Jonathan Larson Translation. Christian Hendrikx Vertaler. Cid Corman Translator. Robert Bly. Piet Meeuse Translator. Miguel Casado Traductor. Peter Handke. To add more books, click here. Welcome back. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account. Tubulures, hauts fourneaux, cuves y voisinent avec les marteaux-pilons, les coussins de graisse.
La vapeur y jaillit, bouillante. Des feux sombres ou clairs rougeoient. Reconnaissons que personne ne se le fait dire deux fois. Comme dans une grotte merveilleuse, je les vois tous parler et rire mais ne les entends pas. Ils ne sortent pas les uns des autres par gestation. Ils ne sont pas… Ils ne sont pas…. Cette modification de la sempiternelle feuille signifie certainement quelque chose. Leurs poses, ou « tableaux-vivants » :.
Leurs figures, leurs corps se fendillent. Eux les admettent. Cependant le vent souffle. Il fait voler le sable. Chaque homme peut toucher en chair et en os tous les possibles de ce monde dans son jardin. Encore quelques jours sans signification dans aucun ordre pratique du monde, profitons de ses vertus. Influenced by surrealism, he developed a form of prose poem, minutely examining everyday objects. Search review text. Lou Last. The Butterfly When the sugar prepared in the stem rises to the bottom of the flower, like a badly washed cup - a great event takes place on the ground where the butterflies suddenly take off.
Because each caterpillar had it's head blinded and blackened, and it's torso shrunk by the veritable explosion from which its symmetrical wings flamed - From then on the erratic butterfly no longer alights except by chance of route, or just about.
A flying match, it's flame is not contagious. Furthermore, it arrives too late and can only acknowledge the flowers' blooming. Never mind: in the role of lamplighter, it checks the oil supply in each one, places on the top of the flower the atrophied cocoon it carries, and so avenges it's long, amorphous humiliation as a caterpillar at the stem's foot. Miniscule airborne sailboat abused by the wind mistaking it for a twice-spawned petal, it gallivants around the garden.
Laurie —Read Between The Skylines—. Une horreur. Un calvaire. Matthew Mousseau. Author 2 books followers. On the typographical bushes constituted by the poem, along a road leading neither away from things nor to the spirit, certain fruits are formed of an agglomeration of spheres filled by a drop of ink.
Given the disproportion between seeds and pulp, birds care little for them, since in the end so little is left once through from beak to anus.
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