Welcome Address For Compering

Jasmin Mahmoud Darwish Barrier

The Elephant infested nests, continues to grow to new land, all equipped with digital systems. I hunt with rifle bat. I dig his grave. Rejected, it changes direction and follows the path of a dangerous world, engulfing more than the imagination, a country of cities, ruins, lakes, ditches, and wonders battlefields fertilized by the decay of cones melon striped band Pearl . This area smoking, one of these crevices of artillery, built a round window, a door underwater, my right eye, twisted by the landscape ...

Happiness immerse themselves in a book that reads a book is true to it: the energy of movement - some thing unwinds in these pages from one end to another like a wire with an invention, a felicity of expression, a freshness in a word indicating the intention to take the reader, wherever he is, in the snares of writing, for conduct which he would never have thought to go. And it - the player, so - delighted with the adventure, enchanted, winnowed, has only one word in catching his breath: thank you ...

Indeed, the invention is funny and we often think of Jarry, in Vian, to Béalu. The Elephant (always in uppercase E) out of nothing between Montreal and Pittsburgh, which arises from a impromptu moleskins coffee or ice of Hudson Bay, is it nature or even the imagination, reality or fantasy, a demon or a god "Contemporary Zeus himself? Throughout the four "acts" - each with six "scenes" - it seems trickery or charge, just trying to fight. And man, all alone in front of these enormous and fearsome mood, no longer has the choice to come to the end. Hence chases worthy of Roussel: "Why I never hunted big tan in Southern Africa" ... and preferred to write a book!

Earth blows. He charged at the rate of skunk and impale Now shots of trees uprooted, their long tusks fleshing machines. He hits hard, I bleed flow pipe drilled, shook the walls that I'm indestructible. Then, in the dragonflies of the moment, he grabs me, around me by the trunk, get up, break me, shoots me, tramples and crushes me into skin darbuka, in its seven legs. I'm confused. I mow until finally, the iris in shadow, I avoid the dissector by rolling on the side.

We have seen shadows move as Rimbaud and Lautreamont (more than surreal, duly referred to) in these lines it should recommend to the jaded poem. Poetry is first joy of reading: this Elephant - a most welcome first book - attests.

Jean-Marie Perret.

• The Elephant, by David Jasmin Gate, The Hexagon, Quebec, October 2008 .

Kate's Playground Movies 2010

Man is perhaps stone ...!
far, he sees the tourist towns of oranges
The chaplain
But posters he collects and writes about his views on butts conquerors who, when they encounter cities, destroying their names and sit on the grass
He said: why culture is it the shadow of the soldiers, near the Mediterranean?
I said, and servant of the palace and class welfare?
They admitted they killed
But they hugged me long
They slipped into the hole made by the ball twenty thousand francs ...

worms Mahmoud Darwish seemed to some too "learned" the suffering of Palestine, his country. Have they really read? These are excerpts from eulogies for Blockade Sea, published in Tunis in 1984. They celebrate the memory of Azeddine Kalak, PLO representative in Paris, was murdered in his Paris office August 2, 1978.

The same book contains Fewer roses , published in Casablanca in 1986. The translation is also Abdellatif Laâbi:

We walk into a country which is not of our flesh. His chestnuts are not in our bones.
Its stones are not goats in the hymn of the mountains. The eyes of the stones are not lilies.
We walk to a country that does not stop on us we are dedicated to the sun ... A soul
finding the soul in its
soul, or die here ...

There are a couple of decades, editions de Minuit French had already published three books of Mahmoud Darwish, including this Fewer roses and, under the title Nothing another year , an anthology of poetry from 1966 to 1982. Besides a book Cerf, Marval in another and a third at Gallimard, the outstanding work of Palestinian poet disappeared this year is also available to the French public through the constancy of Actes Sud (8 titles so far) . And support of Unesco. One can only rejoice.

Jean-Marie Perret.

• Mahmoud Darwish, Fewer roses , Midnight, September 2008

Good Psa Commercial Ideas

Marie-Claire Bancquart

In the clearing stood a large stone resembling a woman

not quite finished
might have hoisted from below the earth


I do not
want

she said nothing more than a piece of this world
adjust myself well

close to me not give a heart, its pulse biased towards
found, make a

zip-top on the ground
drag me back into the thick
give me the indistinct.

And we have abandoned the leaves,

can not kill death.

Music: here we have four compositions, each putting two or three movements, each of these movements linking together five, twelve, twenty pieces. And each of these parts has to turn to some more than one page. The table of such a book sheds light on the unexpected familiarity of the poet with the methods of organizing the music of his time: it is known to work as librettist for several works of composer Alain Bancquart. Familiarity again, with the manner of stock: tasting table Vertical secrecy is of great delicacy.
"Every part of the collection ranges from black to light that we are trying to say in words severe" risk, the author. It is permissible to say that the work here goes beyond the intention: it is even more in the enrichment course that will review the need of the poem. "Freelance Life", "For the deep body", "City and you", "Isis always" - the four parties that were said, each diffracted into many grains, shadows and stamps , provide as much input in what would be the sound of life - and his silence. Never forgetting that woman means:

Women
our clothing pockets so rare a

sometimes when dragging a receipt for a ticket dispenser
expired

few grains of a rod, which was sprig of lavender

nothing for our identity, our home ...

All this fugitive, devoured
kind as our beautiful ...

away Orpheus, Isis still remains : witness this beautifully made book.

Jean-Marie Perret.

• Marie-Claire Bancquart, Vertical secrecy, Obsidian, 4th Qtr. 2007.

New Baby Us Chewing On Nipple When Musing

Yves Bonnefoy

What is said of the boats appear in the sky
And that, some,
The long chain of the anchor may descend
Towards stealthy our land.
The anchor looks on our prairies, among our trees,
The place where dock,
But soon the desire to tear it off up there,
The ship also does not belong here, He
his horizon in another dream.

Books Yves Bonnefoy succeed, and it is difficult not to recognize this great voice, in its permanence and the changes imposed by years. When the poet excels, then the poem is nourished by its own legendary atmosphere, as each verse, each group of words enriches certainties, doubts, ratings of both expected and surprising. Bonnefoy takes precautions to say simple things, precipitates more complex, driving before him a sweet and energetic flow, which recognizes its matter in its metamorphoses

It happens, however,
That the anchor is, it seems, unusual heavy,
And almost drags the ground and crumpled trees
It would have to be taken to a church door, where the hanger
Sub Our hope fades,
And someone of that other world was descended
left along the chain taut, violent
To deliver its our night sky ... This

Long anchor chain, from which these two passages, has the best sequence to the collection. As for prose, we praise the brilliance of America : this way of being surprised by the story, which turns into a meditation, with superposition of a parallel scene, previously printed in the memory (pure reverie? ), only Bonnefoy gives us such emotions in the modern prose poem. But at the cost of monitoring the pace and style that does not show the same way all the pieces together here. A collection well done is not necessarily a book: the unpublished s'adjoignent here in greater numbers, sets published from 2001 to 2007, including the heterogeneity is obvious. Whatever:

And here is a child tries to go back, despite the narrowness of the road - to whom? He faces the other, they if required by the difficulty of moving forward and keep their balls they do not even see. I take him by the arm and I remember. "Where are you going?" "I said. He raises to me both eyes wide with a thought which I will never know anything. And I asked him again: "What's your name?" But without answering, and always looking at me, his eyes thoughtful, he shakes his head. Since these barges

cited the sky above, and agrees that passes between man and the child's age is the theme that he was insistent, deep, this long period that has seen starting with Where the arrow falls ... He echoed the confusion of the poet to his own writing:

I smoothed my notes ... I discovered there any sense. Words, but whose thinking was withdrawn.

Very nice pages.

Jean-Marie Perret.

• Yves Bonnefoy, The long anchor chain , Mercure de France, 2008.

The North Face Jackets Petite

Fernand Ouellette

The tree of the south moves
Who uproots his shadow. A
well now the sun is, total
one long beam ...

Everything is serious in me. All
reads
In a single word. For
dumbness of soul,
For
minds finally on the alert.

So goes the day, Who
knows his craft light
And gather the guests. (Midi)

After a course, staked in Quebec through numerous awards, and fifty years of publications, we must also take the time to read this collection of Fernand Ouellette - born in Montreal in 1930. Not loud, musical, on the contrary, and modest, his writing culminates here in a few tables painted in a way, frankly, as the room below dessus.Une another success, his small spiritual illuminations - Christian, of course, but with a Such tact, such discretion, they preach no affiliation:

In
extreme dullness of a field of tombstones,
To form the pillars of bronze
From Jerusalem will descend.

The power of light is dead, when they pray
strongly
To get through the flames,
The dew of the Spirit
streaming into the soul
And illuminates.

Next is the revelation
Named again. Burning
and clear, the breeze
Life that rises in them.
(Little Apocalypse)

mild-mannered and polite reminder that Emmanuel Pierre, more than Claudel and La Tour du Pin. When he talks about his inspiration, Fernand Ouellet indeed cites the morning light, death, unspeakable. But when asked what his passion, he replied: music. This commitment to music that makes his poetry simple and obvious, although he admits Friedrich Hölderlin, Pierre Jean Jouve and Paul Celan as his favorite poets - three authors of otherwise complex.

Laying look
Although near the ocean beach.
The space is quite comforting.

Poet forget about the world: every poem is, in those series where he wrote (for this book, written documents from 2000 to 2005 and revised most recently). Everything is music.

Jean-Marie Perret

• Fernand Ouellette presence of large, metropolitan France, first quarter 2008.

Accommodation In Delhi Kalibari

Walt Whitman

Students Hail
I see your ranks countless happen. . . . I see that you understand, and I
Whether you know that those who see with their eyes are divine and that God had equally blind and lame,
Whether you know that my steps are behind yours after all preceding them, and that
you are aware that I am no more with you than all the others.

grass leaves are also available in their entirety, thanks to Jacques Darras (Poésie / Gallimard), which remains essential reading. For Whitman has continued to revise and expand his unique book. But here, Corti offers us the chance to have hands in the first edition, that of 1855. The work in its nucleus, in a bilingual format, and translated by Eric postfacée Athenot. The new work, risky in its fledgling power burst:

J'enlace man sinking. . . . I raise an irrepressible desire. O
desperate, here is my neck.
Great God! you do not sink point! Hold on to me with all your weight.
I'll expand a breath inexhaustible. . . . I will maintain afloat;
Each room in the house I met a force of arms. . . . my lovers, these death-dodger;
Sleep! we stand on guard, them and me, all night ...

"I celebrated me," "I wander all night in my vision," "From their bodies men and women", "A young man came," "A child once," "My lesson that the learns? "," Splendor of the myths "... Each of the twelve long poems in their imagination and their fulgurate is reviewed with ease. And paradoxically, because language is particularly worked with the translator for consonant with text age qussi venerable, it appears to us in his youth. The edition is adorned, moreover, a very fine photographic portrait of the author: as reasons for not resist the lure of the book!

Jean-Marie Perret

• Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1855) , trans. E. & afterword Athenot José Corti, 2008.