Heaney's new collection 'District and Circle' in April, and in May, Muldoon's Oxford poetry lectures under the title 'The End of the Poem'.

There must be other goodies in there too, but I am only much concerned with our two fellow Irishmen! 'Til April 2006, I can only advise those who have not, to read Heaney's Electric Light. The critics were harsh on this collection. What many failed to notice was that Heaney's poetry is changing direction, for the better I feel. Let us not judge a new road using old standards. In other words, let us not be afraid of change!

Link desire/land/poetry

Poetry is torn between the desire for a land which does not exist and the need for a common ground, between its two contradictory genii: that somewhere else and the commonplace.

Translation by T.Sidoli

"La poésie est partagée tout entière entre le désir du pays qui n'existe pas et le besoin du lieu commun : entre l'ailleurs et le poncif, ses deux génies contradictoires."

J.M.Maulpoix

World. A definition.

"J’appelle monde ce qui est autour de nous, tout près, là-bas, dehors ou au-dedans, le tout de ce qui existe pour nous, à échelle humaine, et dont je puis parler."

J.M.Maulpoix. Adieux au poème. Paris: Jose Corti, 2005, prologue.

Meter and Rhythm. A definition.

Metre is a blueprint;
rhythm is the inhabited building.
Metre is a skeleton;
rhythm is the functioning body.

Philip Hobsbaum, Metre, Rhythm and Verse Form. London: Routledge, 1996, p.7.

Lyricism

J’appelle aujourd’hui lyrisme cette en allée qui ne va à proprement parler nulle part, mais durant laquelle le marcheur connaît avec exactitude son poids et son vertige.

J.M.Maulpoix, Du Lyrisme. Paris : José Corti, 2000, p.10.

I call lyricism this forward leap,
which does not really go anywhere,
but during which one knowns one's weight
and vertigo with precise exactitude.

To Jean D.

If only I had had the time to be more
succinct, then you would not be reading
this, my third line of verse shit. Nor
would you be about to be remembering
the time you commented on your name,
on how in our two respective tongues
its signifier could at once be a female
or male signified in the domain of la langue.

We both knew who you were, what sex you were.
But the foreigner used your name to unsex you on the spot,
to comment on your lack of feminine masculinity

or was it to make fun of your masculine femininity?
In that each time unique moment when your name was spat,
it was you who was moist with saliva, not your wear, but your coeur.

Disappear

These pages can end here, and nothing that follows what I have just written will make me add anything to it or take anything away from it. This remains, this will remain until the very end. Whoever would obliterate it from me, in exchange for that end which I am searching for in vain, would himself become the beginning of my own story, and he would be my victim. In darkness, he would see me: my word would be his silence, and he would think he was holding sway over the world, but that sovereignity would still be mine, his nothingness mine, and he too would know that there is no end for a man who wants to end alone.

This should therefore be impressed upon anyone who might read these pages thinking they are infused with the thought of unhappiness. And what is more, let him try to imagine the hand that is writing them: if he saw it, then perhaps reading would become a serious task for him.

Blanchot, Death Sentence. Trans. L.Davis.

Le blog?

« Le Journal n'est pas essentiellement confession, récit de soi-même. C'est un Mémorial. De quoi l'écrivain doit-il se souvenir ? De lui-même, de celui qu'il est, quand il n'écrit pas, quand il vit la vie quotidienne, quand il est vivant et vrai, et non pas mourant et sans vérité. Mais le moyen dont il se sert pour se rappeler à soi, c'est, fait étrange, l'élément même de l'oubli: écrire. »

Maurice Blanchot, L'espace littéraire.

On W.B

You hav’ risen
From the depths of poetic genius,
Far on th’ horizon,
Prophesizing yourself jesus.

Marrying the two Hs,
Into a placeless divinity
Creating fearful symmetry
On the world’s outer breaches.

The true man is imagination,
the prerequisite to perfect creation.

From a Friend

What is a blank space in a blank world?
What is a blank space in a blank word?
Do lines break or do you need to break lines?
Lets just put this as a blank line...

Sachin B.

note on 'Blogging in the Morning'

................... is standing in for blank space.
Blogger does not seem to appreciate line breaks.

Blogging in the Morning

The light grey, thin little laptop is switched on,
the screen a shape all light in the dark room.
The would be pianist is playing on his keyboard,
trying to make sounds, harmonious sound,
instead of the monotonous tap, tip,
tap of the keys on the board.

..................................................I, the pianist
isn’t quite there. The sound has not yet been created.
Rhythm not quite achieved yet. No
intensity, no flood of imagery, just the drip,
drip of the tip,tap, tip of the drop
by drop rhythm and imagery of the laptop
keyboard.

From an other's Tongue

the tongue, representing both a poet's personal gift of utterance and the common resources of language itself, has been granted the right to govern.

Seamus Heaney.

Mise en Poème

III.

Etre poète, c'est savoir laisser
la parole. La laisser parler toute seule.
Ce qu'elle ne peut faire que dans l'écrit. J.D

To be a poet is to
abandon the tongue.
Abandoning it so that it
may speak by itself, which
it can only manage in writing. T.S

Mise en Poème

II.

Rather than starting to write,
I should have wanted to be shrouded in the writing,
and carried by it beyond any possible beginning.
I should have liked to realise that the moment I began to write,

a nameless writing had always already preceeded me.

Mise en Poème

I.

In the poem that I must write today -
and in those that I must write here,
in this very space, for many years to come maybe -
I would have liked to have plunged surreptitiously.
But I will renounce to do so, for I am already in the text,
immersed in it. There is no escape from it,
there is no outside-of-the-text.

Just starting

I will go on,
but first I will have to begin,
but then I shall have to end.