I Am The Biggest Poet Why Not?
12.01.2012
i am yves bonnefoy
i was jacques roubaud
i am being jude stefan
i have been michel deguy
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Sun-Up
(Shadows over a cradle…
fire-light craning….
A hand
throws something in the fire
and a smaller hand
runs into the flame and out again,
singed and empty….
Shadows
settling over a cradle…
two hands
and a fire.)
I
CELIA
Cherry, cherry, glowing on the hearth, bright red cherry…. When you try to pick up cherry Celia's shriek sticks in you like a pin.
When God throws hailstones you cuddle in Celia's shawl and press your feet on her belly high up like a stool. When Celia makes umbrella of her hand. Rain falls through big pink spokes of her fingers. When wind blows Celia's gown up off her legs she runs under pillars of the bank— great round pillars of the bank have on white stockings too.
Celia says my father
will bring me a golden bowl.
When I think of my father
I cannot see him
for the big yellow bowl
like the moon with two handles
he carries in front of him.
Grandpa, grandpa…
(Light all about you…
ginger… pouring out of green jars…)
You don't believe he has gone away and left his great coat…
so you pretend… you see his face up in the ceiling.
When you clap your hands and cry, grandpa, grandpa, grandpa,
Celia crosses herself.
It isn't a dream…. It comes again and again…. You hear ivy crying on steeples the flames haven't caught yet and images screaming when they see red light on the lilies on the stained glass window of St. Joseph. The girl with the black eyes holds you tight, and you run… and run past the wild, wild towers… and trees in the gardens tugging at their feet and little frightened dolls shut up in the shops crying… and crying… because no one stops… you spin like a penny thrown out in the street. Then the man clutches her by the hair…. He always clutches her by the hair…. His eyes stick out like spears. You see her pulled-back face and her black, black eyes lit up by the glare…. Then everything goes out. Please God, don't let me dream any more of the girl with the black, black eyes.
Celia's shadow rocks and rocks… and mama's eyes stare out of the pillow as though she had gone away and the night had come in her place as it comes in empty rooms… you can't bear it— the night threshing about and lashing its tail on its sides as bold as a wolf that isn't afraid— and you scream at her face, that is white as a stone on a grave and pull it around to the light, till the night draws backward… the night that walks alone and goes away without end. Mama says, I am cold, Betty, and shivers. Celia tucks the quilt about her feet, but I run for my little red cloak because red is hot like fire.
I wish Celia
could see the sea climb up on the sky
and slide off again…
[...] Read more
poem by Lola Ridge
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A Pâques
Frère Jacques, frère Jacques,
Réveille-toi de ton sommeil d'hiver
Les fins taillis sont déjà verts
Et nous voici au temps de Pâques,
Frère Jacques.
Au coin du bois morne et blêmi
Où ton grand corps s'est endormi
Depuis l'automne,
L'aveugle et vacillant brouillard,
Sur les grand-routes du hasard,
S'est promené, longtemps, par les champs monotones ;
Et les chênes aux rameaux noirs
Tordus de vent farouche
Ont laissé choir,
De soir en soir,
Leur feuillage d'or mort sur les bords de ta couche.
Frère Jacques,
Il a neigé durant des mois
Et sur tes mains, et sur tes doigts
Pleins de gerçures ;
Il a neigé, il a givré,
Sur ton chef pâle et tonsuré
Et dans les plis décolorés
De ta robe de bure.
La torpide saison est comme entrée en toi
Avec son deuil et son effroi,
Et sa bise sournoise et son gel volontaire ;
Et telle est la lourdeur de ton vieux front lassé
Et l'immobilité de tes deux bras croisés,
Qu'on les dirait d'un mort qui repose sous terre.
Frère Jacques,
Hier au matin, malgré le froid,
Deux jonquilles, trois anémones
Ont soulevé leurs pétales roses ou jaunes
Vers toi,
Et la mésange à tête blanche,
Fragile et preste, a sautillé
Sur la branche de cornouiller
Qui vers ton large lit de feuillages mouillés
Se penche.
Et tu dors, et tu dors toujours,
Au coin du bois profond et sourd,
Bien que s'en viennent les abeilles
Bourdonner jusqu'au soir à tes closes oreilles
Et que l'on voie en tourbillons
[...] Read more
poem by Emile Verhaeren
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Jude
When you tell mama
you are going to do something great
she looks at you
as though you were a window
she were trying to see through,
and says she hopes you will be good
instead of great.
When you are five years old
you spend the day in the Gardens.
The grass is greener than cabbages,
and orange lilies
stand up very straight
and will not curtsey to the sun
when the wind tells them.
Only pansies bow down very low.
Pansies make little purple cushions
for queen bees to stand on.
Bees
have brown silk hair on their bodies.
If you are careful
they will let you stroke them.
The trees over the marble man
catch up all the sunbeams
so the shadows have it their way—
the shadows swallow him up
like a blue shark.
When you scoop a sunbeam up on your palm
and offer it to the marble man,
he does not notice…
he looks into his stone beard.
… When you do something great
people give you a stone face,
so you do not care any more
when the sun throws gold on you
through leaf-holes the wind makes
in green bushes….
This thought makes me very sad.
Jude has eyes like tobacco
with yellow specks on it
and his hair is red as a red orange.
Jude and I
have made a garden in the field
that no one knows about.
[...] Read more
poem by Lola Ridge
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De Bell Of St. Michel
Go 'way, go 'way, don't ring no more, ole bell of Saint Michel,
For if you do, I can't stay here, you know dat very well,
No matter how I close ma ear, I can't shut out de soun',
It rise so high 'bove all de noise of dis beeg Yankee town.
An' w'en it ring, I t'ink I feel de cool, cool summer breeze
Dat's blow across Lac Peezagonk, an' play among de trees,
Dey're makin' hay, I know mese'f, can smell de pleasant smell
O! how I wish I could be dere to-day on Saint Michel!
It's fonny t'ing, for me I'm sure, dat's travel ev'ryw'ere,
How moche I t'ink of long ago w'en I be leevin' dere;
I can't 'splain dat at all, at all, mebbe it's naturel,
But I can't help it w'en I hear de bell of Saint Michel.
Dere's plaintee t'ing I don't forget, but I remember bes'
De spot I fin' wan day on June de small san'piper's nes'
An' dat hole on de reever w'ere I ketch de beeg, beeg trout
Was very nearly pull me in before I pull heem out.
An' leetle Elodie Leclaire, I wonner if she still
Leev jus' sam' place she use to leev on 'noder side de hill,
But s'pose she marry Joe Barbeau, dat's alway hangin' roun'
Since I am lef' ole Saint Michel for work on Yankee town.
Ah! dere she go, ding dong, ding dong, its back, encore again
An' ole chanson come on ma head of 'a la claire fontaine,'
I'm not surprise it soun' so sweet, more sweeter I can tell
For wit' de song also I hear de bell of Saint Michel.
It's very strange about dat bell, go ding dong all de w'ile
For when I'm small garçon at school, can't hear it half a mile;
But seems more farder I get off from Church of Saint Michel,
De more I see de ole village an' louder soun' de bell.
O! all de monee dat I mak' w'en I be travel roun'
Can't kip me long away from home on dis beeg Yankee town,
I t'ink I'll settle down again on Parish Saint Michel,
An' leev an' die more satisfy so long I hear dat bell.
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Hey Jude Lennon/mccartney
Hey jude, dont make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
Hey jude, dont be afraid.
You were made to go out and get her.
The minute you let her under your skin,
Then you begin to make it better.
And anytime you feel the pain, hey jude, refrain,
Dont carry the world upon your shoulders.
For well you know that its a fool who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder.
Hey jude, dont let me down.
You have found her, now go and get her.
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.
So let it out and let it in, hey jude, begin,
Youre waiting for someone to perform with.
And dont you know that its just you, hey jude, youll do,
The movement you need is on your shoulder.
Hey jude, dont make it bad.
Take a sad song and make it better.
Remember to let her under your skin,
Then youll begin to make it
Better better better better better better, oh.
Da da da da da da, da da da, hey jude...
song performed by Beatles
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hey Jude
Hey jude, dont make it bad, take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start, to make it better
Hey jude, dont be afraid, you were made to, go out and get her
The minute, you let her under your skin, then youll begin, to make it better
And any time you feel the pain, hey jude, refrain
Dont carry the world, upon your shoulders
For now you know that its a fool, who plays it cool
By making his world a little colder na na na na na .... na na na na
Hey jude, dont let me down, you have found her, now go and get her
Remember, to let her into your heart, then you can start, to make it better
So let it out and let it in, hey jude, begin
Your waiting for someone to perform with
And dont you know thats its just you, hey jude, youll do
The movement you need is on your shoulder na na na na na .... na na na na
Hey jude, dont make it bad, take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your skin, then youll begin, to make it
Better, better, better, better, better, better yeah!
song performed by Paul McCartney
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Beatles Medley
Were sergeant peppers lonely hearts club band
Were sorry but its time to go
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band
We hope you did enjoy the show
Sergeant peppers lonely, sergeant peppers lonely
Sergeant peppers lonely hearts club band...
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
We were talking about the space between our song!
Aint nothing you can do that cant be done!
Its been a hard days night, I should be sleeping like a log!
Help! I need somebody!
Help!
Shes a big teaser!
She took me half the way there!
Lady madonna, baby at your breast!
Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged!
Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged!
She loves you yeah yeah yeah!
She loves you yeah yeah yeah!
She loves you yeah yeah yeah!
She loves you yeah!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Nah nah nah nah nah nah!
Nah nah nah!
Hey jude!
Nah nah nah nah nah nah!
Nah nah nah!
Hey jude!
Nah nah nah nah nah nah!
Nah nah nah!
Hey jude!
Dah dah dah dah dah dah!
Dah dah dah!
Hey jude!
Dah dah dah dah dah dah!
Dah dah dah!
Hey jude!
Dah dah dah dah dah dah!
Dah dah dah!
Hey jude!
Hey jude!
song performed by Waterboys
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Hey Jude
(words & music by john lennon - paul mccartney)
Hey jude, dont be a fool
Take a sad song and make it better
The minute you let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better
Hey jude, dont let me down
Take a sad song and make it better
The minute you let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better
Let it out and let in
Hey jude begin
To making the world a little better
Dont you know that its a fool
Who plays it cool
In making the world a little better
Hey jude, dont let me down
Take a sad song and make it better
The minute you let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better
Let it out and let in
Hey jude begin
To making the world a little better
Dont you know that its a fool
Who plays it cool
To taking the world upon your shoulder
Hey jude, dont let me down
Take a sad song and make it better
The minute you let her into your heart
Then you can start to make it better
Na na na na na.....
song performed by Elvis Presley
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Narrator
(berry/buck/mills/stipe)
When I was watching tv back in 73
A skinny old man sure appealed to me
His name by now, Im sure you know
The man who played a starring role in jacques cousteau
Oh, i
And ever since then Ive written the dude
Dreaming of swimming around the
Coral reef
Id even bought my camera and my scuba gear
If only jacques had called to stop a career
Oh, i
(chorus)
I wanna be a narrator
I wanna be a narrator (I wanna be a narrator)
For the jacques cousteau show
For the jacques cousteau show (for the jacques cousteau show)
Swimming under water with my microphone
Id record noises in the aqua-zone
Chasing down the killer whale thats eating our crew
Just to bring the story facts back to you
Oh, i
(repeat chorus)
Ive written the networks, sent my picture too
Done everything I could possibly do
Ive given up trying to get through to him
Maybe he knows I dont know how to swim
Oh, i
(repeat chorus)
song performed by REM
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Angel Of Mercy
Theres never been any reason
or escape for the treason
You just think of a time far away
I feel your flame and your anguish
I know your plans and your last wish
You just can't face another day
Angel of Mercy, take her to your homeland
Angel of Mercy, you can feel the signs,
its the End, its the End
You've stood along the life line
You've played the fool for the last time
You just want the joy and the peace
You've heard all the laughter
Youve seen what youre after
You just want the rest and the sleep
Angel of Mercy, take her to your homeland
Angel of Mercy, you can feel the signs,
its the End, its the End
Angel Of Mercy, Angel Of Mercy
Lead: Stefan
Solo: Stefan
You can hear the clocks tick
as you scheme for your last fix,
from a place you never will awake
I hear your cry into the night
I hear you die within my fright
But now youve saved your mistake
Angel Of Mercy
Angel of Mercy, Angel of Mercy
Solo: Stefan
song performed by Hammerfall
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Sir Peter Harpdon's End
In an English Castle in Poictou. Sir Peter Harpdon, a Gascon knight in the English service, and John Curzon, his lieutenant.
John Curzon
Of those three prisoners, that before you came
We took down at St. John's hard by the mill,
Two are good masons; we have tools enough,
And you have skill to set them working.
Sir Peter
So-
What are their names?
John Curzon
Why, Jacques Aquadent,
And Peter Plombiere, but-
Sir Peter
What colour'd hair
Has Peter now? has Jacques got bow legs?
John Curzon
Why, sir, you jest: what matters Jacques' hair,
Or Peter's legs to us?
Sir Peter
O! John, John, John!
Throw all your mason's tools down the deep well,
Hang Peter up and Jacques; they're no good,
We shall not build, man.
John Curzon
going.
Shall I call the guard
To hang them, sir? and yet, sir, for the tools,
We'd better keep them still; sir, fare you well.
[...] Read more
poem by William Morris
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My dream is to fly
‘My dream is to fly
Over the rainbow so high’
If you have never touched an edge
Just don’t say nothing
Don’t make a pledge
To sky from earth too high for a birth
Reconciled you will be
In flights of memory
If you have never made a leap
Just don’t say nothing
And wings unspread
Don’t silence loop it’s no time to sleep
Awake wide open you will fly
Over an early rainbow so high
Inspired by Yves Larock, the opening quotation from Rise Up by Yves Larock
©Miroslava Odalovic
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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I'm not called Jude Law, I have three names; I'm called 'Hunk Jude Law' or 'Heartthrob Jude Law'. In England anyway, that's my full name. That's the cheap language that's thrown around, that sums you up in one little bracket. It doesn't look at your life. But if one looks beyond, there is actually a little bit more.
quote by Jude Law
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CYBERNETICS WAS BORN IN ROMANIA (1938-1939) - Today it is known that, 10 years before the book of the American mathematician Norbert Wiener (1894-1964) “Cybernetics: Or Control and Communication in the Animal and the Machine”, the Romanian Dr Ștefan Odobleja (1902-1978) - military doctor (post-mortem member of the Romanian Academy, 1990), publishes in 2 volumes "Consonantist Psychology", 1938-1939, at the "Maloine" Publishing House, Paris, in French (totaling over 800 pages), in which he establishes general laws, which he applies to both the sciences of inert nature and the sciences of the living world, psychology and economic and social phenomena. Dr. Ştefan Odobleja makes a description of the psychological functions using a general scheme of a cybernetic system, where the sense organs, which receive information from the environment, represent the inputs (INPUT), and the muscles are considered the outputs (OUTPUT). He takes "steps across the boundaries of psychology" moving from man to other complex systems (communities, social organizations, etc.), inventing a new science: Cybernetics.
Marin Vlada in ROINFO Romanian Informatics 2018-2022
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"CONSONANTIST PSYCHOLOGY", PERIOD 1938-1939 - Dr. Ștefan Odobleja (1902-1978), publishes in 2 volumes "Consonantist Psychology", 1938 and 1939, at the Publishing House "Maloine", Paris, in French, totaling over 800 of pages), in which he establishes general laws, which he applies both to the sciences of inert nature and to the sciences of the living world, psychology and economic and social phenomena. "Consonantal psychology has revealed the importance of dual, binary and dichotomous mechanisms both in psychology and beyond, in all sciences. He suggested and applied as another essential for the mechanization of thought, along with circularity. Instead of logic based on 3, he proposed and sketched a logic based on 2. " says Dr. Stefan Odobleja. Thus, he came to define the 9 universal laws, among them being the law of reversibility / vicious circle, feedback. The 2 volumes represent the concepts and studies for a new science: Cybernetics.
Marin Vlada in ROINFO Romanian Informatics 2018-2022
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Desiree And Michel
Special regards to Desiree and Michel,
The muse of love showers on you people;
For, you saw the drummer playing his drum and,
You followed him to his hometown! !
And like the sweet muse of love in the land of peace.
Your desire is like the muse of love oh Desiree!
So, thanks for your offer and thanks for the money;
Your identity is like the muse of peace oh Michel!
So, thanks for youe offer and thanks for the money;
For, the muse of the drummer in Africa will always guide you people.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Andrea del Sarto
But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?
Oh, I'll content him,--but to-morrow, Love!
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual, and it seems
As if--forgive now--should you let me sit
Here by the window with your hand in mine
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve
For each of the five pictures we require:
It saves a model. So! keep looking so--
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!
--How could you ever prick those perfect ears,
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet--
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls his,
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less.
You smile? why, there's my picture ready made,
There's what we painters call our harmony!
A common greyness silvers everything,--
All in a twilight, you and I alike
--You, at the point of your first pride in me
(That's gone you know),--but I, at every point;
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.
There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;
That length of convent-wall across the way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;
The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead;
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning
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Autumn Passed Through Paris
Autumn sliped into Paris yesterday,
came silently down Boulevard St Michel,
In sultry heat, past boughs sullen and still,
and met me on its way.
As I walked on to where the Seine flows by,
little twig songs burned softly in my heart,
smoky, odd, sombre, purple songs. I thought
they sighed that I shall die.
Autumn drew abreast and whispered to me,
Boulevard St Michel that moment shivered.
Rustling, the dusty, playful leaves quivered,
whirled forth along the way.
One moment: summer took no heed: whereon,
laughing, autumn sped away from Paris.
That it was here, I alone bear witness,
under the trees that moan.
poem by Endre Ady
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You Are Wanted…
You Are Wanted…
They raped your mother
They shot your father
At point blank
They blinded your sister with a pink
Handkerchief, slapped your brother
Kicked the baby’s crib
Sprayed deadly mace
Spat on her face
And broke the left rib
Of the poor maid
All of those victims are innocent
Who committed no crime; they are too decent
To be victimized by this raid
This is normal procedure
Under a police state
Where there is no future
Today is maybe the date
That you take your last breath
Nothing is cheaper than death.
They killed my Kindergarten’s teacher
That early morning
The whole town was mourning
My teacher spoke like a great preacher
His name was Mr. Michel Gros Jean
He was very nice, he was not mean
The world lost a great man
I can swear that he committed zero sin
He was apparently assassinated
Because a friend showed him a speech
That was written by Lenin
It was a big deal, a major sin
To analyze a draw, a sketch
That was done by an opinionated
Communist. Mr. Michel knew nothing
About such censorship
An innocent was executed for no reasons
People’s lives are cheap
When dictators rule nations.
I remember vividly that awful day
I must have been five years old
This sad event stained my mind and my soul
This poem is dedicated
To all men, women and children
Who were tortured and executed
Like Mr. Gros Jean who placed the first pen
In my hand. He taught me my first lesson
[...] Read more
poem by Hebert Logerie (February 2012)
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Bel Canto
The sun is high, the seaside air is sharp,
And salty light reveals the Mayan School.
The Irish hope their names are on the harp,
We see the sheep's advertisement for wool,
Boulders are here, to throw against a tarp,
From which comes bursting forth a puzzled mule.
Perceval seizes it and mounts it, then
The blood-dimmed tide recedes and then comes in again.
Fateful connections that we make to things
Whose functioning's oblivious to our lives!
How sidewise news of light from darkness springs,
How blue bees buzz from big blooms back to hives
And make the honey while the queen bee sings
Leadbelly in arrangements by Burl Ives—
How long ago I saw the misted pine trees
And hoped, no matter how, to get them into poetry!
Stendhal, at fifty, gazing as it happened
On Rome from the Janiculum, decided
That one way he could give his life a stipend
Was to suspend his being Amour's fighter
And get to know himself. Here he had ripened
Accomplished, loved, and lived, was a great writer
But never had explored in true detail
His childhood and his growing up. So he set sail
Composing La Vie de Henry Brulard
But in five hundred pages scarcely got
Beyond his seventeenth year, for it is hard
To take into account what happens here
And fit it all onto an index card.
Even one moment of it is too hot,
Complex and cannibalistically connected
To every other, which is what might be expected.
Sterne's hero has a greater problem, never
Getting much past his birth. I've had a third one.
My autobiography, if I should ever
Start out to write it, quickly seems a burden
An I-will-do-that-the-next-time endeavor.
Whatever life I do write's an absurd one
As if some crazy person with a knife
Cut up and made a jigsaw puzzle of a life.
[...] Read more
poem by Kenneth Koch
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