André Breton ~ Quote . . .

Love is when you meet someone who
tells you something new about yourself.

André Breton ~ Poem . . .

André Breton, founder of the Surrealist movement, was one of the most important figures in 20th century art. This selection includes two parts of his cycle of love poems, The Air of the Water.

"In the beautiful half-light of 1934"

The air was a splendid pink the color of red mullet
And the forest when I prepared to enter it
Began with a tree with cigarette paper leaves
Because I was waiting for you
And if you come for a walk with me
No matter where
Your mouth is the incredible all-spice
From which the blue wheel diffuse and broken endlessly sets out and rises
Turning pale in the rut
All the marvels hurried to meet me
A squirrel had come to press its white belly against my heart
I don't know how he made himself do it
But the earth was filled with reflections deeper than those in water
As if metal had finally shaken off its shell
And you lying on the frightening ocean of precious gems
Were turning
Naked
In a huge sun of fireworks
I saw you slowly evolving from the radiolarians
Even the shells of the sea urchins I was there
Wait a minute I wasn't there any more
I had raised my head because the living jewel box of white velvet had left me
And I was sad
The sky between the leaves was shining haggard and hard like a dragonfly
I was going to shut my eyes
When two wooden booms which had suddenly swung apart came crashing down
Without a sound
Like the two center leaves of an immense lily-of-the-valley
Of a flower capable of containing the whole night
I was where you see me now
In the set-all-the-bells-a-ringing perfume
Before they could return as they do each day to fickle life
I just had time to place my lips
On your glass thighs

"I dream I see you endlessly superimposed upon yourself"

You're sitting on the high coral stool
In front of your mirror always in its first quarter
Two fingers on the water wing of your comb
And at the same time
You're returning from a journey you're lingering the last one left in the grotto
Streaming with lightning
You don't recognize me
You're stretched out on the bed you wake up or you fall asleep
You wake up where you went to sleep or somewhere else
You're naked the elderberry ball bounces again
A thousand elderberry balls hum above you
So light that at each instant you're unaware of them
Your breath your blood saved from the crazy juggling of the air
You cross the street the cars hurled at you are nothing but their shadows
And as a
Little girl
Caught in a bellows of sparkles
You jump rope
Long enough so that the one green butterfly which haunts the peaks of Asia
Can appear at the top of the invisible stairway
I caress everything that was you
In everything that's yet to be you
I hear the melodious hissing
Of your limitless limbs
The one serpent in all the trees
Your arms at whose center the crystal of the compass rose turns
My living fountain of Shivas
____________________________
Two sections from The Air of the Water by André Breton,
translated by Bill Zavatsky and Zack Rogow, excerpted from
Earthlight by André Breton, recently reissued by Sun and Moon Press.
Translation © 1993 by Bill Zavatsky and Zack Rogow.
Poems © 1966 Editions Gallimard.
http://www.poetrymagazine.com/archives/2000/April00/breton.htm

Bolaño * Breton * Neruda * Paz

SELF PORTRAIT AT TWENTY YEARS
By Roberto Bolaño
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~

I set off, I took up the march and never knew
where it might take me. I went full of fear,
my stomach dropped, my head was buzzing:
I think it was the icy wind of the dead.
I don't know. I set off, I thought it was a shame
to leave so soon, but at the same time
I heard that mysterious and convincing call.
You either listen or you don't, and I listened
and almost burst out crying: a terrible sound,
born on the air and in the sea.
A sword and shield. And then,
despite the fear, I set off, I put my cheek
against death's cheek.
And it was impossible to close my eyes and miss seeing
that strange spectacle, slow and strange,
though fixed in such a swift reality:
thousands of guys like me, baby-faced
or bearded, but Latin American, all of us,
brushing cheeks with death.


I read about him on the web. He often refers to Octavio Paz , André Breton , and Pablo Neruda . Here's great I found where Roberto Bolaño takes a second to load sometimes because google is translating it into English...

~::~ The Spectral Attitudes ~::~

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The Spectral Attitudes
By André Breton
1896-1966
*************

I attach no importance to life
I pin not the least of life's butterflies to importance
I do not matter to life
But the branches of salt the white branches
All the shadow bubbles
And the sea-anemones
Come down and breathe within my thoughts
They come from tears that are not mine
From steps I do not take that are steps twice
And of which the sand remembers the flood-tide
The bars are in the cage
And the birds come down from far above to sing before these bars
A subterranean passage unites all perfumes
A woman pledged herself there one day
This woman became so bright that I could no longer see her
With these eyes which have seen my own self burning
I was then already as old as I am now
And I watched over myself and my thoughts like a night watchman in an immense factory Keeping watch alone
The circus always enchants the same tramlines
The plaster figures have lost nothing of their expression
They who bit the smile's fig
I know of a drapery in a forgotten town
If it pleased me to appear to you wrapped in this drapery
You would think that your end was approaching
Like mine
At last the fountains would understand that you must not say Fountain
The wolves are clothed in mirrors of snow
I have a boat detached from all climates
I am dragged along by an ice-pack with teeth of flame
I cut and cleave the wood of this tree that will always be green
A musician is caught up in the strings of his instrument
The skull and crossbones of the time of any childhood story
Goes on board a ship that is as yet its own ghost only
Perhaps there is a hilt to this sword
But already there is a duel in this hilt
During the duel the combatants are unarmed
Death is the least offence
The future never comes

The curtains that have never been raised
Float to the windows of houses that are to be built
The beds made of lilies
Slide beneath the lamps of dew
There will come an evening
The nuggets of light become still underneath the blue moss
The hands that tie and untie the knots of love and of air
Keep all their transparency for those who have eyes to see
They see the palms of hands
The crowns in eyes
But the brazier of crown and palms
Can scarcely be lit in the deepest part of the forest
There where the stags bend their heads to examine the years
Nothing more than a feeble beating is heard
From which sound a thousand louder or softer sounds proceed
And the beating goes on and on
There are dresses that vibrate
And their vibration is in unison with the beating
When I wish to see the faces of those that wear them
A great fog rises from the ground
At the bottom of the steeples behind the most elegant reservoirs of life and of wealth
In the gorges which hide themselves between two mountains
On the sea at the hour when the sun cools down
Those who make signs to me are separated by stars
And yet the carriage overturned at full speed
Carries as far as my last hesitation
That awaits me down there in the town where the statues of bronze
and of stone have changed places with statues of wax Banyans banyans.

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