in memorium


Life will always be dwarfed by death. In fact, life arises, frail and brief, with all its attendant joys and sorrows, from death. Perhaps one could say that emptiness is the great mother, giving forth life, silently nurturing, without bias, all who thrive within her compassionate embrace. And it is within this silence, this most intimate silence at the core of being, or not being, whatever the case may be, that our relationship with our mother, our true relationship, is so deeply personal as to be hidden, and so remains wordless and ineffable, yet still so very present, transcending time and place. It is through this that the darkness is illuminated, through this that the unseen light of knowing, without hope or fear, shines forth, in a subtle, most often unwitnessed, glow; an unseen luminescence which is as inherent and steady in death as it is in life; both giver and given, mother and son, or sister, husband, friend, yet, in all cases, provider, nurturer, caregiver; the one light overcoming all darkness; the very light, in fact, which brings forth that darkness; that one light which provides comfort even in death. And so, embracing and embraced, there can be no parting, no need for farewell, but rather a pregnant silence by way of gratitude, and a sauntering forth bathed in her gentle knowing.

we are in the dark

Jean Wahl by Avigdor Arikha

We are in the dark, unknown, ignorant,
Floating down the river of time,
Rooted in the fields of space,
And everything passes and nothing ceases
Except, soon, ourselves
When at grave’s edge
We will see that we lived in the great light
And never knew it.

Jean Wahl
tr. Michael Tweed
ill. Avigdor Arikha

(Nous sommes dans le noir, ignorés, ignorant,
Flottant sur le cours du temps,
Enracinés aux champs de l’espace,
Et tout passe et rien ne cesse
Que nous-mêmes bientôt
Quand au bord du tombeau
Nous verrons que nous vivions dans la grande lumière
Et ne le savions pas.)

Song of the Golden Tree by Claude Margat

One day
the mouth named
the never lifting mist
the wordless support
the imageless breath
how long ago
how long?

Then came
this other day
a thousand years of desire and sorrow
between sky and path
grass frozen beneath a white wind
and in the eyes
of long histories of the blind

an impeccable blue
let blood and sand trickle down
present past no matter
silk wall or golden leaves
if the murmur of things is broken
who will rediscover the melody?

The gaze goes
another in the heart of the same waits
the presence of the thing
replaces the thing
but does nothing

The whirling wind
that bears the soul
making dead leaves
fly into the corner of the old wall
is like today
the one twirling
in the hollow of your hand
it speaks
but who listens?

It is said that one day at some point
time stops going
but is it the going that time stops
or the coming?

Suddenly in the hearth
the fire flares up
in the heart of the blaze appears
the cave where
the immaculate Phoenix is born
every word like a cloud
advances between its shadow and its opposite
every living being
towards their own absence

In the distance
in the furthest depths
the hermetic memory frees itself
the foam of the wave where
the rock begins
to lean towards the pebble
the tree towards the air
the sky towards the earth
thought towards its own abeyance

One is well aware that it comes from afar
the powerful call
well aware that it comes from before
like a great gust of space and
there where it loses momentum and
turns back on itself
beats the right time
the time that animates the wing and bears
the light where nothing
is ever
played again.

from En marge d’une vie (L’atelier du Grand Tétras, 2016)
translated by mt

En marge d'une vie

New Publication


translated by Jean-Paul Auxeméry and Claude Margat


On One: The Writings of Roger Gilbert-Lecomte

Roger Gilbert-Lecomte

In Rain Taxi (winter 2015/16) Garrett Caples reviews my collection of writings by Roger Gilbert-Lecomte.

Review of The Book is a Ghost


To read Christopher Kelly’s review of The Book is a Ghost from The Spectacle click here.


time (i)

More samples of photography, drawings, etc. can be seen at my tumblr.

The Book is a Ghost

The Book is a Ghost

Writings by Roger Gilbert-Lecomte selected and translated by yours truly. Available from Solar Luxuriance.

The Alchemy of the Eye

An essay on film from the collection of writings by Roger Gilbert-Lecomte that i edited and translated has been published online by ENTROPY. Check it out here.

is forever unreachable
so too here
nowhere we remain

as if nothing (excerpt)

Each image is the debris of time.
It only keeps what no longer passes,
a crystallization in the depths of the gaze
which can only name – watering can,
bush, mountain, clouds.
As for the rest, it’s not seen but it’s all there

August 2nd

Chaque image est un débris de temps.
Elle ne garde que ce qui ne passe plus,
une forme de sel au fond du regard
qui ne sait que nommer – arrosoir,
buisson, montagne, nuages.
Pour le reste, on ne voit rien mais tout est là

Jacques Ancet
tr. Michael Tweed

of gods

it would seem
that some gods
are violent gods
others frivolous gods
and many
not gods at all
sure we dream
of a world
in which all gods
would be peaceful
caring gods
but we are part
of the world
as are the gods
and so it is not
for us to choose
the divine
but to recognize
and accept it
no matter
how difficult
especially when
it appears anything
but divine


neither fire
nor ash

but something akin
to the gaze

of even the holy

other than light

borne aloft
by the earth’s embrace

we are in darkness…

We are in darkness, ignored, ignorant,
Floating upon the flow of time,
Rooted in the fields of space,
And everything passes yet nothing ceases
Except ourselves soon
When at grave’s edge
We see that we lived in the great light
Yet never knew it.

Jean Wahl
tr. Michael Tweed

a single text

There is only a single day in which, despite the night, one remains incessantly immersed.

There exists only a single sentence, which one has still not deciphered.

The fire whistles softly.


Un Seul Text

Il n’y a qu’un seul jour où, en dépit de la nuit, on reste incessamment plongé.

Il n’existe qu’une seule phrase, qu’on n’a pas encore déchiffrée.

Le feu souffle à voix basse.


André du Bouchet
tr. Michael Tweed

toward an ars poetica (ii)

neither wait
nor expectation
rather vigilance

toward an ars poetica (i)

words fluttering
against the glass

toward a definition of beauty (iii)

no birds crumpled
tissue floating
in the toilet

toward a definition of beauty (ii)

the moon
is never

corners (ii)

does not
need to