Uncategorized

e-book Saint John Perse Atlantique et Méditerranée (French Edition)

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Saint John Perse Atlantique et Méditerranée (French Edition) file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Saint John Perse Atlantique et Méditerranée (French Edition) book. Happy reading Saint John Perse Atlantique et Méditerranée (French Edition) Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Saint John Perse Atlantique et Méditerranée (French Edition) at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Saint John Perse Atlantique et Méditerranée (French Edition) Pocket Guide.

Here again as in Anahase, Exil, Pluies and Vents rises the sweep of the long strophic line, with its individual cadence and inner rh 3 Tne, and the freshness of images which come never from literature but from a wide variety of sensuous experience and knowledge of men. Perse combines a subtle expression of shades of meamng in human emotions, with a vigorous acceptance of Me.

Today when modem poets are so much concerned with the dark and negative aspects of the world, it is refreshing to find again the power in a poetry which belongs to "les hautes narrations du large.

André Lucrèce | Île en île

Rarely is such a publication devoted entirely to the work of a living writer. Since his death this year a number dedicated to Andr6 Gide is in preparation. The significance of the work of Perse, and the distmction of the con- tributors from so many different nationalities and schools of writing, make this volume important.

Among the French critics are Roger Caillois and Gabriel Boumure Poetry had the distinction of publishing Extl, m in French, the first poem written by Perse m America and the first to appear since the pubbcation of Anabase m Ail his unpublished work of the intervening eighteen years was stolen and destroyed by the Nazis when they occupied Pans.

Now in Les Caherti de la Pleiade, the names Leger and Perse are interchangeable, and two sig- nificant contributions of the diplomat — a short article in commemora- tion of the eightieth birthday of his famous colleague, Aristide Briand , and his memorandum for a European Federation of Nations are included. The separation of the two personalities may be ended, but the legend of the poet, withdrawn and unapproachable, persists even for his con- temporaries in his own land, who use his own language. They write of him as of one at a great spiritual distance and speak of his detach- ment.

They know he will never discuss or elucidate his own work. This quality of detachment, of a lofty and impersonal poetry, is a recurring theme. Paul Claudel turns his back, as it were, on Gide, and with no fear of talkmg nonsense writes a long, penetrating and bnlhant commentary on Vents, which to hmi rises like a Mont St.

Michel above other con- temporary poems. His admiration for Perse is abundant. Yet at the conclusion he finds one flaw — the lack of a Christian religious behef which his own faith tells him is the unacknowledged power behmd the great forces felt and apostrophised by Perse. Pierre Jean Jouve, another Cathohc poet, also feels this lack. In the course of a sensitive appreciation he interprets the recurring images of the nul, the neant and the abyss m Exit as expressions of a pro- found despair.

He beheves that across the great natural phenomena of rams, snows and winds the poet hears the voice of panic, of chaos and disorder. In the poetic universe of Perse he found a renewed faith m the digmty and destiny of man. This personal story of an analysis of evil and the discovery of an habit- able spiritual world is written with eloquence, but with detachment. The Anglo-Saxons, on the other hand, become self conscious in their homage to a living poet.

He praises Perse for his 'wonderful evocative line, and for his flowing processional imagery. He feels it would be presumj - tuous for him "to try to look at Perse from inside his own traditions. We must use both French and Anglo-American poetry and allow fox mistakes of reference. The circumstance of a non-French nationality does not disturb Guiseppe Ungaretti, who felt the instant response among Italian writers to his translation of Anahase, Nor does it affect the Gennan, Friedhelm Kemp who contributes a comparison of Perse with modem German and American poetic forms, as well as with Charles P4guy and The Four Quartets, Kemp adds a critical word, rare in this volume, when he suggests that for all its greatness a slightly didactic oratorical quality in Venfe "tends to max its core of poetic mystery.

Now he is old and very ill, unable to contribute freshly, but no appraisal of Saint-John Perse would be complete without a word from him. So this prophetic article, which aroused a storm of criticism at the time, is reprmted here. It is wholly delightful. He says, "the world of M. His exigencies about the purity of vocables, as well as the importance he attached to rhythm made up the charm of our meet- ings. LAon Paul Fargue, just before his death, wrote a brief and moving letter, on the publication of Vents, He said it "opens a new poetic country for us; though at the same time through it cries come to me from the borders, the fringes of ancient creations and dead planets.

The long strophe may suggest a Bibical rhythm, but the occasional lack of syntax, the elliptical approach and the condensation of image and idea is completely modem. Perse, he says, has resolved this problem not by retreating to a closeted or bizarre inner world of his own but by accepting and ennobling the actual world. In his lyncal counterpoint Perse can evoke Dido at Carthage and the Aztec wife of Cortez in the same breath. Caillois analyzes the subtle connecting threads of Perse's vast catalogues which we find m seseral poems; the men in their ways and manners in Anabose X , the lonely and special occupations of men in Exit III , the woiks of reason and intellect in Phies VIII and the long list of types of men who suc- cessively emigrated to the shores of the New World in Vents III.

These listings move, never at random but held together by a thread of similarity and sound which, "like a network of secret isotherms across a chaos of climate and custom unifies into one stream. In a delightful quotation from a letter by Henri IV to the Comtesse de Guiche, he shows how indigenous this modem language is to the classic speech of France.

Perse, he says, in conclusion, "has the art of drawmg out of words more than their ordinary usage could ever let us expect. He declares that Perse contains within himslf wide contradictions. He is a man of both the east and the west, a man of silence and a man of language, a man of nudity and a man of parure.

This does not imply a dilettanteism, an inability to choose. He has chosen to be poet "because poetry demands the maximum of responsibility in the fact of writing and the fact of life. This fine article, expressed with clarity and sobriety should be read in Its own words. New Directions.

The unbelievabue badness of these poems is ii relevant to any cri- teria of technique. Sclwartz has adopted a siinpItT and fortu- nately or unfortunately, as you regard it more transparent ruse. Having come on stage without his trousers, he has chosen to play Danny Kaye instead of Hamlet Divers uncertainties of tone are extrapolated into frantic prose monologues that, alternating with the poems m Part I, are meant to suggest that a stjhzed systole and diastole is intended, that the maudlin self-abnegation of the verse is dramatically and delicately hght-hearted: the clowm's pathos, in fact.

This pathos is irrelevantly heightened by a sophistk'atcd audience; the title. These are the objective correlatives of the poetic real and earnest: Laforguian or Eliotic exacerbations without a trace of the appropriate irony.

Nouveaux Orients : enjeux géostratégiques et culturels, 1780-1823

Kaye's frantic git-gat-gittle in which the odd startling adjective is exploded because the princess' attention has been noted to wander. The princess is ever so polite, but occasionally she yawns; that is the dramatic context of everything in the volume. Dagwood worry- ing less about nuclear annihilation than about being made to feel a fool by the plumber, his sword of Damocles simply a snub, typifies American social life whose context is a jimgle of exacerbated nerve- endings that still awaits its geographer.

To afford a catharsis of beery self-distrust is the job of every popular entertainer from the crooner through Emily Post to the circus freak. It has seldom been attempted so directly, or with such disastrous evocation of the malaise it is supposed to anaesthetize, than in the present volume. Schwartz was neither sufficiently crooked to fake this his one lightning rod, the clown disguise, inheres in title and ar- rangement merely nor sufficiently wise to stop publishing until he felt stronger.

Guilt, Doubt, and Embarrassment enclose the spectrum of passions:. The panicky conceit, the precious pose. The stagefright and the footlights of the play. Again like Danny Kaye, Mr. Schwartz is ttooing the audience. For she was born.

Preliminary Material

Look, in some other world! Hark, from the coiling track come screams like jazz, As if they jumped from brink of a burning house. This pandemonium, our poet-analyst assures us, is attended by a great deal of Significance: Why do they hate their lives? Why do they wish to die? Believing in vicious lies.

Afraid to remember and cry. If only they would break down and blubber, then they would stop hating themselves and, presumably, ridiculing their poets! It could be so simple! Schwartz has not, we are assured, adopted this vatic role without preparation. These rigors— who will doubt? Shifting my tones as if I said to them Candy, soda, fruits and fioweis. The tone for Dear Citizens is no less wistful but a little more hoitatory: — O Citizens, let us frankly confess We know our hves are hved by lies. And, Citizens, let us not be estranged.

Surely the wars will end, there will be peace. But no one, it appears, confesses, and the crowd moves off. Us poets, Mr. Schwartz tells the world, have it tough: These politicians have an easy time. They can say anything, they have no shame. Awed or indifferent, bemused or ill at ease, We who are poets play the game which is A deadly earnest searching of all hearts. And their distraction fits are at times embarrassingly lucid. Vaudeville for a Princess are several prose pieces, ironic little essays on Exist- entialism, Hamlet, Othello, Don Giovanni, owning automobiles, divorce, and social relations with famous poets.

The piece on Hamlet, a satire on intellectuals whose little psychological theories disintegrate the conception of humanity on which the play rests, is shrewd and amus- ing, And the piece on divorce in New York State is clever and witty. Most of the prose pieces, however, remind one of a group of intellec- tuals playing a game of charades in which they limit themselves to references to the works of Parnassian poets.

Post-impressionist paint- ers, and critics who have written on Rilke and Lorca. It is not sur- prising that the theme of alienation, a little on the fingernail biting side, runs through the volume, in the poems as well as the prose. Out of such a sensibility one might, at best, expect to see burgeon the monstrous symbols of Kafka, huge beetles, horrendous landladies, endless stairwells. But Schwartz's talent is of a different kind, minor Elizabethan, apparently lacking any great need for the magnificent or the grandiose.

He writes an intelligent but school masterish idiom, shrewd and a little sententious. But such a characterization is not the whole story. There are two complications. Like most modem poets he is involved to some extent in a language of idiom which can be characterized as poetry of the main chance. And he is an extremely self-centered poet. Poetry of the main chance is in a sense opportunistic.

It calls for an element of arrogance from the poet, but ultimately, because of the easy grace and assured courage of success, it is not offensive. It is conceit neutralized by being made impersonal. Among good modem poets one finds it everywhere. It is in Hart Crane's brilliantly successful opening lines. This great wink of eternity. Barker can describe his mother Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter Gin and diicken helpless in her Irish hand and make her all but immortal.

But, in anotlrcr potm, he loo can miss badly; She wound her bowels out around a tree, She shed astrologies of tears Viereck too can be gauche and inept, but one suffers the failures wryly, like listening to a bad pun, because the failures come out of the same aspiration as his successes. And the failures among some of these poets are often mitigated by a well mtentioned clownishness. Superb the whiteness there I find. But the title and opening lines mislead us. The closer we look the more we feel that Schwartz's is not really or not sufficiently a poetry of the mam chance.

It does have an element of the verve and an element of the clownishness, but it too rarely cuts loose, on into the headlong quality and bravado of Crane or Barker, The re- maming lines of the poem suggest how a reader's initial impression may be modified; but the thumbprint markings, On every gift and windfall, seem to be the proof That his hands are dirty, his fingers inkstained, and his arms weak. So that he often pauses, carrying his heavy bag. Then I think dear Claus, whose sleigh-bells are ringing, A sad clown in polka gown whom my applause Will once more invigorate, before the coming wars.

The initial impression does not maintain itself. The ambition, the bravery, the verve of the language subside, and the exacerbated but not distraught analyst takes over. And what demand Is Ratified? But the answer reaDy isn t satisfactory. The range allowed by the subject is mudh too narrow. In reading Schwartz's poems one may re- call a remark made about Gertrude Stein, that she had the literary ability and more than enough theory, but no subject.

Schwartz has a range of abilities— astuteness, a fiair for rhetoric, and a strong satirical sense— but he does not give them free enough rein. Instead of writing so much about Delmore Schwartz, Poet, he might write about a ride on the B M T, the old maid in the front row at one of his poetry readings. If he doesn't free himseK from subjects framed by the outline of his own navel, modem poetry will have witnessed a talent that didn't fulfill its very considerable promise.

Or to put it more kindly, Schwartz is pretty good, but he could be better if he would encourage his impersonal rhetorician side and play down his self-centered analytical side. Move with a will appeased and see a gull. Then gulls drop from an arch— scythes of descent! Knowing success hke fountams, perhaps more wise Than one who hesitantly writes a poem —But who, bemg human, wishes to be a gull, Knows nothing much, though birds are beautiful. The ego gets in the way of the genuinely good poet.

All poets probably are self-centered. But their egos need not hang around their necks like a dying albatross. The bird was mtended to fly. Sweeney were the judges. Elton is travehng and studying in Europe. The Hadley Correspondence School for the Blind in Winnetka, Illinois is issuing the first BraiDe anthology containing poems in current liter- ary magazines. Payment is made for all contributions upon acceptance. Selected FoemSy by Horace Gregory. Death of a World, by Leslie Woolf Hedly. Duell, Sloan, and Pearce.

The Hand and Flower Press. The Hand and Flower Press Is.

Paper Bound. The Two Natures, by Robert Waller. The Hand and Flower Piess. Is Paper Bound. Paula Press. No price listed. Primal Publications. Immediate Sun, by Rosemary Thomas. Twayne Library of Modem Poetry. Atlantic City Cantata, by Hugh Chisolm. Farrar, Straus and Young. Max Jacob, trans. Lotus Press. No price Hsted. Motive Press. No price hsted.

Alden and Blackwell. Faber and Faber. Prooimia, by Dallam Flynn. Anno Dommi Press. A Man from Parnassus, by Nathan Rosenbaum. Bookman Associates. Exposition Press. Buttressed from Moonlight, by Dorothy Leonard. Songs of the Singing Poetess, by Lea Alden. John and John Company. No pnoe hsted. Prose, Anthologies, Reprints, and Translations. The Selected Writings of Paul Eluard, trans. Selected Poems, by Munel Rukeyser. The Philosophy of Henry James Sr. Bookman As- sociates.

Her last contribution to Poetry was Firelight Piece, which was published in John Berryman won the Levinson Prize in m recognition of his group of eight poems published in the January, , issue. Ilk most recent book is A Study of Stephen Crane. He is now a mem- ber of the faculty of Princeton University. Cleantli Brooks is a professor of English at Yale University.

She is at pres- ent travehng in Europe. He has previously published poems in the Sewanee Review. Mr, Kenner is a member of the faculty of the University of California. He is one of the editors of a six volume work to be published this fall by Henry Hegneiy, entitled Twentieth Century Uterature in America. Selwyn S. Schwartz is the author of Horn in the Dust and four other volumes of verse.

His last appearance in Poetry was in The new and remark- ably beautiful translations are by one of England's leading poets of the younger genera- tion: Vernon Watkins. The book has been hand set by Carroll Coleman at his Prairie Press, and the original Ger- man texts are printed facing the translations. Seen as a whole, Williams' life work in poetry assumes a depth ond an Im- portance which place him omong the chief American poets of his generation.

I have never been so moved by o play in verse in my time. The Mourning for Hektor. The God in the Cave, by Randall Swingler. Gen- tie Exercise, by Maunce Carpen- ter. Payment is made on pubhca- tion. Copyright by Modem Poetry Association. So aU his head was dragged in the dust; and now his mother tore out her hair, and threw the shining veil far from her and raised a great wail as she looked upon her son; and his father beloved groaned pitifully, and all his people about him were taken with wailing and lamentation all through the city.

It was most like what would have happened, if all lowering Ilion had been burning top to bottom in fire. He has given us most sorrow, beyond all others, such is the number of my flowering sons he has cut down. I wish he had died in my arms, for that way we two, I myself and his mother who bore him unhappy, might so have glutted ourselves with weeping for him and mourning. What shall my life be in my sorrows, now you are dead, who by day and in the night were my glory in the town, and to all the Trojans and the women of Troy a blessing throughout their city.

They adored you as if you were a god, since in truth you were their high honour while you lived. Now death and fate have closed in upon you. She heard from Ae great bastion Ae noise of niouming and sorrow. Her limbs spun, and Ae shuttle dropped from her hand to Ae ground. Two of you come wiA me, so I can see what has happened. Surely some evil is near for Ae children of Priam. May what I say come never close to my ear; yet dreadfully I fear Aat great Achilleus might have cut off bold Hektor alone, away from Ae dty, and be driving him mto Ae flat land, might put an end to Aat bitter pride of courage, that always was on him, since he would never stay back where Ae men were in numbers but break far out in front, and give way in his fury to no man.

The darkness of night misted over the eyes of Andromache. She fell backward, and gasped the life breath from her, and far off threw from her head the shining gear that ordered her head- dress, the diadem and the cap, and the holding-band woven together, and the circlet, which Aphrodite the golden once had given her on that day when Hektor of the shining helmet led her forth from the house Eetion, and gave numberless gifts to win her.

You and I were bom to a single destiny, you in Troy in the house of Priam, and I in Thebe, underneath the timbered mountain of Plakos in the House of Eetion, who cared for me when I was little, ill-fated he, I ill-starred. I wish he had never begotten me. Now you go down to the house of Death in the secret places 67 of the eaith, and left me here behind in the sorrow of mourning, a widow in your house, and the boy is only a baby who was bom to you and me, the unfortunate. You cannot help him, Hektor, any more, since you are dead. Nor can he help you. The day of bereavement leaves a child with no agemates to befriend him.

Your father is not dining among us. Now, with his dear father gone, he has much to suflFer: he, whom the Trojans have called Astyanax, lord of the city, since it was you alone who defended the gates and the long walls. But now, beside the curving ships, far away from your parents, the writhing worms will feed, when the dogs have had enough of you, on your naked corpse, though in your house there is clothing laid up that is fine-textured and pleasant, wrought by the hands of women.

A cold fruit bulges from the veins of wrists and arms to bleed a virus juice into our sueded palms. We spread disease when our begloved infrequent rites of greeting are perfoimed. If we c. The reasoned breach between these units will not admit the most starved arm or straining finger, no broom nor torch can bruise or burn or succor you charity's green cheese is scattered on the waxed inlaid linoleum in death you smell the vinegared sponge pragmatic mouse afraid to wait for loaves and fishes, frightened to inch within a mouse- length of the bait afraid to sleep inside the box contrived for you a grocer' s carton rag-padded screened, stocked with a doll's dish of water and the choicest crumbs to nourish you.

Did you find freedom behind the stove ice- box and sink? Untemptable mouse, soon dead, and no one nothing can remove your stink no light invade your coflBn to focus on your rank ironic corpse no dialectic can deny you. As moist and wincing red as pigeon feet, the breathing hearts Oscillate endlessly in fluid ambiguity.

And isolated, pickle m the brine of phantasy. The jars will never be unsealed, nor can the heart be joined. Healed, to the breast. For in that vacuum, that fatal void Between the unreal and the real, between the brine and breast The heart will burst. And we, compassionate, cannot redeem The prisoned hearts, nor save the crippled men, the fear- oppressed.

Who only suffer love within the prism of a dream. Scattered throughout their ice and snow The Finns have built air-tight cabins of log Where they may lie, limp and entranced by the sedative purr Of steam pipes, or torment themselves with flails of fir To irrigate the blood, and swill down grog. Setting the particles aglow.

Manured, addressed in latin, so To its thermostatic happiness — Spreading its green and innocence to the ground Where pipes, like Satan masquerading as the snake, Coil and xmcoil their frightful liquid length, and make Gurglings of love mixed with a rumbling sound Of sharp intestinal distress — So to its pleasure, as I said, That each particular vegetable may thrive.

And we, like disinherited heirs. Old Adams, can inspect the void estate At visiting hours; the unconditional garden spot. The effortless innocence preserved, for God knows what, And think, as we depart by the toll gate: No one has lived here these five thousand years. Our world is turned on points, is whirled On wheels, Tibetan prayer wheels, French verb wheels. The mother-of-pearled Home of the bachelor oyster lies Fondled in fluent shifts of bile and lime As sunlight strikes the water, and it is of our world, And will appear to us sometime where the finger is curled Between the frets upon a mandolin.

Fancy cigar-boxes, and eyes Of ceremonial masks; and all The places where Kilroy inscribed his name. For instance, the ladies" rest-room in the Gare du Nord, The iron rump of Buddha, whose hallowed, hollowed core Admitted tourists once but all the same Housed a machine-gun, and let fall A killing fire from its eyes During the war; and Polyphemus hurled Tremendous rocks that stand today off Sicily"s coast Signed with the famous scrawl of our most travelled ghost; And all these various things are of our world.

But what"s become of Paradise? Ah, it is lodged in glass, survives In Brooklyn, like a throw-back, out of style. Like an incomprehensible veteran of the Grand Army of the Republic in the reviewing stand 75 Who sees young men in a mud-colored file March to the summit of their lives For glory, for their country, with the flag Joining divergent stars of North and South In one blue field of heaven, till they fall in blood And are returned at last imto their native mud — The eyes weighed down with stones, the sometimes mouth Helpless to masticate or gag Its old inheritance of earth.

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou manage, said the Lord. And we, old Adams, stare through the glass panes and wince, Fearing to see the ancestral apple, pear, or quince. And evening. James B. I chivvy and chafe myself into A beautiful titillation and by The time that I am all set for the so Precious moment it has changed slightly And I am not absolutely certain Whether what I am going to get is the Desired object or whether by some turn Of fate or fancy I do not quite see It in die same way as I did at first.

My dandelion loves their ticking seeds unfurl That tell our time and parachute to grass. Interlopers in a green virgin soil Singly we dream, and wake in mutual jars Of jolting buffers as the cars are shunted. Communicating down a corridor of fears A sacrament that pain has counterpointed Bleeds in the mouth; we palate no other nurse Than nipples by trial and suffering anointed. And in the harsh baptismal brine immerse Hands, feet and head. And shed a living form upon the Pair Whose Garden nourished best invisible wrong.

And many forms showed him their scatteiing And lit the highlight to guide home his thumb And showed — unmentionable — the private lands And stood out, in the public sight, to sing: Great back, to whom the weariest would come! He was the black saint of Assisi, His tail in a red love-knot; For him, Calvary was an easy Excursion to a darling spot. He hurled his North at your South While the clipped cries of the peacock Grew dulcet in his mouth. The beak of his soul thirsted For the flesh and blood of love But, zoologically, he was worsted By the titanic hate of the dove.

The storm, the beast, and the sea Wove his roxmd, gentle garland; Tooth and claw and gallows-tree Gemmed and nimbused his star-band. What he wrote staggers history But it flew on home-made wings: Never was less transitory Burnt wax and Icarean strings! And when he sang of suffering And the matchless grandeur of pain. It was Judas' high yammering And his Kiss as it rang in the brain. No ill companion on a journey, Death lays his purse on the table and opens the wine.

Camels raise their necks from the ground, cooks scour kettles, soldiers oil their arms, snow lights up high over the north, yellow spreads in the desert, driving blue westward among banks, surrounding patches of blue, advancing in enemy land. Kettles flash, bread is eaten, scarabs are scurrying rolling dung.

Lean watches, then debauch: after long alert, stupidity: waking, soar. If here you find me intrusive and dangerous, seven years was I bonded for Leah, seven toiled for Rachel: now in a brothel outside under the wall have paused to bait on my journey. LUD: When Tigris floods snakes swarm in the city, coral, jade, jet, between jet and jade, yellow, enamelled toys. Toads crouch on doorsteps.

Dead camels, dead Kuids, unmanageable rafts of logs hinder the feiryman, a pull and a grunt, a stifi tow upshore against the current. Naked boys among water-buffaloes, daughters without smile beading clothes by the verge, harsh smouldering dung: a woman taking bread from her oven spreads dates, an onion, cheese. Silence under the high sun. When the ewes go out along the towpath striped with palm-trunk shadows a herdsman pipes, a girl shrills under her load of greens. There is no clamour in our market, no eagerness for gain; even whores surly, God frugal, keeping tale of prayers.

Hak, both, lament. ARAM: By the dategroves of Babylon there we sat down and sulked while they were seeking to hire us to a repugnant trade. Are there no plows in Judah, seed or a sickle, no ewe to the pail, press to the vineyard? Sickly our Hebrew voices far from the Hebrew hills! LUD: Against the princes of Babylon, that they have tithed of the best leaving sterile ram, weakly hogg to the flock. A farthing a note for songs as of the thrush.

Hard muscles, nipples like spikes. Undo the neck-string, let my blue gown fall. The child cradled beside her sister silent and brown. Thighs in a sunshaft, uncontrollable smile, she tossed the pence aside in a brothel under the wall. LUD: My bride is borne behind the pipers, kettles and featherbed, on her forehead jet, jade, coral under the veil; to bring ewes to the pail, bread from the oven. Breasts scarcely hump her smock, tiiighs meagre, eyes alert without smile mock the beribboned dancing boys.

Warmth of absent thighs dies on the loins: she who has yet no breasts and no patience to await tomorrow. ARAM: Chattering in the vineyard, breasts swelled, halt and beweep captives, sicHy, closing repugnant thighs. Life we give and take, pence in a market, without noting beggar, dealer, changer; pence we drop in the sawdust with spilt wine. The light is sufficient to perceive the motions of prayer and the place cool. Tiles for domes and aivans they baked in a comer, older, where Avicenna may have worshipped. Poetry they remembered too much, too well.

O public spirit! Prayers to band cities and brigade men lest there be more wills than one: but God is the dividing sword. A hard pyramid or lasting law against fear of death and murder more durable than mortar. Domination and engineers to fudge a motive you can lay your hands on lest a girl choose or refuse way wardly. Flute, shade dimples under chenars, breath of Naystani chases and traces as a pair of gods might dodge and tag between stars. Friday, Sobhx s tales keeping boys from their meat. A fowler spreading his net over the barley, calls, calls on a rubber reed. Grain nods in reply.

Scut of gazelle dances and bounces out of the afternoon. Owl and wolf to the night. Have you seen a falcon stoop accurate, unforeseen and absolute, between wind-ripples over harvest? A fancy took me to dig, plant, pmne, graft; milk, skim, chum; flay and tan. A side of salt beef for a knife chased and inscribed. For peace until harvest a jig and a hymn.

Quarry and build, Solomon, a bank for Lydian pebbles: tribute of Lydian pebbles levy and lay aside, that twist underfoot and blunt the plowshare, countless, useless, hampering pebbles that spawa Shot silk and damask white spray spread from artesian gush of our past. Let no one drink unchlorinated living water but taxed tap, sterile, or seek his contraband mouthful in bog, under thicket, by crag, a trickle, or from embroidered pools with newts and didiscus beetles.

One cribbed in a madhouse set about with diagnoses; one unvisited; one uninvited; 94 BASIL BUNTING one visited and invited too much; one impotent, suffocated by adulation; one unfed: flares on a foundering barque, stars spattering still sea under iceblink. Tinker tapping perched on a slagheap and the man who can mend a magneto.

In British uniform and pay for fun of fighting and pride, for Churchill on foot alone, clowning with a cigar, was lost in best blues and his third plane that day. Broken booty but usable along the littoral, frittering into the south. Old in that war after raising many crosses rapped on a tomb at Lepta; no one opened. Blind Bashshar bin Burd saw, doubted, glanced back, guessed whence, speculated whither.

Panegyrists, blinder and deaf, prophets, exegesists, counsellors of patience lie in wait for blood, every man with a net. Condole with me with abundance of secret pleasure. Staifhes, filthy harbour water, a drovmed Finn, a drowned Chinee; hard-lying money wnmg from protesting paymasters. Rosytih guns sang. Tide sang. From Largo Law look down, moon and dry weather, look down on convoy marshalled, filing between mines. Cold northern clear sea-gardens between Lofoten and Spitzbergen, as good a grave as any, earth or water.

What else do we live for and take part, we who would share the spoils? We list them with cordial thanks to the donors. The Levinson Prize, founded in and awarded for thirty years through the generosity of the late Salmon O Levinson, internation- ally distinguished lawyer and pubhcist; contmued since by his family, m memory of Helen Haire Levmson and Salmon O. Charles Leviton of Chicago, and given annually as a memorial to a great student and admirer of modem poetry by his close friend.

The Eunice Tietjens Memorial Prize, to be awarded annually to a citizen of the United States in memory of a former associate editor of Poetry and as a tnbute to her loyal service to the magazine and the art it represents; presented by Cloyd Head. The Harriet Monroe Memorial Prize, awarded for the fifteenth time. The Bess Hokin Prize, awarded for the fourth time, established through the generosity of our late friend and guarantor, Mrs. David Hokin of Chicago; to be given annually in her memory.

Translations and poems by members of the staff of Poetry are not eligible for prizes. It is our policy not to repeat the award of any one prize to the same poet. The awards are made for poems prmted during the past year in Volumes 77 and 78 of Poetry October through September , with reference also to each poet's general achievement or promise. The Oscar Blumenthal Prize for Poetry, of one hundred dol- lars, for a poem or group of poems published in Poetry during its thirty-ninth year, is awarded to Randall Jarrell for Five Poems, in the December, issue and Two Poems, in the April, issue.

The Harriet Monroe Memorial Prize, of one hundred dollars, for a poem or group of poems published in Poetry during its thirty- ninth year, is awarded to James Merrill for Pive Poems, in the September, issue. The Bess Hokin Prize, of one hundred dollars, for a poem or group of poems by a young poet published in Poetry during its thirty- runth year, is awarded to M. T he word is slowly getting around m America that a major writer— and one utterly unclassifiable— was cut short m mid-career when Charles Wilhams died in at the age of jBfty-eight.

The unique- ness of Williams is no news on the other side of the Atlantic, where for more than a decade his novels and poetry, and the man himself, have been the center of a small but fanatically devoted group of admirers. Charles Williams, a mmor editorial worker on the staff of the Oxford Press, died with some three dozen books to his credit.

Of his two books of Arthurian verse, on which his reputation as a poet principally rests.


  1. Camargo Foundation.
  2. Über Platons „Staat“ Bücher 2 bis 4 (German Edition).
  3. Bloc-notes : "Ça suffit !", l’exaspération partagée - Liberté d'expression!
  4. Bloc-notes : "Ça suffit !", l’exaspération partagée.
  5. Liderazgo Quántico (Spanish Edition).
  6. France - Biodiversity Heritage Library.
  7. Biodiversity Heritage Library.

La Presse nous apprend que M. Boni de Castellane est un homme jeune, brillant et divers. A Channel Passage and other Poems. Un abord difficile. Mais M. Regnault ne nous a rien dit de tout cela. Cependant, El Mokri croit la nouvelle fausse. Il ne sait pas combien Je temps il y demeurera. Il a une mission.

rhétorique de saint-john perse - Saint-John Perse, le poète aux ...

Des petites gens incendient leur maison pour toucher le montant de leur assurance, et la femme du cordonnier Fielitz meurt subitement au dernier acte. Tous ces cordonniers et forgerons parlent pour ne rien dire. La France garde, en Allemagne du moins, le prestige de sa richesse. Les Berlinois applaudissent La Dame de chez Maxim. Non seulement ses livres se vendent dans toutes les librairies, mais encore dans tous les bazars. La petite salle des Scharfrichter contient une centaine de places.

Il ne joue jamais sauf dans les pantomimes. Hans Richard Weinhoppel est le compositeur infatigable de la troupe. Elle est le type pour eux de la femme moderne. Le talent de Robert Randau est puissant, tentaculaire comme un monstre marin. Leur langue est riche, souple, originale et exactement consciencieuse. Pierre Baudin mis en avant comme celui du prochain gouverneur de la colonie. Il serait alors heureux que M. En M. Ensuite M. Baudin au lieu du chapelier Faberot.

Le passage de M. Au point de vue social, diverses mesures prises par M. Baudin a repris sa place au Palais. Baudin de faire partie du cabinet actuel. Pierre Baudin ne soit pas parti. Mais, allez, je ne demande pas autre chose! Quels sont vos souvenirs de cette lecture?

On paria trois bouteilles de champagne pour corser la chose. Si MM. Le plus jeune. Ni Boccioni ni Severini ne sont sans talent. On se demande ce que viennent faire en cette affaire les experts artistiques commis par le juge. Bernheim de nous adresser. Jourdain se tourna alors contre un paysage. Il a beau dire et beau faire, il ne sortira pas du moignon.

Frantz Jourdain fit des restrictions. Il voyait le compotier en biais. En revenant vers les sous-sols du Grand Palais, M. Dans les sous-sols, M. Je suis en train de me le demander et je ne puis le croire… Que diable peut-on faire avec une bouche pareille! Frantz Jourdain vient de faire graver son nom sur tous les piliers de la Samaritaine dont il construit sans cesse de nouveaux magasins.

Il aimait raconter des histoires sur sa peinture. Ils trouvaient le tableau horrible. Abel-Truchet a de remarquables aptitudes commerciales. Je suis franc, au moins. Le fauve des fauves. Lorsque M. Les tableaux de M. Gropeano expose un Portrait de S. Le jury les admit. Frantz Jourdain passa. Il chancela. On le soutint.

Frantz Jourdain. Nous avons appris que M. Le Bargy, les cravates de M. Le cas de M. Comment MM. Quel jardin! Charles Maurras est devenu un homme important. Chantera-t-il encore ou restera-t-il muet pour toujours? Je le regrette. Vous avez vu un frac bleu. En fait de chansons, vous en avez entendu une des plus populaires et dont la musique est belle comme celle au largo de Haendel. Toutes les expositions se ressemblent. Chaque exposition dure six mois.

Est-ce un mal? Je ne le pense pas. En France, on fit parfois du modern Style un emploi fort judicieux. Je me trompais. Mais on ne voit pas ces demoiselles. Elles sont en vacances. Pierre Bonnard, Vuillard et K. Grands dieux! Il est moins audacieux que moderne. Manguin est un peintre voluptueux. Et il est interdit de se laisser aller. Granzow expose un Triptyque. On les recueille en Angleterre, en Allemagne et ailleurs. La peinture moderne est, dans la plupart de ses tableaux, comme le disait Buonarotti, de la peinture flamande.

Mais, je me demande encore si cela vaut bien la peine. Je les trouve trop peu femmes. Je me mettrai au courant pour la prochaine fois. Cruelle Aurel! Quelle ambition! Comme elle respecte la grammaire! Mais de nos jours le travail du docteur Mardrus ne pouvait avoir aucun effet. Il y a plus. Fernand Gregh, par exemple. On confond le Gange avec le Gave, Bagdad avec Orthez. Imitant M. Clemenceau serait impuissante. Lequel sait parler comme elle du douloureux amour?

Ce monsieur signe A. Un soir il tombait beaucoup de neige, les omnibus, les voitures ne roulaient plus. Il demeura ensuite un peu de temps dans la salle. Il me parla de Verlaine et nous nous entendions fort bien. Pour MM. En somme, les investigations de M. Jean de Bonnefon, lui, est plus futile que M. Jules Bertaut, mais plus intelligent. Je le lirai, pour voir. Ces platitudes sont vraiment trop nombreuses. Et comme elle se trompe! En effet, se laisse-t-elle aller? Une lettre de M. Cette invitation au voyage nous fit vite partir bien loin les uns des autres!

Voici dans quelles circonstances.

Saint-John Perse : discours de réception du Prix Nobel (complet), 1960.

La balle alla se perdre dans un rideau. Je ne fus plus ensuite au courant de son existence. Polti, comment cela va-t-il? Elles regorgeaient de monde. Instinctivement, je saisis au vol ce que je prenais pour un prospectus. Sa chambre retient toute mon attention. Je regardai M.

La Jeunesse observe avec grand soin. Son but?.. Comment M. La Jeunesse en est-il devenu le chef? Ernest La Jeunesse de sortir. Alors M. Nous connaissions le souple et intelligent talent de Guillaume Apollinaire. Mais les meilleures plaisanteries sont les plus courtes. Une autre fois, il regarda complaisamment deux chiens qui se querellaient.

Son geste? Que dit-il? Vous la connaissez? Il ne fera plus rien de bon, plus rien, vous verrez. Et il le sait cet ogre, il le sait. Il y a Dante, il y a Villon, il y a Shakespeare. Les autres langues sont ridicules. Entrons, je veux vous donner une rose. Mais la rose est plus belle. Guillaume Apollinaire Articles divers Albania , vol. La Grande France , octobre , p. Je dis tout , 25 juillet , p.

Je dis tout , 12 octobre , p. Je dis tout , 19 octobre , p. Je dis tout , 26 octobre , p. Log in or sign up to get involved in the conversation. It's quick and easy. Does seiche rhyme with geas? November 13, I have no idea, but now I really want to know too--there's great potential for some poem with a sea-bear in it.

MaryW commented on the word seiche. What Is a Seiche? Seiches and meteotsunamis. What's the difference? Seiches and meteotsunamis are often grouped together, but they are two different events. Winds and atmospheric pressure can contribute to the formation of both seiches and meteotsunamis; however, winds are typically more important to a seiche motion, while pressure often plays a substantial role in meteotsunami formation.

Sometimes a seiche and a meteotsunami can even occur at the same time.