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Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica) by Jean Cocteau

Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica) by Jean Cocteau

…Preamble

A rough draft

for an ars poetica

. . . . . . .

Let’s get our dreams unstuck

The grain of rye

free from the prattle of grass

et loin de arbres orateurs

I

plant

it

It will sprout

But forget about

the rustic festivities

For the explosive word

falls harmlessly

eternal through

the compact generations

and except for you

nothing

denotates

its sweet-scented dynamite

Greetings

I discard eloquence

the empty sail

and the swollen sail

which cause the ship

to lose her course

My ink nicks

and there

and there

and there

and

there

sleeps

deep poetry

The mirror-paneled wardrobe

washing down ice-floes

the little eskimo girl

dreaming

in a heap

of moist negroes

her nose was

flattened

against the window-pane

of dreary Christmases

A white bear

adorned with chromatic moire

dries himself in the midnight sun

Liners

The huge luxury item

Slowly founders

all its lights aglow

and so

sinks the evening-dress ball

into the thousand mirrors

of the palace hotel

And now

it is I

the thin Columbus of phenomena

alone

in the front

of a mirror-paneled wardrobe

full of linen

and locking with a key

The obstinate miner

of the void

exploits

his fertile mine

the potential in the rough

glitters there

mingling with its white rock

Oh

princess of the mad sleep

listen to my horn

and my pack of hounds

I deliver you

from the forest

where we came upon the spell

Here we are

by the pen

one with the other

wedded

on the page

Isles sobs of Ariadne

Ariadnes

dragging along

Aridnes seals

for I betray you my fair stanzas

to

run and awaken

elsewhere

I plan no architecture

Simply

deaf

like you Beethoven

blind

like you

Homer

numberless old man

born everywhere

I elaborate

in the prairies of inner

silence

and the work of the mission

and the poem of the work

and the stanza of the poem

and the group of the stanza

and the words of the group

and the letters of the word

and the least

loop of the letters

it’s your foot

of attentive satin

that I place in position

pink

tightrope walker

sucked up by the void

to the left to the right

the god gives a shake

and I walk

towards the other side

with infinite precaution

April 29, 2008 Posted by | Jean Cocteau, _PHOTOGRAPHY, _POETRY | Leave a comment