The Monday Poem – An Extensive Look at Another Thing from That Department

An Extensive Look at Another Thing from That Department

 

I informed HER of a general dream

a new thought was going to be formed

it would forcibly cause herself to “shatter careers”.

But it didn’t

and my actions have continued

it is safe

and immediately HER department had reportedly been heard to whisper an executive secret when

silence.

 

by Jay

 

I hope you enjoyed this week’s Monday poem! Please get in touch if you’d like to see your own work here.

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#jay, #poem, #themondaypoem

The Monday Poem: Life-Saving Medal by Philippe Soupault

Life-Saving Medal (Médaille de sauvetage)

My nose is long like a knife

And my eyes are red from laughing

At night I collect the milk and the moon

And run without looking round

If the trees are afraid behind me

I don’t care

How beautiful indifference is at midnight

Where are they going these folk

Pride of the cities

Village musicians

The crowd wildly dance

And I’m only this anonymous passer-by,

Or someone else whose name I’ve forgot

6008019


Philippe Soupault was a writer and poet, and one of the founders of Surrealism.

#lifesavingmedal, #philippesoupault, #poem

The Monday Poem: Corridor

200px-ReverdyP

This week’s poem is Pierre Reverdy’s Corridor (Couloir)

Corridor (Couloir)

We are two

On the one line where all’s continuous

In the meanders of night

A word’s in the middle

Two mouths not seeing each other

A sound of steps

One light body gliding towards the other

The door quivers

A hand passes

One would wish to open

The bright ray stands erect

There before me

And it’s the fire that parts us

In the shadow where your profile slips away

A moment without breathing

Your breath has burned me in passing

#corridor, #pierrereverdy, #poem

The Monday Poem: work has led to the writing

work has led to the writing by Jay

 

and I have been

drew following my nose, getting lost Walking

In this do

conversation preserved

of Golden dark musician

least Imaginary

interpret folklore hunting

lucky Folklore subscriber

find Sign Border, Chrysalis

#poem, #walking, #workhasledtothewriting

The Monday Poem – I’ll Reinvent the Rose for You by Louis Aragon

This week’s poem is Louis Aragon’s I’ll Reinvent the Rose for You. I hope you enjoy it…

I’ll Reinvent the Rose for You

I’ll reinvent the rose for you
For you are that rose which cannot be described
These few words at least in the order proper to her ritual
That rose which only words distant from roses can describe
The way it is with the ecstatic cry and the terrible sadness which it translates
From the stars of pleaure above love’s deep abyss

I will reinvent for youth rose of adoring fingers
Which create a nave as they interlace but whose petals then suddenly fall away
I will reinvent for you the rose beneath the balconies
Of lovers whose only beds are their arms

The rose at the heart of sculpted stone figures dead without benefit of confession
The rose of a peasant blown to bits by a landmine in his field
The scarlet scent of a letter that has been “discovered”
In which nothing’s addressed to me neither the insult nor the compliment

Some rendezvous to which no one has come

An entire army in flight on a very windy day

A maternal footstep before prison-gates

A man’s song at siesta-time beneath the olive trees

A cock-fight in a mist-enshrouded countryside
The rose of a soldier cut off from his own home country

I’ll reinvent for you my rose as many roses
As there are diamonds in the waters of the seas
As there are past centuries adrift in the dust of the earth’s atmosphere
As there are dreams in just one childish head

As there can be reflections in one tear

#aragon, #illreinventtheroseforyou, #louisaragon, #poem

The Monday Poem – The Invention by Paul Eluard

The Invention (L’invention)

The right hand allows a trickle of sand

Every transformation is possible

Far off, on the stones the sun whets its eagerness to be gone

The description of the landscape matters little

Merely the pleasant duration of harvests

Clear to my two eyes

As water and fire.

What is the role of the root?

Despair has broken all bounds

And holds its hands to its head

A seven, a four, a two, a one

A hundred women in the street

Whom I’ll not see again.

The art of loving, liberal art, the art of dying well,

The art of thought, incoherent art, the art of the smoker,

The art of pleasure, of the Middle Ages, decorative art,

The art of reason, the art of reasoning well, the art

Poetic, mechanical art, erotic art, the art

Of being a grandfather, the art of dance, the art of seeing,

The art of being accomplished, the art of caress, Japanese art,

The art of play, the art of eating, the torturer’s art.

I have never yet found what I write in what I love.


Born: 14 December 1895, Saint-Denis, Seine-Saint-Denis, France
Died: 18 November 1952, Charenton-le-Pont, France
Spouse: Dominique Laure (m. 1951–1952), Nusch Éluard(m. 1934–1946), Gala Dalí (m. 1917–1929)

#1895, #1917, #1952, #dominiquelaure, #eluard, #poem, #theinvention

The Monday Poem – to sex brawl and dare by Ghérasim Luca

This week’s poem is Luca’s to sex brawl and dare.


at the edge of a forest

whose trees are slender ideas

and each leaf a thought at bay

the vegetal reveals to us

the damned depths of an animal sect

or more precisely

an old insect anguish

waking up as man

the only way

the only basic weapon

to animate a mental state

that I hurry to write mantil

like a mantis

if only to mark

with a dry warning laugh

the devouring word

Entity and antithesis of the bush

a sort of wild and organic brush

grows in the head of that man

ravaged

by the heresy of parks and greenhouses

like the orgasm of a key

a lovely door

So the legendary passivity

the famous and ample passivity of plants

changes here to idle hate

to mad rage

to sex brawl and dare

luring by sap blood lava . . .

as rapid as the passage of woman

to beast

she empties us of a foul ancestral

wound

which in a spurt relieves us

of these fixed plaints

and these false death rattles plumbing us

our calm gestures of the interred

Now only terror

is still able to insert

in the tropism of body and of guilty

spirit

this prism as doubled echo

where brains and senses capture

the violent innocence

of a flora and a fauna

whose marriage is a long seizure

and a rape as slow as gold

in the implacable lead

And it’s around the mental equator

in the space delimited by the tropics

of a head

at the angle of the eye and what surrounds it

that the myth of a kind of utopian

jungle surges into the world

As virgin as the unknowable

or the other “face” of the moon

and never in the reach of a gun

or an axe

its prey is the snow

sand ball hip if not the trap

that the diffuse breath of a dream

lights up

For tangled

soldered to massive corkscrew keys

the vines

the branches stoves and rituals

fuse

around the forms placed

as if by miracle

at the crossroads of dryads

of druids and of man

So many points to aim at

all these yes and nos that

outside outside of time

of space and weight

select a sort of coupled oasis

and hamlet

to descend in these gods

from before the ages

the gods-place-beast-island-ash-fire

come forth as from the coupling of bird

and branch

and those exiled from the center

and from the shade of a golden foliage

will adore one day

between the walls of their somber cities

#luca, #poem, #tosexbrawlanddare