Hocquard |
It would be cheesy of me to write more about the recently published (8/23/12) review, except it's intelligent, without attitude, by Brett DeFries, and available HERE. The following excerpt from Hocquard, again, translated by Swenson and Smith, is shooting sparks out of the smouldering crater of my clamshell mind. I'm allergic to shellfish. Miracles, every day.
I________
When one speaks
of water, subject and object
form in the phrases.
[...]
There is
an abyss. Poetry
does not speak of the world.
World is a word
that flaunts itself
in order to be. The middle road
is an odd place
and it would be wrong to take
the tepid for the wise.
Given that
a phrase is always clear
ctenaire by analogy: one no longer
wants to be defined. To say the spoken
is within the speaking is
to take the void’s measure.
Wanted or not
he contrives to spread doubt
across the land.
Adventure also carries
this risk. After the war
a child bit
into a glass. The parallel
escapes no one. It has
no exit.
[...]
I eat an orange.
For the record,
Robert S. W. Sikorski
(grandson of the general who gave
their name to the helicopters)
wrote that one-line poem
which is no small contribution
to our understanding
of citrus fruits. And so,
a series of decisive encounters
that makes vertigo
switch sides.
(21-4)
Emmanuel Hocquard. The Invention of Glass. Trans. Rod Smith and Cole Swensen. Ann Arbor: Canarium Books, 2012.
Spark-shootin' ludic cerebration & sensual delights here. Thanks for a great posting. Crossing it over to word pond. xx, Donna
ReplyDeleteAlways an honor to be visited by you. And dipped into the pond.
ReplyDeleteYrs.,
Sarah