Yves Tanguy
Marcus Williamson
Yves Tanguy
The worlds are breaking in my head
Blown by the brainless wind
That comes from afar
Swollen with dusk and dust
And hysterical rain
The fading cries of the light
Awaken the endless desert
Engrossed in its tropical slumber
Enclosed by the dead grey oceans
Enclasped by the arms of the night
The worlds are breaking in my head
Their fragments are crumbs of despair
The food of the solitary damned
Who await the gross tumult of turbulent
Days bringing change without end
The worlds are breaking in my head
The fuming future sleeps no more
For their seeds are beginning to grow
To creep and to cry midst the
Rocks of the deserts to come
Planetary seed
Sown by the grotesque wind
Whose head is so swollen with rumours
Whose hands are so urgent with tumours
Whose feet are so deep in the sand
by David Gascoyne
Dale Houstman
"cythera" <cyt...@my-deja.com> wrote in message
news:fadef76.02030...@posting.google.com...
> Marcus Williamson <mar...@myrealbox.com> wrote in message
news:<gu858uk620ivcpf9i...@4ax.com>...
I don't like it either, although Gascoyne does have a "reputation" and was
part of the first English surrealist group. I've read a fair share of his
work by now and rarely understand why he is given so much space, unless it
is because he is also a fairly well-known translator of French texts. It is
difficult to say all that of course, because it seems that the notion poetry
is supposed to be beyond criticism keeps popping up here and there, mixed
with the idea that "poetry shall be made by all" although that "shall" is
all-important, banking as it does on a reconfigured world that is -
regrettably enough - always just a little too far in the future. But - in
this world - much of what attempts to pass itself off as poetry is just
puttering.
dmh
Marcus Williamson
Let's try this one then...
Salvador Dali
The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.
The children chasing butterflies turn around and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like
smoke.
The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'
A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.
Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.
Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
Dale Houstman
That's more like it. Salvador was a creep at best, but he did have an
imagination at one point -before he sold it to Vogue magazine, the Pope, and
General Franco for a shiny limo and a string of young sex goddesses to watch
looking up at him as he expounded his anemic diarrhea of theories.
dmh
>
Brandon Freels
> Let's try this one then...
The Very Image
To Rene Magritte
An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away
An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow
An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine
An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp
An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head
And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.
by David Gascoyne
Marcus Williamson
Good choice!
Anonymous
surrealism back in the 30's. This dude turns me on
Marcus Williamson wrote:
> Good choice!
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Marcus Williamson
I run a web site about Gascoyne here:
http://www.connectotel.com/gascoyne
This includes a bibliography. Books are available new or used from
places like Amazon and ABE (http://www.abebooks.com)
Hope this helps!
regards
Marcus