The Monday Poem – Way by Tristan Tzara

This week’s poem is Tristan Tzara’s Way. I hope it inspires you!

210px-Tzara_by_Tihanyi

Tristan Tzara

Way (Voie)

What is this road that separates us,

Across which I extend the hand of thought?

A flower is written at the tip of every finger

And the end of the road’s a flower that walks beside you

1200px-Retrato_de_Tristan_Tzara_(Robert_Delaunay)

The Monday Poem: Cinema Calendar Of The Abstract Heart

This week’s poem is Dadaist Tristan Tzara’s Cinema Calendar Of The Abstract Heart. I hope it inspires you!

 

Cinema Calendar Of The Abstract Heart

the fibres give in to your starry warmth
a lamp is called green and sees
carefully stepping into a season of fever
the wind has swept the rivers’ magic
and i’ve perforated the nerve
by the clear frozen lake
has snapped the sabre
but the dance round terrace tables
shuts in the shock of the marble shudder
new sober

Tzara2


Tristan Tzara was a Romanian and French avant-garde poet, essayist and performance artist. Also active as a journalist, playwright, literary and art critic, composer and film director, he was known best for being one of the founders and central figures of the anti-establishment Dada movement. – Wikipedia


The Monday Poem – To Make a Dadist Poem

This week’s poem is a little different – a poem instructing the reader on how to create a poem.

To Make A Dadist Poem – Poem by Tristan Tzara

Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are–an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.


Please do share if you give this technique a go!

8 Surreal Writers

  1. Robert Desnos.

    Under Cover Of Night – Poem


    To slip into your shadow under cover of night.
    To follow your footsteps, your shadow at the window.
    That shadow at the window is you and no one else;
    it’s you.
    Do not open that window behind whose curtains you’re moving.
    Shut your eyes.
    I’d like to shut them with my lips.
    But the window opens and the breeze, the breeze
    which strangely balances flame and flag surrounds my escape
    with its cloak.
    The window opens: it’s not you.
    I knew it all along.

  2. Tristan Tzara.

    Vegetable Swallow

     two smiles meet towards
    the child-wheel of my zeal
    the bloody baggage of creatures
    made flesh in physical legends-lives
    
    the nimble stags storms cloud over
    rain falls under the scissors of
    the dark hairdresser-furiously
    swimming under the clashing arpeggios
    
    in the machine's sap grass
    grows around with sharp eyes
    here the share of our caresses
    dead and departed with the waves
    
    gives itself up to the judgment of time
    parted by the meridian of hairs
    non strikes in our hands
    the spices of human pleasures

    Tristan Tzara
    Tristan Tzara
  3. Mike Russell

    Aqua-birds

    Oh look, it’s one of those aqua-birds! They are common here in the desert. See the large, skin sack that hangs from its throat? That is full of water. Tragically, all aqua-birds birds are completely unaware of this fact. Constantly thirsty, they fly around the desert in search of something to drink. The aqua-birds’ thirst induces hallucinations of extraordinarily beautiful and ornate birdbaths. Look, this bird has seen one now! See how it dives towards the ground. Now see as it lands and pecks at the sand, bemused, the mirage having disappeared. Now see as it takes flight again to continue its search.

    The desert is surrounded by an ocean. The nest where the aqua-birds are born is in the centre of the desert. Each aqua-bird is born with enough water in its throat-sack to sustain it for three days. An aqua-bird can survive without water for twenty days, no more, no less. It would take an aqua-bird twenty three days to fly from the centre of the desert to the ocean. The perimeter of the desert is strewn with dead aqua-birds.

    Hear the poor aqua-bird’s cries. If only it would swallow.

    Strange Medicine by Mike Russell
    Strange Medicine by Mike Russell
  4. Louis Aragon
    Louis Aragon
    Louis Aragon

    Louis Aragon
    Louis Aragon
  5. Arthur Rimbaud.

    Novel – Poem


    I.

    No one’s serious at seventeen.
    –On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
    And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
    –You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

    Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
    Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
    The wind brings sounds–the town is near–
    And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

    II.

    –Over there, framed by a branch
    You can see a little patch of dark blue
    Stung by a sinister star that fades
    With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

    June nights! Seventeen!–Drink it in.
    Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
    The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
    On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

    III.

    The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
    –And when a young girl walks alluringly
    Through a streetlamp’s pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
    Of her father’s starched collar. . .

    Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
    She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
    Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
    –And cavatinas die on your lips.

    IV.

    You’re in love. Off the market till August.
    You’re in love.–Your sonnets make Her laugh.
    Your friends are gone, you’re bad news.
    –Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!

    That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
    You order beer or lemonade. . .
    –No one’s serious at seventeen
    When lindens line the promenade.

  6. Daniil Kharms.
    <Kalindov>

    Kalindov was standing on tiptoe and peering at me straight in the face. I found this unpleasant. I turned aside but Kalindov ran round me and was again peering at me straight in the face. I tried shielding myself from Kalindov with a newspaper. But Kalindov outwitted me: he set my newspaper alight and, when it flared up, I dropped it on the floor and Kalindov again began peering at me straight in she face. Slowly retreating, I repaired behind the cupboard and there, for a few moments, I enjoyed a break from the importunate stares of Kalindov. But my break was not prolonged: Kalindov crawled up to the cupboard on all fours and peered up at me from below. My patience ran out; I screwed up my eyes and booted Kalindov in the face. When I opened my eyes, Kalindov was standing in front of me, his mug bloodied and mouth lacerated, peering at me straight in the face as before.


    1930

  7. John Ashbery

    John Ashbery
    John Ashbery
  8. Zoltan Komor 
    Zoltan Komor
    Zoltan Komor

    Born in Debrecen, Hungary