She ran away, again
the timebound dimensional vector
car park ticket
on the dash, a memory
no cost ever calculated
all of her worth more of it,
regardless
if when or ever she came back
all the time reconciling oneself
to fecking eons
a thousand years to forget her
if we’re lucky
yet wondering about my famous girl
paintings
all the maybe love of Her in
layers hidden
Didn't learn that until it was too late
Ideological difference will leave you angry empty or all
three
Unless mundane
The colour of the car or bathroom
In the flash spots every cop an enemy every law an erosion
Never mind the British and what they deserve or them getting
it
Semtex celebrations always
The rebuke, you're a bigot..
a minimal psychographic test would have said all
97% incompatibility
saving a lot of shite
and the days and years of yearning to be free
saving tears and pain would be whole other metrics.
Alejandra Pizarnik (1936–1972) was an Argentine poet whose
technical innovation transformed brevity from a limitation into an art form,
using sparse language to evoke powerful emotional and existential depths. Her
minimalist approach concentrated meaning, where each word—and the silences
between them—carried immense weight. Through her fragmentary forms, Pizarnik
gave voice to collective experience, delving into themes of death, silence, and
the unconscious with remarkable intensity. In her most notable collection,
Diana’s Tree, she synthesized vivid, sparse imagery with a polyvocal structure,
where the dead and the living, the conscious and the unconscious, intertwine.
Pizarnik's lyrical exploration of these realms establishes her as one of Latin
American literature’s most important voices.
The fragmentary poetry of Alejandra Pizarnik presents us
with a fundamental paradox: how does language that appears to dissolve meaning
actually intensify it? Her collection "Diana's Tree" operates as both
linguistic experiment and necromantic practice, transforming the act of reading
into a conversation with the dead.
"I hear my voices, the chorus of the dead," she
writes, positioning herself not as individual author but as medium for voices
beyond singular consciousness. This line reveals the true architecture of her
work—each sparse poem functions as a jumping off point into a sea of voices. Like
listening to a conch shell the sound reverberates long after the shell is gone.
Pizarnik's poetry invites us to abandon conventional
rationality, asking us to find meaning not within words themselves, but in the
silences and gaps between them.
The minimalism challenges traditional approaches to literary
meaning. Where earlier critical frameworks sought to illuminate darkness
through rational analysis, Pizarnik writes in a
darkness that provides its own light. Her line "I have made the leap from
me at dawn" resists conventional parsing—the self becomes a location one
might depart, rather than a fixed point of consciousness. In this description
of a dissolution process her identity transforms into something that exists
between lives.
"Death is no mute. I hear the song of the mourners
sealing the clefts of silence," she declares, positioning death as
actively communicative rather than simply absent. This understanding transforms
her fragmentary style from limitation into strategic reduction to essential
forces. Her poems create spaces where meaning may emerge as an encounter rather
than a reading. When she writes "Silence speaks of you," silence
becomes a thing, a force, within the maw the ordinary meaning dissolves.
The multiplicity of voices throughout her work—"I
cannot speak with my voice, so I speak with my voices"—indicates an
understanding of poetry as fundamentally polyvocal. Her references to "a
tribe of mutilated words looks for refuge in my throat, so that they won't
sing—the ill-fated, the owners of silence" suggest she saw herself as
giving voice to silenced or destroyed voices. The dead she channels include her
own past selves, represented through frequent references to dolls and "dead
girls" that function as versions of her own consciousness.
On one side precious words on the other splinters of thoughts
Her relationship to those of the dead walking beside her, "Death always at
my side. I listen to what it says. And only hear myself," she notes,
positioning death as constant companion and source of communication, even when
that communication loops back to self-knowledge. Her eventual suicide becomes comprehensible
as the ultimate dissolution of her suffering.
"And how many centuries has it been since I've been
dead and loved you?" she asks, collapsing temporal boundaries between life
and death, speaker and spoken-to.
What emerges from "Diana's Tree" is construction
of heterogeneous assemblage—Spanish language, French surrealist influence,
Argentine geography, feminine experience, alchemical tradition, voices of the
dead—all connected through transformative processes that change each component
while maintaining productive differences. This isn't synthesis but
consistency—elements functioning together through mutual transformation.
Alejandra Pizarnik's exploration of dreams, the
subconscious, and automatic writing is integral to understanding the nature of
her poetic voice. Her work is deeply influenced by surrealist techniques, with
an emphasis on accessing hidden or unconscious realms of thought. She often
spoke of her writing as a means of channeling voices, not always her own, and
of receiving words from places beyond the conscious mind.
In her diaries and interviews, Pizarnik discussed the
automatic, almost involuntary nature of her creative process. For example, she
wrote:
“I wrote and I write automatically, without thinking, with
the same passion with which one speaks when dreaming.”
Alejandra Pizarnik, The Diaries of Alejandra Pizarnik
This reveals her belief that her writing was a kind of
dreamwork—an extension of the unconscious, rather than a premeditated or
constructed act of creativity. She acknowledged that writing was a way of
receiving and transmitting voices, suggesting that words came from external
sources:
"I hear my voices, the chorus of the dead."
Alejandra Pizarnik, Diana’s Tree
In this line from Diana’s Tree, Pizarnik speaks of the
voices that infiltrate her work, often interpreting them as echoes of
otherworldly presences. This aligns with her tendency to view poetry as a
bridge between the conscious and the unconscious, where language is both a
medium of expression and a means of connection to realms beyond the ordinary.
Her exploration of automatic writing can also be tied to the
surrealist movement, which she admired, particularly in the way it aimed to
bypass the restrictions of logical, conscious thought. The famous surrealist
practice of writing or drawing without a preconceived plan resonated with
Pizarnik's method:
“The words come out of me as if I were dreaming them.”
Alejandra Pizarnik, The Diaries of Alejandra Pizarnik
This quote further underscores her belief that her writing
was closely tied to the dream state—an arena where boundaries between the real
and the imagined blur, and where language becomes an untethered tool of
exploration.
In her poetry, the subconscious often emerges as both a
realm of freedom and a place of deep, unresolved tension. Her fascination with
silence, absence, and emptiness in language reflects her attempt to express the
unspeakable elements that arise from the unconscious mind.
Her work thus becomes a testament to the power of dreams and
the subconscious, not merely as sources of inspiration but as mediums through
which she could access something deeper than words can ordinarily convey.
Her poems lodge themselves in consciousness, continuing to
irritate long after reading. Perhaps this is their purpose: not to satisfy
understanding but to perpetually unsettle it, creating space for encounters
with forces beyond rational discourse.
"But the silence is certain. This is why I write. I am
alone and I write. No, I am not alone. There is someone here who is
trembling," she concludes, acknowledging the fundamental paradox of her
method.
Apparent solitude contains multitudes; silence speaks; the
dead offer guidance to the living. Her poetry constructs desiring-machines that
produce new subjectivities through systematic dissolution and reconstitution,
proving that innovation often exists at the margins, in spaces between
languages, traditions, and states of being.
In the end, Pizarnik's fragmentary work creates meaning
through apparent meaninglessness by refusing to stay within prescribed
boundaries of language, style, or subject matter. Her "Diana's Tree"
grows in a medium where conventional interpretation cannot take root, offering
instead a laboratory for transformation where readers encounter not poems about
experience, but experience itself, crystallized into language that trembles
between silence and speech, life and death, self and other.
In Pizarnik’s poetry, silence doesn’t merely follow or
accompany words; it inhabits the same space, becoming a force that disrupts the
flow of language, creating an encounter that resists closure or easy
understanding. This resistance to closure is perhaps the entire intention, if
not intended it is a direct result of the fragmentary nature. Like a partial
morse message we strain down the copper wire searching for more meaning.
Intrigued by what I perceive as this conflict between sparseness
of language and the richness of the words I searched for something from the
poet about the collection, perhaps some elaboration on the fragmentary or
terseness or her intention. At this juncture I discovered that the Pizarnik
family sold her papers to Princeton University.
While Pizarnik’s poetry invites readers to engage with
voices and silences that transcend boundaries, her own work is now subject to
boundaries that limit access to the very materials that could illuminate the
depth of her creative process.
While the Pizarnik collection at Princeton is open for
research the ‘Conditions Governing Use’ specify: No photocopying, photography,
or microfilming of the diaries or notebooks is permitted. Written permission is
required for publication of selections from the diaries and notebooks.
This represents a troubling example of how literary estates
can inadvertently create scholarly exclusivity. When the Pizarnik family sold
her personal materials—diaries, manuscripts, correspondence, drawings, and
notebooks spanning nearly two decades—to Princeton's Firestone Library, they
placed crucial primary sources beyond the reach of most researchers, particularly
those in Latin America where her work is most studied and valued. The archive's
restrictions compound this problem: no photocopying, no photography, no
microfilming of any diary or notebook material, with written permission
required for any publication of selections. This means that even the privileged
few who can travel to Princeton to examine the materials cannot document their
discoveries or share them with the broader scholarly community.
The implications become even more disturbing when we
consider what may remain unexamined in the collection. Series 7 contains
"Clippings of AP's writings, dates not examined"—suggesting that
potentially crucial material, including possible interviews or statements where
Pizarnik discussed her own work, sits uncatalogued and unstudied. Series 6
references poems published in "Dialogos" in July-August 1972, just
weeks before her death—material that could provide unique insight into her last
creative period. The notation "dates not examined" serves to give
rise to an important question,
have researchers systematically indexed the collection?
This creates an absurd situation where primary source materials that could
revolutionize our understanding of one of Latin America's most significant
poets.
Perhaps most troubling is the commodification of cultural
heritage this arrangement represents. Pizarnik wrote extensively about
marginalization, about voices that couldn't speak, about being silenced by
establishment forces—and now her own voice, including her visual artwork and
most intimate creative expressions is locked away in an American institution.
The irony is devastating: a poet who challenged bourgeois respectability and
institutional power has had her most personal expressions transformed into
institutional property, accessible only to those with the economic privilege to
travel to Princeton and the academic credentials to justify access.
It would seem that insights into Pizarnik's creative
process, including potentially her direct commentary on works like
"Diana's Tree," may remain forever inaccessible to the very
communities and scholars who could best understand and interpret them. This
arrangement raises concerns about the accessibility and democratization of
Pizarnik’s work, turning what could be a rich resource for scholars into an
exclusive possession.
It is ironic that they are more afraid of her dead
When Pizarnik was alive, she was a struggling poet battling
mental illness, financial instability, and literary marginalization. The
establishment largely ignored her - she could write whatever she wanted in her
diaries, create her "little monsters" in her drawings, pour her most
subversive thoughts onto paper, because she wasn't considered dangerous enough
to matter. She was just another troubled young woman whose radical voice
carried little institutional threat.
But now that she's dead and her reputation has grown,
suddenly her words require strict institutional control. Now her diaries are
too dangerous to photocopy. Now her notebooks need written permission for any
quotation. Now her drawings must be locked away where only a select few can see
them. The same thoughts that were dismissed as the ravings of a depressed young
woman are now treated as cultural artifacts requiring maximum security
protocols.
It's the classic pattern of how radical voices get
neutralized: ignore them while they live, then control them once they're safely
dead. Princeton gets to own a piece of literary history without having to deal
with the messy reality of supporting living, breathing, difficult artists. They
can collect her rebellion like a museum specimen, studying her subversion under
controlled laboratory conditions.
The institutions that failed her in life now ‘profit’ from
controlling her in death, turning her resistance into cultural capital.
Pizarnik’s voice, once marginalized, is now imprisoned in an archive, silenced
by the very forces she wrote against. Yet perhaps, from the ‘other side,’ her
voice will continue to tremble—articulating the final paradox.
“It doesn’t matter if, when
love calls, I am dead. I will come. I will always come if ever love calls.”
Almost unknown poem by Alejandra Pizarnik
Poem II
It doesn’t matter if, when love
calls,
I am dead.
I will come.
I will always come
if ever
love calls.
“This poem, which I think merits a preliminary comment, was first and only published in the Buenos Aires magazine Poesía=Poesía in 1959. Two more poems appeared in that same publication, which were later included in the book Árbol de Diana , specifically in the "1959" section. We will never know why Pizarnik left this short text aside.” From https://alejandrapizarnik.blogspot.com/
Poema casi
desconocido de Alejandra Pizarnik
Poema II
No importa si cuando llama el amor
yo estoy muerta.
Vendré.
Siempre vendré
si alguna vez
llama el amor.
Este poema, que me parece merece un comentario previo, apareció publicado por primera y única vez en la revista bonaerense Poesía=Poesía en el año de 1959. En esa misma publicación, aparecieron dos poemas más que luego fueron incluidos en el libro Árbol de Diana, específicamente en el apartado "1959". No sabremos nunca por qué razón Pizarnik dejó a un lado este pequeño texto.
I am indebted to Laura and her most comprehensive blog for
this poem from 1959.
https://alejandrapizarnik.blogspot.com/
Further Reading
1.
Zoran Rosko – Review of Alejandra Pizarnik,
Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962–1972, Trans. by Yvette Siegert, New
Directions, 2016.
https://zorosko.blogspot.com/2016/03/alejandra-pizarnik-outstanding.html
2.
Patricia Venti - Invisible Writing: The
Autobiographical Discourse of Alejandra Pizarnik
https://patriciaventi.blogspot.com/2014/07/la-escritura-invisible-el-discurso.html
3.
Fiona J. Mackintosh - Self-Censorship and New
Voices in Pizarnik's Unpublished Manuscripts
https://www.pure.ed.ac.uk/ws/files/11605694/Self_Censorship_and_New_Voices_in_Pizarniks_Unpublished_Manuscripts.pdf
4.
Fiona J. Mackintosh with Karl Posso - Arbol de
Alejandra - Pizarnik Reassessed
5.
An Alejandra Pizarnik (blog) by Laura
https://alejandrapizarnik.blogspot.com/
6.
Christine Legros - A Form to Dwell In: Narrative
and ‘Rhetorical’ Unreliability in Alejandra Pizarnik’s Diaries
https://www.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/10.3828/bhs.2022.19#bibliography
7.
Boston review - Three Poems
https://www.bostonreview.net/articles/npm15-yvette-siegert-alejandra-piznarik-translation-three-poems/
8.
Memoria Iluminada Alejandra Pizarnik
https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Memoria+Iluminada+Alejandra+Pizarnik
9.
Alejandra Pizarnik Papers, 1954-1972 (mostly
1960-1972) Princeton University Library
https://findingaids.princeton.edu/catalog/C0395
10.
The Diana Tree by Wilhelm
Homberg (1652-1715). Cyclopedia (Chambers) - Volume 1 by Ephraim Chambers 1728
https://archive.org/details/Cyclopediachambers-Volume1
Wilhelm Homberg:
“Take four drams of filings of fine silver, with which make an amalgam, without
heat, with two drams of quicksilver. Dissolve this amalgam in four ounces of
aqua fortis, and pour the solution into three gallons of water. Stir it for a
while until mixed, and then keep it in a glass vessel well stopped. To initiate
the experiment, take about an ounce of the substance, and put it in a small
vial; add to this a quantity the size of a pea of the ordinary amalgam of gold,
or silver, which should be as soft as butter. Let the vial rest for two or
three minutes. Immediately after this, several small filaments will visibly
arise perpendicularly from the little bulb of the amalgam, which will grow and
thrust out small branches in the form of a tree. The ball of amalgam will grow
hard, like a pellet of white earth, and the little tree will be bright silver
in color.”
March 1, 2025 marks the 150th anniversary of the death of Tristan Corbière, one of the most innovative French poets of the 19th century. Born Édouard-Joachim Corbière in Morlaix, Brittany, in 1845, he lived just 29 years but his voice continues to resonate a century and a half later.
Corbière's only published collection, "Les Amours jaunes" (1873), initially went largely unnoticed. It wasn't until Paul Verlaine included him in "Les Poètes maudits" (1884) that his work began to receive the recognition it deserved. Today, he is recognized as a precursor to modernism and surrealism, influencing poets from T.S. Eliot to Allen Ginsberg.
As it happens a celebratory A3 and book were published by Francoise Livinec in 2013, the story is most fascinating since all the work was considered lost. The material was traced to Scotland where it was held by a sister of Jean Moulin, Jean - a prominent member of the French Resistance.
https://francoiselivinec.com/en/editions/catalogue/873/tristan-corbiere
Editions Françoise Livinec then published the previously unpublished manuscript by Tristan Corbière, (saved by all by the resistance fighter Jean Moulin). Entitled Roscoff, this unpublished album contains 30 pages of texts and paintings created by the poet at the end of the 1860s. A work as modern as it is humorous and which depicts the contemporaries of the man of letters from Finistère, whether they are sailors, beggars, wreck looters, police officers, tourists and other passing merchants.
The rediscovery of Tristan Corbière's manuscript, "Roscoff," was credited to Benoît Houzé, a doctoral candidate in French literature. Houzé embarked on a meticulous search for the long-lost album, which had been missing since 1875. His investigation led him to Scotland, where he successfully traced and recovered the manuscript.
https://ncfs-journal.org/heather-williams/williams-corbiere-2012
On his overall works a highly rated translation by Christopher Pilling is available here as a pdf or Epub https://universitypress.whiterose.ac.uk/site/books/m/10.22599/Corbiere/
On his single publication in his lifetime "Les Amours Jaunes" the late Christopher Pilling also produced a the version entitled: "These Jaundiced Loves". Again this translation to English is highly rated.
What makes Corbière particularly fascinating is his unique linguistic approach. Moving between standard French and Breton expressions, maritime terminology and colloquial speech, he created a multilayered poetry that defied the conventions of his time. His work embodies the cultural and linguistic tensions of Brittany – a French region with its own distinct Celtic heritage.
In poems like "Le Bossu Bitor" and "Paysage mauvais," Corbière employs maritime vocabulary, Breton dialect and dramatic shifts in register to create a poetry that feels startlingly modern even today. His technique of juxtaposing different linguistic registers anticipated poetic developments that wouldn't become mainstream until decades later.
Even today there is much debate on 'translations' given the difficulty of Breton to French / Breton / French to English.
"Moi qui suis - Le poète qui ne fut pas - Et que jamais ne serai - Qui n'est pas né."
"I who am - The poet who never was - And never will be - Who was not born."
This famous self-description from "Le Poète Contumace" captures Corbière's sense of being outside traditional poetic identity.
"Bâtard de Créole et Breton, / Moi, je suis un poète, né / Pour n'être rien."
"Bastard of Creole and Breton, / I am a poet, born / To be nothing."
Here Corbière acknowledges his mixed cultural identity and outsider status.
"J'ai vu le soleil dur contre les falaises / Fermer l'oeil, aveuglé de ces grandes fournaises..."
"I've seen the harsh sun against the cliffs / Close its eye, blinded by these great furnaces..."
This vivid maritime imagery from "Paysage mauvais" demonstrates his ability to transform landscape into emotional terrain.
The beauty of all this is that 150 years after his death, Corbière's work speaks to me personally / the rest of you can do what you do :-)
His bilingual experimentation feels particularly relevant from an Irish perspective where language boundaries try to blur. His irony, self-deprecation and examination of outsider identity resonate with contemporary sensibilities. I see this / read this and look at many contemporaries strutting.
The fact that major critics cannot agree on his work and major poets reference it is enough; Verlaine, TS Eliot, Ezra Pound - all were drawn to the work of Corbière.
As a poet who refused to stay within prescribed boundaries – of language, of style, of subject matter – Corbière anticipated the complexity of modern identity. His work reminds me that innovation often exists at the margins, in the spaces between languages and traditions and often after death.
I pay homage to him as a historical figure and I recognize a poet who spoke important words in his own time that still echo into our own future.
Directions to the grave:
Saint-Augustin Cemetery, 2 Rue des Réservoirs. To locate the grave precisely:
Enter via Rue Saint Augustin
Go up about two thirds of the way to the small chapel
To the right of the path, behind the chapel, is another miniature chapel
Corbière's grave is there, recognizable by its Celtic-style cross, its wrought iron and its large book-shaped stone.
Le 1er mars 2025 marque le 150ème anniversaire de la mort de Tristan Corbière, l'un des poètes français les plus innovants du XIXe siècle. Né Édouard-Joachim Corbière à Morlaix, en Bretagne, en 1845, il n'a vécu que 29 ans, mais sa voix continue de résonner un siècle et demi plus tard.
L'unique recueil publié de Corbière, "Les Amours jaunes" (1873), est initialement passé largement inaperçu. Ce n'est que lorsque Paul Verlaine l'a inclus dans "Les Poètes maudits" (1884) que son œuvre a commencé à recevoir la reconnaissance qu'elle méritait. Aujourd'hui, il est reconnu comme un précurseur du modernisme et du surréalisme, influençant des poètes de T.S. Eliot à Allen Ginsberg.
Il se trouve qu'un ouvrage commémoratif A3 et un livre ont été publiés par Françoise Livinec en 2013, l'histoire est des plus fascinantes car tout le travail était considéré comme perdu. Le matériel a été retrouvé en Écosse où il était détenu par une sœur de Jean Moulin, membre important de la Résistance française.
https://francoiselivinec.com/en/editions/catalogue/873/tristan-corbiere
Les Éditions Françoise Livinec ont alors publié le manuscrit inédit de Tristan Corbière, qui appartenait au résistant Jean Moulin. Intitulé Roscoff, cet album inédit contient 30 pages de textes et de peintures créés par le poète à la fin des années 1860. Une œuvre aussi moderne qu'humoristique et qui dépeint les contemporains de l'homme de lettres finistérien, qu'ils soient marins, mendiants, pilleurs d'épaves, gendarmes, touristes et autres marchands de passage.
"La redécouverte du manuscrit de Tristan Corbière, "Roscoff," a été attribuée à **Benoît Houzé**, doctorant en littérature française. Houzé s'est lancé dans une recherche méticuleuse de l'album longtemps perdu, qui avait disparu depuis 1875. Son enquête l'a conduit en Écosse, où il a réussi à retrouver et récupérer le manuscrit."
https://ncfs-journal.org/heather-williams/williams-corbiere-2012
Concernant l'ensemble de ses œuvres, une traduction très appréciée est celle de Christopher Pilling, disponible ici en pdf ou Epub https://universitypress.whiterose.ac.uk/site/books/m/10.22599/Corbiere/
Sur son unique publication de son vivant "Les Amours Jaunes", le regretté Christopher Pilling a également produit une version intitulée: "These Jaundiced Loves". Cette traduction en anglais est également très estimée.
Ce qui rend Corbière particulièrement fascinant est son approche linguistique unique. Se déplaçant entre le français standard et les expressions bretonnes, la terminologie maritime et le langage familier, il a créé une poésie multicouche qui défiait les conventions de son époque. Son œuvre incarne les tensions culturelles et linguistiques de la Bretagne – une région française avec son propre héritage celtique distinct.
Dans des poèmes comme "Le Bossu Bitor" et "Paysage mauvais", Corbière emploie le vocabulaire maritime, le dialecte breton et des changements dramatiques de registre pour créer une poésie qui semble étonnamment moderne même aujourd'hui. Sa technique de juxtaposition de différents registres linguistiques a anticipé des développements poétiques qui ne deviendraient courants que des décennies plus tard.
Même aujourd'hui, il y a beaucoup de débats sur les 'traductions' étant donné la difficulté du breton au français / breton / français à l'anglais.
"Moi qui suis - Le poète qui ne fut pas - Et que jamais ne serai - Qui n'est pas né."
"I who am - The poet who never was - And never will be - Who was not born."
Cette célèbre auto-description tirée de "Le Poète Contumace" capture le sentiment de Corbière d'être en dehors de l'identité poétique traditionnelle.
"Bâtard de Créole et Breton, / Moi, je suis un poète, né / Pour n'être rien."
"Bastard of Creole and Breton, / I am a poet, born / To be nothing."
Ici, Corbière reconnaît son identité culturelle mixte et son statut d'outsider.
"J'ai vu le soleil dur contre les falaises / Fermer l'oeil, aveuglé de ces grandes fournaises..."
"I've seen the harsh sun against the cliffs / Close its eye, blinded by these great furnaces..."
Ces images maritimes vivantes tirées de "Paysage mauvais" démontrent sa capacité à transformer le paysage en terrain émotionnel.
La beauté de tout cela, c'est que 150 ans après sa mort, l'œuvre de Corbière me parle personnellement / le reste d'entre vous peut faire ce que vous faites :-)
Son expérimentation bilingue semble particulièrement pertinente d'un point de vue irlandais où les frontières linguistiques tentent de s'estomper. Son ironie, son autodérision et son examen de l'identité marginale résonnent avec les sensibilités contemporaines. Je vois cela / lis cela et je regarde les contemporains qui paradent?
Le fait que les grands critiques ne parviennent pas à s'accorder sur son œuvre et que les grands poètes y font référence est suffisant; Verlaine, TS Eliot, Ezra Pound - tous ont été attirés par l'œuvre de Corbière.
En tant que poète qui a refusé de rester dans les limites prescrites – de la langue, du style, du sujet – Corbière a anticipé la complexité de l'identité moderne. Son œuvre me rappelle que l'innovation existe souvent aux marges, dans les espaces entre les langues et les traditions et souvent après la mort.
Je lui rends hommage en tant que personnage historique et je reconnais un poète qui a prononcé des mots importants à son époque qui résonnent encore dans notre propre avenir.
Nous avons besoin des Corbière de ce monde plus que jamais...
Directions vers la tombe: Cimetière Saint-Augustin, 2 Rue des Réservoirs. Pour localiser précisément la tombe:
Entrez par la Rue Saint Augustin Montez environ deux tiers du chemin jusqu'à la petite chapelle À droite du chemin, derrière la chapelle, se trouve une autre chapelle miniature La tombe de Corbière s'y trouve, reconnaissable à sa croix de style celtique, sa grille en fer forgé et sa grande pierre en forme de livre.
Our country
One of people wandering the road
The dispossessed, only yesterday
Their lives homes stolen by British
Fast forward forget
All the homeless on the Canal
Praying in one direction
or not.
Our conscience means something,
or not?
Paul Valéry’s unique poem “Le Cimetière Marin” (“The Cemetery by the Sea”). The Cemetery is in the French town of Sète, Valéry’s poem was published in 1920.
Perhaps in about another X years of reading it and studying French I will return to this again. In the meantime I would recommend Derek Mahons' translation. Regrettably I cannot reproduce it here.
As we now all know at this stage ;-)
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line. The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break).
As you may have surmised I am a big Paul Valéry fan.
if you would care to listen to a rendition in French then:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5Hv5C3JGNw
or an analysis in French then
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDEqibrg4i4
Le Cimetière Marin
Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee
O récompense après une pensée
Qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux!
Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d'imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l'abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d'une éternelle cause,
Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.
Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,
O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l'ame,
Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit!
Temple du Temps, qu'un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m'accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l'altitude un dédain souverain.
Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l'âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.
Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d'orgueil, après tant d'étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m'abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m'apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.
L'âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te tends pure à ta place première,
Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d'ombre une morne moitié.
O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d'un coeur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l'événement pur,
J'attends l'écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l'âme un creux toujours futur!
Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l'attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.
Fermé, sacré, plein d'un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d'or, de pierre et d'arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d'ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!
Chienne splendide, écarte l'idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!
Ici venu, l'avenir est paresse.
L'insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l'air
A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d'absence,
Et l'amertume est douce, et l'esprit clair.
Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.
Tu n'as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.
Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L'argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L'art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.
Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!
Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n'aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu'aux yeux de chair l'onde et l'or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!
Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!
Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N'est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!
Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu'importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d'appartenir!
Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d'Êlée!
M'as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m'enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l'âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!
Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l'ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!
Courons à l'onde en rejaillir vivant.
Oui! grande mer de delires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l'étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil
Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux rejouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!
Paul Valéry
"In the eyes of those lovers of perfection, a work is never finished - a word that for them has no sense - but abandoned; and this abandonment, whether to the flames or to the public (and which is the result of weariness or an obligation to deliver) is a kind of an accident to them, like the breaking off of a reflection, which fatigue, irritation, or something similar has made worthless."
~Paul Valéry.
[Aux yeux de ces amateurs d’inquiétude et de perfection, un ouvrage n’est jamais achevé, – mot qui pour eux n’a aucun sens, – mais abandonné ; et cet abandon, qui le livre aux flammes ou au public (et qu’il soit l’effet de la lassitude ou de l’obligation de livrer) est une sorte d’accident, comparable à la rupture d’une réflexion, que la fatigue, le fâcheux ou quelque sensation viennent rendre nulle.]
Paul Valéry (1871-1945) French poet, critic, author, polymath
Whilst this translation above is one possible version the current - shall we say verbatim (via google translation) is;-
"In the eyes of these lovers of uneasiness and perfection, a work is never finished – a word which for them has no meaning – but abandoned; and this abandonment, which delivers it to the flames or to the public (and whether it is the effect of lassitude or of the obligation to deliver) is a sort of accident, comparable to the rupture of a reflection, which the fatigue, the unfortunate or some sensation come to nullify"
..if a French reader would care to correct this 'raw version' I would be honoured.
afaik..
In March 1933 Paul Valéry published an essay in “La Nouvelle Revue Française” (“The New French Review”) about his poem “Le Cimetière marin” (“The Cemetery by the sea”) and this quote emerged from there.
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New Criterion had a great article a few years back (imho)
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2020/4/the-cemetery-by-the-sea
FYI:
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line.
The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandrine
Whilst somewhat reluctant to start a poetry war it would be most interesting to examine the form in the context of the scope of the rigours and how one might port them to our time and language.
I may have to temper this with Pindar's advice;-
"Do not, my soul, strive for the life of the immortals,
but exhaust the practical means at your disposal."
