André Breton: On the Road to San Romano

19 August 2018


Poetry is made in bed like love
Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in the woods

It possesses the space it needs
Not this but the other that’s governed by
The eye of the falcon
The dew on snake-grass
Memories of a misted bottle of Savagnin Blanc on a silver salver
A tall pillar of tourmaline over the sea
And the path of intellectual adventure
Which climbs vertically
One pause and it’s instantly overgrown

It doesn’t proclaim itself from the rooftops
It’s not appropriate to leave the door open
Or summon witnesses

The shoals of fish the hedges of blue-tits
The rails at the entrance to some large station
The reflections of either shore
The wrinkles in bread
The bubbles on water
The calendar days
The St John’s wort

The act of love and the act of poetry
Are incompatible
With reading newspapers aloud

The direction of the sunlight
The blue glint that connects the lumberjack’s axe-blows
The string of the heart-shaped or keep-net shaped kite
The rhythmic beating of beavers’ tails
The industriousness of lightning
The hurling of sugarplums from the top of old stairways
The avalanche

The Chamber of fascinations
No, gentlemen, is not the eighth Chamber
Nor the fumes of the barracks some Sunday evening

The figures of dance executed transparently over the ponds
The outlining of a woman’s body by daggers thrown at the wall
The bright coils of smoke
The curls of your hair
The curve of a sponge from the Philippines
The lacings of serpent coral
The ivy’s entry among the ruins
It has all of time before it

The poetic embrace like that of the flesh
While it lasts
Forbids every glimpse of the poverty of the world

Post a comment

© Ecco Vediamo. Design by FCD.