Another Explanation of the Mystery

I can no longer see anything
in the sky but a large white dog
devouring the moon.
This dog is not a cloud.
If it doesn’t belong to anyone it will leave.
And day will return.
But what if this dog belongs to
that man who leans on the
mountain in order to watch and
mock us?
The moon pauses; night lingers.
We are on the verge
of going another round.

Poetry is in everything, everywhere, say those who, basically, are incapable of identifying where it actually is. But it is perfectly obvious that it is instead an absence, a lack in the human heart or more precisely what the poet has the gift of putting in place of this absence, of this lack. Real poetry is only where this void—which utterly cannot be filled by any other activity or real matter of life—has been filled.

afterword from Flaques de verre

Among those things that are considered worthless and useless, poetry is quite certainly one of the most impressive. How explain that it is the very seam that man dreams of mining during the first stirrings of his impetuous youth? While on the other hand how contemplate without a sad smile the notion that one grows old while chewing on verse? Poets must be struck, with much more force than our loathsome generals, by the limits of age. There are far more vain things in life than these beauties which we once esteemed above all else. After having crossed, without weakening, the age of dreams, the age of the image and that of thoughts, one reaches the golden age then the stone age. Other people are now carefully labeled in folders and stuffed in boxes. These boxes are nailed shut, hermetically sealed, and shipped far away. They are loaded onto boats that set sail and a pale horizon snaps them up in its ambiguous smile. I no longer see the boats, I no longer see the people, I no longer see the boxes. I no longer see the poetry between the lines. It is no longer for me, it has never been for me in books. It drifts through the streets, in the sky, within the grimy studios, over the city. It floats majestically above this life which, occasionally, distorts it. And this sky, tempestuous and constantly changing, that is reflected on the barely sketched roads of the future, in the puddles, this sky that draws our hands towards it, this silky sky, caressed over and over like fine sheets–behind broken windows, poetry, free of words and ideas, is revealed.


always there

I must no longer see myself and must forget
To speak to people whom I do not know
To shout without being heard
For no reason all alone
I know everyone and each of your steps
I would like to talk but no one listens
Heads and eyes turn away from me
Towards the night
My head is a ball full and heavy
Rustling as it rolls along the ground

Nothing behind me nothing ahead
In the void where I descend
A few strong drafts
Swirl around me
Cruel and cold
From doors left ajar
Upon yet-to-be forgotten memories
The world like a pendulum has come to a standstill
People suspended for all eternity
An aviator descends like a spider by a thread

Relieved everyone dances
Between heaven and earth
But a ray of light comes
From the lamp that you forgot to turn off
In the stairwell
Ah it’s not over
Oblivion is not complete
I must still learn to know myself

late in life

I am callous
I am tender
And I have wasted my time
Dreaming without sleeping
Sleeping while walking
Everywhere that I have been
I have found myself absent
I belong nowhere
Except the void
But I carry hidden high up in my bowels
At the spot where lightning has struck too often
A heart where each word has left its mark
And whence my life trickles away with the slightest movement

(from La liberté des mers)