There is an almost universal agreement that its history links it with singing, with the voice, the breath, with an orality from which it will emancipate itself more or less clearly in different cultures and to which it will return cyclically in various degrees, inseparable, in any case, from the body, from which it was born. What is it for?
A poem is useless—thank god! We are useless, life is useless, we are our own purpose, life is its own purpose. This kind of taming, for me, cannot be separated from the poem. Far from meaning well and good intentions—a poem should not be written with any intentions and the fraternity of the poem is not sweet; its hospitality lies in disappropriation. In impropriety, for the language of poetry is not suited to any utilitarian use, but is in dialogue with everything—with ourselves, with the other, with words and worlds, here and elsewhere, living and dead, creatures and people, plants and rocks, novae and neutrinos, possibles and impossibles.
The jumble of everything. In this hospitality, there is the explicit or implicit utopia of a City hospitable to all living things. The free nature of the poem refuses roles and justifications.
In this, it echoes life, all of life. Saying again that we simply are. The poem entails a consideration of all life or at least an invitation to presence in the here and now, to the antique wisdom of age quod agis , recalling that knowledge [ savoir ], flavor [ saveur ], and wisdom [ sagesse ] have the same root in sapere , to taste, where the taste for life can be felt and experienced like an appetite for being and desire, or at least attention, the most extreme attention to all forms of life, to the tiniest thrills of life.
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Can humanity get by without this? Can the City get by without this? And if one does, what is it missing? What, if not every one of us? I do not dissociate the two. To write is simultaneously to give shape and to subtract, to sacrifice. Phrasing something brings into being one possibility that excludes innumerable others. Everything depends, too, on what is meant by the potential and limits of language here. There is no thought outside language, no poem outside its formulation. Even the word inexpressible still belongs to language pointing at its own limits.
Our own limits are responsible for the fact that we cannot find the words for a great deal of ourselves and of our world. I am as suspicious of the illusion of omnipotence, of the need for mastery, as I am of any lament for the impotence of language. Both share a kind of dream of absolutes and domination; powers they celebrate or impossibles they deplore—but all of our history bears witness to the devastation this wreaks. In the face of absolute destitution, you have to learn humility. You cannot just stand there with your hands full, chanting this song of deprivation.
In the writing of the poem, there is a conscious part—weighed up, counted, calculated—and a kind of letting go. A welcome. I write something of a poem, but the poem writes itself, and writes me too… The two ends of the stick are inseparable. The same goes for language: its potential and its limits are the heads and tails of the same coin. This is what I write with, in the aliveness, the energy of speech, which is that of life.
In the taste for life, the joy of existing, feeling, but also in the consciousness, the experience of pain and death that goes hand in hand with it. Words cannot produce miracles.
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To speak death does not vanquish death. Language simply speaks of us, just as we are, between nothing and everything. The poem speaks of the infinitesimal preciousness of each life, its fullness and its limits, its suffering and its joy. An inspired poet is a living poet, with the understanding that one can be dead in life… Writing, for me, cannot be separated from an awakening. An intensity. It is where the potential of the word lives, in the capacity to render something of the livingness of life.
Living speech exists, giving life, reflecting life, as does dead or deadly language; just as there exists a fertile, brimful silence, and a hollow silence. This duality is present in my writing, marrying emptiness, fullness, life, death, exaltation and suffering. Everything that makes up the parts of us and our language. The poet, in my opinion, is always working—more or less—with oxymoron and paradox, reflecting, generating emotions, states of being or of consciousness other than speech, setting us in motion….
In this ambivalence lies our own. In the ambiguousness of what we are, which writes itself into our language. Until now I have used word, language, writing as synonyms, but they are not. Speech is an act of the body, which lives through the body, in the moment of the body, chewing words in the mouth. Speech is throat, tongue, lips, teeth, lungs, breath, voice… Writing, on the other hand, is deferred. When I write a bird, I am writing at the same time its presence and its absence… In that space stands the poem, between presence and absence. To some extent, all poets say this, one way or another.
It must including the desire that lurks, allusively, in these two letters become present through and in the heart of words. In this way, the poem contains both the memory and the regret of speech. The sound and the rhythm of the poem are the presence of the voice, of the vital breath, of the body within it.
It is, no doubt, from this momentum, from the scale of this breath, in some of my texts, that comes the feeling of the potential of language. But this energy of breath, this exultation of the tongue is tied to its breaks, its stuttering, the white muteness of the impossible…. It belongs to the poem to stop trying to police meaning, to break out of itself, in an insurrection of language—murmur and noise alike, in the consciousness of the power of language that gives us our humanity, and in the knowledge, too, of its disempowerment, of its impotence which knows it can only summon the aftermath of what has happened or that vanishes in its own telling, in the experience that understanding is as much a dispossession as an appropriation and that, held in its sway, there is no way out.
Is the meaning of your texts something you consider fixed? How do you deal with the knowledge that the reader, real or theoretical, might have a different experience of them? A book is a kind of freedom. This meaning only emerges and is activated only in our relationship to it. There is no poem until others have named it so. An open work, the poem is altered in every meaning of the term, shot through with a thirst for everything and by all othernesses, our own included.
It is not assigned to any meanings, but attempts to produce sense and even maybe a kind of significance, which can only unfold within this relationship. Of course, like in any relationship, two parties are involved, author and readers, and one should be wary of excessively leaning in either direction. This was a cavalier way of outlining the space reading inhabits, between on the one hand over- or misinterpretation and on the other hand the illusion of a fixed, singular meaning.
As I poet, I have nothing to say of the experience my readers have of my poems, which belongs to them. From the moment the poem is published, made public, it eludes me.
Making Friends with Fictioneers
Writing is always a risk. After that, whether the poem lives or dies depends on others… In fact, over time, a work is judged on its capacity to give birth to readings and rereadings. The poet, meanwhile, is often long dead. The poem escapes all policing, including my own—or at least this is the best I can hope for, where my writings are concerned: for them to live on far from me and beyond me, for writing is the experience of dispossession rather than appropriation. This is a good sign!
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In this open dialogue, I am, once the work is finished, on the side of disappearance. This is only banal: we are neither owners nor masters of what we bring into this world, our works or our offspring. All we can do is attempt to make sure that our books and our children live on outside us, after us, and in any case far from our claims to them.
In their freedom to be and to become. Or are you a city dweller by nature these days? My writings travel between city, sea and pastures, it is true.
So do I. Already my childhood was split between the Mediterranean seaside and the alpine mountains of the hinterlands of Nice.
admin.apsitedown.com/how-to-last-longer-in-bed.php Once again, I am drawn to the in-between! I like the breathless rhythm, the diverse population full of the whisper of multiple languages and cultures, the eternal sense of surprise.