THE SONG OF THE CASTAWAYS

Born in Montbéliard, 11 November 1952,

Jean-Michel Maulpoix has published poetry,

including A History of blue, the writer imagined,

Public Domain, and not on snow,published

in the Mercure de France. He also published critical studies on Henri Michaux, Jacques Réda and René Char,

as well as testing general poetic

(including poetry nevertheless poetry as lovepoetry and Du). Her writing, which constantly interact prose and poetry,

claiming volontiers a "critical lyricism.

Jean-Michel Maulpoix directs the quarterly journal of literature

and criticism New Series (ed. Field valley Seyssel 01420)

Alumnus of the École normale supérieure de Saint-Cloud,

modern literature, and author of a doctoral thesis on state

"notion of lyricism, he teaches modern poetry at the University

of Paris X-Nanterre where He also hosts a team of research

entitled "MonitoringoFcontemporary poetry -

------- photo Tony Elieh

"The song of the castaways

Poem extracted from « Dans l'interstice » (« Through the chinks… »

by Jean-Michel MAULPOIX, & Fata Morgana, publ., 1991

Translated by Catherine Wieder

We are the wrecked castaways of language

To and fro do we wander from one country to another, clinging on to the floated woods of our

phrases

Such are the remains of an old vessel crashed so long ago

But desire still plots whilst we ship adrift

And sculpt in those planks statuettes of sirens with blue hair

And go on singing with those very same lungs

Let us repeat the sea

Do not bring any stupid trial to the blue

The sea, clinging on to the sea

Shivers and slides on the sea

Its movements of a skirt,

its blows of the shoulders, its redundancies

And all this blue coming to us on the wide flats of the sea

We like the way the small craft passes and goes

Swaying from one wave to another, dancing its fluttering turmoil to meet the sea again
And its weird jingling sound

When music unfolds itself on the huge score of the sea

The sea mingles with the sea

Mixes its lakes and puddles

Its ideas of gulls and foams

Its dreams of seaweeds and cormorants

With its heavy blue chrysanthemums from the open sea

With clumps of forget-me-nots on the white walls of the islands

With the bruises of the horizon

With switched off light-houses

With the dreams of the unfathomable sky

The sea is a fallen blue sky

Long ago did the sky indeed lose its keys in the sea

Under which suns should we from now on lose ourselves ?

On which shoulder will we rest the fever of our wet head ?

Our dreams are birds' feet on the sand

Fragments of nails cut a few inches away from the sea

We burn on the beach huge heaps of corpses

Since such are the words with their bones and smokes

Heaps of thighbones and metacarpusses

A pyre of sweet-smelling blades of grass and crackling powders

A dry meadow would be kindled next to the sea
High flames headlong jumping among the brooms

And all of a sudden a woman's chest erected in the spluttering

Offered to that mad love

Throwing towards heaven the long moan

Of he who scorched his heart

Alone, does he walk towards her, on the narrow granite jetty

Embarking his perishable body towards nothing

She remains the huge lying shape, running towards him

Throwing towards him her flurries and petticoats

Lo ! here does he stand,

He the small man, standing up straight on the dyke with his pencil

Tightly pressed against her, but apart

Both so close and yet losing sight of each other

Pressing on to each other, their hearts badly anchored

The blue bathes a little that small body of a man

The blue catches him in its nets

A speck of flesh or chip of bashful love

A tuft of light between his palms

Stained with deep ink

Lips tightly closed by the wave

Muted, having nothing to reply to the open blue

Voiceless in the water's maze

Why can't we put out our roots in the sea

As drowned men and weeds do ?

We would easily carry on our shoulders

The never fading blue sky

Which however dreams of colours and hues

And the lukewarm wool of the foams

And the poisonous fruits of the open sea

In which no human lip did ever bite

Thus would we return to the infinite garden

We won't fill the sea with our tears

We'd rather support with our songs the efforts of the storms

Throwing their cries and leaches on to our heads

And when our watery eyes no longer see anything

We'll know better still what the sea is

The scales covering our hearts will have fallen

And our nacreous skin will at last be so white

That we would no longer fear the mad love of the sirens

Cheers to the skies of the open sea

So will we drink from chalices and ciboriums

Gluttunously will we drink the sea

No water will ever quench our thirst

We are thirsty of the salt

Our lips are greedy

In the blue sea, it's always Sunday

When gold fishes kneel

Since the days when the floodtide started carrying us

We started a liking for eternity

Water has gotten into our head

And crystal droplets in our blood

We hardly remember our fellow creatures

Whose gardens fade

And whose children grow

Our heart is so blue.

A STRANGE SHEPHERD

Elşen Hudiyev

Elşen Hudiyev or Elshen Khudiyev (born 1980) is Turkish contemporary poet and essayist. After receiving his degree in Political Science and International Relations from Faculty of Economics and Administrative Sciences of Bosphorus University , he worked different positions but never reached stable life. His early works proved to be premature, but later especially with the series of "Abnormal Poetry" he achieved deep emotional, symbolic and pessimistic style. Mainly concerns with global problems rather than local, he writes in turkish and very rarely in azeri. His poetry mainly based on free verse, however he had some haiku and sonnets too. He is important literary figure because his poetry can described as 'new wave poetry of Azerbaijan' and he is the second poet afterHuseyn Javid writing in turkish rather than native azeri language. In his prose he touches problematic issues such as prejudice, lie and another human controversies. Although he is arguing that his essays are non-philosophical, some deep philosophy sacred behind his plain dialogue based essays. In this manner his works look like a catechisis book of humanism.

A Strange Shepherd

I do not want the storm, composure

worse.

I can not love the sun, the nigh

will bring heartbreak.

To cry of joy was the last point

Loneliness disgust, love severe pain.

Do you have that, do you have that,

it is a human?

All things are separate from the

middle.

Not a mite on black and white,

What in the dark, keep the light

quark

I was crying with joy when you wrap.

I wanted to like the light of the

sun,

Night when you cried.

I was alone in the night searching

for you.

Night storm was more than alone.

I was alone when the sun yellow.

SUNDAY EVENING

--Johan on Couch, 1925 - Edward Weston photo

Sunday Evening

Toni Davis (Aus) Catherine Mair (NZ)

aiming the fly spray at the curtain

I cough and the shadow rises feeling

the flush of wine in my cheeks

fluttering downwards to old drunkedness

still zooming above our heads & the unwashed dishes

another day settles around the sink

resting her head on the old woman's crocheted rug

darkness descends and the start of a dream

LITTLE FLY

Little Fly

Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath;
And the want
of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

-- William Blake

MYSTERY...

JIMENEZ DEREDIA

TRISTAN TZARA

The Great Lament Of My Obscurity Three

by Tristan Tzara

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the

in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies

my son

my son

let us always shuffle through the colour of the world

which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy

we are too thin

we have no mouth

our legs are stiff and knock together

our faces are formeless like the stars

crystal points without strength burned basilica

mad : the zigzags crack

telephone

bite the rigging liquefy

the arc

climb

astral

memory

towards the north through its double fruit

like raw flesh

hunger fire blood

Tristan Tzara (April 16, 1896 - December 25, 1963) is the pseudonym of Sami Rosenstock, born in Moinesti, Bacău, Romania. A poet and essayist who lived for the majority of his life in France, he is known mainly as a founder of Dada, a nihilistic revolutionary movement in the arts.

TAKAKO ARAI

..........................................................................................................................................

........................................................................................................................................

When the Moon Rises

It is the night shift in an abandoned spinning

factory

There is only a single light bulb here

The spools of thread turn by themselves

Click goes the bobbins

Changed by the machines

It has already been a decade

Since this place shut down

But when the moon rises, it begins to work

Its strange automation

They say soon after the war

A factory worker’s hair got tangled

In the machines, killing her

There are things that float here

But this is not the work of ghosts

No

In the factory

There are peculiar habits

That is what I mean

Peculiar habits remain here

An old lady who spun thread

For forty-four years here

Still licks her index finger and twists

Even on her deathbed

She cannot escape that gesture

That must be true in the netherworld too

Since threads are so infinitely thin

The gestures sink into the bodies

Of those who manipulate the machines

They possess them Look

How the raw silk thread

Is pulled smoothly

From the factory woman’s fingers

Then dances endlessly

The factory is that way too

The axle of the spinning whee

Remembers

The molecules of steel

Hang their heads in the

Direction in which they spin

Then get caught up

Clanging emptily

When the moonlight pours in

It is not just the tide that is full
Emptily

Emptily

The spinning wheels spin

The threads swim

Through the abandoned factory

Translation by Jeffrey Angles

Squirrel Queen.

The Chase for Baja

The Road to Here

Through Squirrel Eyes

SHE...is a great photographer, she had awarded me with "One Very Lovely Blog Award". That´s cool , "THANY YOU JUDY, I ADORE YOUR´S NATURE PHOTOS".

"One Very Lovely Blog Award".

Rules for sharing this award are different than other awards because instead of just passing it on to just anyone, you are supposed to pass it on to NEW to YOU blogs you've just become familiar with, which is very, very cool! :1) Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who has granted the award, and his or her blog link. You can also make a comment about the person who gave the award to you by asking your readers to stop by their blog, pay them a visit, leave a comment, or even 'follow' their blog if they feel led to.2) Pass the award on to other blogs that you’ve newly discovered. Contact these bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award. Just go to their site and leave a comment to one of their posts telling them you have an award for them and to please come by your blog to get it. Just a little note: You pick the number of blogs to pass the award to, just give it to those you have recently discovered.A second note, I am not passing this award along as much as I am giving to you.
Thank´s .

THE AWARD GOES TO:

1-CREEATIE
2- lasotrasevas
3-Walk the Wilderness
4-Ioana Clonţa
5-Larry's Creative Zone-
6- The Australian Poet
7- Razors and Vines
8-SASSY SASHA THE LOVABLE SHIH TZU

9- THE COOL ARTS

10-Magie si Mister in Lemuria

11-Azahari Salleh Photography

KAY RYAN

Kay Ryan born in San Jose ,California raised in San Joaquim Valley and the Mojave Desert attending Antelope Valley College, bachelor's and master's degrees in English from University of California , Los Angeles. lived in Fairfax California, Kkentfield.Carol Adair, who was Ryan published her sixth collection of poetry, The Niagara River, in 2005. Her first collection, Dragon Acts to Dragon Ends, published in 1983 second collection, Strangely Marked Metal (1985), her work went nearly unrecognized until the mid 1990s, when some of her poems were anthologized and the first reviews in national journals were published. receipt theRuth Lilly Poetry Prize in 2004.
In July, 2008, the U.S. Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress for a one year term commencing in Autumn 2008.

A CAT/A FUTURE

A cat can draw
the blind
behind her eyes
whenever she
decides.Nothing
alters in the stare
itself but she's
not there. Likewise
a future can occlude:
still sitting there,
doing nothing rude.

THE NIAGARA RIVER


As though
the river were
a floor, we position
our table and chairs
upon it, eat, and
have conversation.
As it moves along,
we notice — as
calmly as though
dining room paintings
were being replaced —
the changing scenes
along the shore. We
do know, we do
know this is the
Niagara River, but
it is hard to remember
what that means.

Mirage Oases


First among places
susceptible to trespass
are mirage oases
whose graduated pools
and shaded grasses, palms
and speckled fishes give
before the lightest pressure
and are wrecked.
For they live
only in the kingdom
of suspended wishes,
thrive only at our pleasure
checked.

tarot

"I’m not an expert in the deck at all. My interest lies somewhere near a sense that words are like tarot cards, and that a poem manipulates unpredictable depths with its words. . . . I like the tarot because it works like poetry and because you don’t really have to ‘believe in’ anything. It’s there to be used. The symbols are remarkably durable and beautiful; they float out to encompass all kinds of meanings.” —Kay Ryan,“

GRIESSKLÖSSCHENSUPPE WITH REAL CHICKEN BROTH

OUR "GUEST FRIEND"

SPACE FOR EVERY TWO WEEKS SHOWS A POST OF MY LIST OF BLOGS.
Travel on the rainbow from
der Gauzibauz or
Erika -Norbert

Griessklösschensuppe with real chicken broth

For the broth:

1 Chicken, in the end does it even chicken Klein
Celery, carrot, parsley root, onion, leek,
Bay leaf, 1 clove, lovage 1 and 1 / 2 hours to boil.

For the dumplings (dumplings):
Something melted butter, semolina about two eggs, nutmeg,
Parsley, salt into a dough.
Note: The thinner the dough, the more the loose balls.
I like when they loved the interior still has a hard core.
With two teaspoons of small dumplings, and tap into the non-
bubbling

Broth basket. 20-30 minutes.

.

DEMETRIOS CAPETANAKIS

DemetriosCapetanakis -Kapetanakis, Δημήτριος Καπετανάκης-
Smyrna-1912 London-1944 Greek poet, essayist and critic. Resident in the United Kingdom -from 1939, he wrote some poetry in English. He came to Athens when his mother fled the Asia Minor catastrophe and the invasion of Smyrna with her three children. He was a graduate of Athens University, where he was taught by Panagiotis kanellopoulos whom he would encounter again in the Greek government-in-exile in London, and held a doctorate from theUniversity of Heidelberg. . In 1939 with a scholarship from the Bristish Council he came to theUniversity of Cambridge, studying under Dadie Rylands He became a protégé of Edith Sitwel . In 1941 he met John Lehmann, who published Kapetanakis in New Writing and became a close friend. Through Lehmann he met Willian Plomer.In 1944 he died (leukemia)




























The Isles of Greece & Other Poems


The sun is not in love with us,
Nor the corrosive sea;
Yet both will burn our dried-up flesh
In deep intimacy
With stubborn tongues of briny death
And heavy snakes of fire,
Which writhe and hiss and crack the Greek
Myth of the singing lyre.

(Monograph contains the seventeen short poems written by the Greek philosopher Demetrios kapetankis before his death in 1944,in London . They are metaphysical poems, written in English, not his native language but one in which he achieved such mastery during the few years he lived in England that he was able to concentrate the intensity of his thought into the four-line stanza of English verse. )
"He had spoken more than once about his desire to write a poem representing a truth about Greece which Byron had missed in his famous poem; and now, into those twenty short lines he concentrated all that he felt about his country and her eternally renewed destiny of suffering, lines which are among the most tragic and haunting he ever wrote, and which express Greece perhaps more completely than anything that has been written in our time.John Lehmann "-

Introduction to his book Demetrios Capetanakis--- A Greek Poet in England -London, 1947

GARCIA LORCA

John Singer Sargent (January 12, 1856 – April 14, 1925) . The passion . . . El Jaleo 1882 Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Boston Oil on canvas 237 x 352 cm (93 3/8 x 138 1/2 in.)


Federic Garcia Lorca born in Fuente Vaqueros, Granada,Spain June 5, 1898 he died near Granada, August 1936 . Murdered by the Nationalist at the start of the Spanish Civil War.Poet and dramatist. was a talented artist and a member of the 'Generation of 1927', a group of writers who advocated avant-gardism in literature. He read law at the University of Granada.García Lorca read law at the University of Granada.He studied music collaborating in the 1920s with Manuel de Falla, he plays piano and guitar. In Madrid he entered the Residence de Estudiantes, a modern college and the intellectual center of the town. Friend of Juan Ramón Jiménez and Pablo Neruda. With Salvador Dali and Louis Bunuel he did different productions. When the two made their notorious Un Chien Andalou (1928), García Lorca was offended: he thought that the film was about him. García Lorca became known even 'Libro De Poemas' (1921), a collection of fablelike poems. In 1923 García Lorca earned a degree in law, but the turning point in his literary career was folk music festival Fiesta de Cante Jondo in 1922, where he found inspiration for his work from the traditions of folk and gypsy music. In 1927 García Lorca gained fame with his romantic historical play arina Pineda where the scenery was constructed by Salavador Dali and the distinguished actress Margarita Xirgu played the heroine. By 1928, with the publication of RIMER ROMANCERO GITANO he was the best-known of all Spanish poets, and leading member of the 'Generation of 27', which included Luis Cernuda, Jorge Guillen, Pedro Salinas, Rafael Alberti and others. In 1929-30 García Lorca lived in the city of New York, on the campus of Columbia University. suffered a deep culture shock. His suicidal mood was recorded in posthumously published POETA EN NUEVA YORK(1940, Poet in New York), in which he praised Walt Whitman. , He escapes to Havana to experience the harmony of a more primitive life. After visitCuba García Lorca was back in Spain by 1931, and continued with theatre productions. He became the head the traveling theatrical company, La Barraca, which brought classical plays and other dramas to the provinces. After the death of his friend, a bullfighter, García Lorca wrote ament for the Death of a Bullfighter(1935), which has been regarded by most critics as his greatest poem. . The figure of one man facing death in the bullring, exemplified by his friend Ignacio Sánchez Mejías, expressed the author's tragic sense of death. Mejías himself had written a play and he was well-known in the literary circles. Lorca's The Spanish Civil War began in 1936 and García Lorca was seen by the right-wing forces as an enemy. The author hid from the soldiers but he was soon found, dragged from a friend's house, and shot in Granada on August 19/20 of 1936 without trial by the Nationalists. The circumstances of his death are still shrouded in mystery.


















F.G.L.

Gacela of Unforseen Love

No one understood the perfume
of the dark magnolia of your womb.
Nobody knew that you tormented
a humming bird of love between your teeth.



A thousand Persian little horses fell asleep
in the plaza with moon of your forehead,
while through four nights I embraced
your waist, enemy of the snow.



Between plaster and jasmins, your glance
was a pale branch of seeds.
I sought in my heart to give you
the ivory letters that say "siempre",


"siempre", "siempre" : garden of my agony,
your body elusive always,
that blood of your veins in my mouth,
your mouth already lightless for my death.

THE END OF THE NIGHT

OUR "GUEST FRIEND"

The End of the Night
by Ronaldo Monte

Failed to light yesterday evening. For absolute lack of what to do, I expect to sleep in bed.
With the delay of sleep and the absence of internal images, focused my attention on the total darkness that was immersed. I spent the hand in front of the eyes and did not notice any movement. I thought I was close to having an experience of blindness and one end of trouble appeared. But then I remembered what I told me my friend Jane Belarmino, blind and visionary: the fear of the dark is a problem for you. I do not know the darkness. In fact, taking isolated experiences as last night, I do not know the darkness.

And very few people living in cities can be said of the intimate dark. The night, as a synonym of darkness, is an increasingly rare phenomenon. The concern for security and control of people did with the darkness that was banned from the streets and buildings of cities. The evening today is only a period of time very different from the day. When you enter a supermarket or a mall, jumping in a time continuum, where the artificial light eliminates any difference between day and night. The - small dark of the film -is more an expression of caring that real. Besides not being an absolute darkness, the clear light projected on the screen, it can be enjoyed by day or night.

For lack of a clear distinction (or dark) in the day, the night lost its purpose for the period to rest and sleep. Pushed increasingly into the night did the things of day. Pharmacies, supermarkets, gas stations and many other services are open continuously. Varamos the night studying or working. Just going to bed when the exhaust no longer allows us to any activity. Here, then, is the insomnia. And then we realize that we lost contact with our first night. The side that leads us to dream and the pastures repairers that reveals the other side of sleep. The dry eyes, the soul dry, the dryness of the imagination. This is the price we pay at the end of the night. Besides the bad mood the other day.

Ronaldo Monte

Born in Maceio, Brazil. Lives in João Pessoa, Paraíba, 1978. poet, writer, psychoanalyst and professor. Public chronicles in newspapers .
PUBLICATIONS
1983, The corner of the Eyes-book of poems. 1996 - Short Memory, chronic and short texts.-2000 - Weaving Night; poems.- 2003, Small Chaos, chronicles. 2006, -Memory of Fire; romance publisher by Objetiva. In 2007,- The Place of Healing - Construction of the Psychoanalytic Situation-by Editora da Paraíba.

SPACE FOR EVERY TWO WEEKS SHOWS A POST OF MY LIST OF BLOGS.

TYRENA RESCUED

• 
  Rescued from the streets,sunday morning two weeks ago ,with hungry and sick of love. Tyrena is very well now , acceptedby the other three kittensin the house (all adopted)
• 
  
  
  
  
  

ARVO METS

Arvo Mets (1937 – 1997)

Born in Estonia, and educated at St. Petersburg Universityand at Literary Institute in Moscow. lived most of his life in Moscow where he edited several literary magazines, including Novy Mir New World. Started writing poetryin the early 1960s,and also translated Estonian poetry to Russian. Three criticallyacclaimed collections of hispoetry miniatures were published in Moscow and Tallinn.His Selected Poems appeared in Moscow in 1992.

Haikus

Blustery wind
we‘re caught in the golden blizzard
of falling leaves

A tiny feather
descending –
birdless sky

The train screams
and slows down –
three silver firs on the pane

SAKUTAÖ HAGIWARA II

To is unpenetrated darknesses we have no ligth to holds the mirror up to nature,
he feell out the invisibles shapes and shows images , shining visons , golden spots ,
perhaps distordes but auhtentic versions of the terrible nature of his vision and
of the staggering beauty of his language. Hagiwara has left for man's enlightenment
poems of the dark that will last as long as light and darkness.








SHIAMAMOTO-PARABOLIC TRAJECTORY BEFORE REACHING THE CANVAS--- 5 M LONG

Grass Stem


Look at the grass-stem shawled
Against the nip of winter
In such a flimsy wrap.


O mark that little splinter,
So delicate and sad,
Which all the winter shook
Blue in its fibre shawl.


Look at the grass-stem.
Look.


Beyond a far-off sky
That sags with laggard snow
The grass exhilarates,
Its greenness to grow.

Visage sick to the bottom of the earth

(Hurler to the Moon (1917))

In the depths of the earth there is a face,

A face of a patient alone.

In the darkness at the bottom of the earth

Gently push the stems of herbs,

Appear nests of rats

, Began to shake the hair innumerable

Who are involved,

Push bamboo fine roots green

They grow,

And they seem quite grim,

As if they smoked,

Really evil.

In the darkness at the bottom of the earth,

There is a face of a patient alone.

Hurler to the Moon (1917)

SAKUTARÕ HAGAWARA

http://www.shakuhachi.com/Sound/Tanifuji/Tanifuji-Shakulute-C-1.mp3

Onchi =Koshiro
-Japanese, 1891-1955-

portrait of Sakutaro

Sakutarō Hagiwara -( Hagiwara Sakutaro ) 11-0-1886--05-11-1942 .
Was a writer of free-style verse, active in Taishö and earlyShowa period Japan.
He liberated Japanese free verse from the grip of traditional rules,
and he is considered the father of modern colloquial poetry in Japan.
He published many volumes of essays, literary and cultural criticism ,
and aphorisms over his long career.


New Road at Koide



This road, just newly opened,goes


Straight to the city, I suppose.

Dark melancholy day.

I stand at a new crossing where

A new horizon like a tear


Runs lonelily away.



The sun above a straggling row

Of huddled roof-tops huddles low...

How thin, how shorn of shade,

Stand the few trees in that sparse wood


That once so greedily sturdy stood


Before the road was made.

Such bleakness feeds my blemished mood

Of anger and incertitude

As black sorts well with black

How, how can I re-fangle me?

How be what once I used to be?

Where does the road run back?

Oh where’s that leafy road I seek

That runs to boyhood from the bleak Horizon of the town?

For this new road, which I rejectAnd will not travel,

more was wrecked

Than all those trees hacked

RABÉARIVELO

A Surrealist influence in

Cactus,( lines 13-20)

Here
,when the flanks of the city were made as green
as moonbeams glancing through the forests,
when still they cooled the hillsides of Iarive
crouched like bulls after food,
upon these rocks, too steep for goats,
they drew apart to guard their springs.
Lepers in finery of flowers.

Romantcism (France, 19th Cent.) influenc

Pomegranate, (lines 9-13) perhapS Keats??????

Its taste will be sweeter,
because it was pregnant with desire
And with fearful love and scented blossoms -
Pregnant by the love sun.


Three day breaks, Part III,( lines 1-10 (of III parts))

All the stars are melted together
in the crucible of time,
then cooled in the sea
and turned into a many-faceted stone-block.
A dying lapidist, the Night, setting to work with all her heart
and all her grief to see her millscrumbling, crumbling,
like ashes in the wind,
cuts with what living care the prism.


A Reflection on Merina (Ethnic Group) Culture


Two Old Merina Songs, excerpt from Part II (of II parts)

... my cousin, I have scarcely any lovers for my lovers
areno more than seven; the first is the lover that cuts my
nails; the second is the lover who takes the place of the one
withus in the house, when I am away from home; the third
takes her place in an emergency; the fourth is the lover
who
follows me with her eyes when I go away; the fifth is the
lover who comes to meet me when I return; the sixth is
the lover sustains my life like rice; the seventh is the
lover who does not mix with the crowd andeven when she
happens to be amongst them always knows how to
make
herself distinguished.

And you witness of his daily suffering
and of his endless task;
you atch his thunder-riddled
agony until the battlements of the East re-echo
the conches of the sea -
but you pity him no more
and do not even
remember that his sufferings begin
again
each time the sun capsizes.


(from Traduit de la nuit, 1935 )

JEAN-JOSEPH RABÉARIVELO


















Passionate and restless, drifted from on job to another, and suffered from drug addiction and depression. Rabearivelo took his own life at the age of 36; on June 22, 1937 by poisoning himself . Various reasons have been given for his suicide, including the colonial administration's decision to send a group of basket-weavers instead of him to France to represent the colony. One of Africa's most important French-language poets, a prominent figure in the literary revival known as the Mitady ny Very which swept Madagascar in the 1930s. Rabearivelo wrote both in Malagasy and in his own unique version of imperfect French.
Born in Antananarivo (Tananarive), capital of Madagascar. His mother, who married a tailor, was an aristocrat, related to the royalty of the largest Malagasy ethnic group, the Merina people. In 1895 Malagasy armed forces had been defeated by the French, and the new administration led to the pauperization of most of the Merina royalty. .
Rabearivelo was educated by his uncle, ( sent to the Ecole des Freres des Ecoles Chretiennes - Andohalo, and after to the Collrge Saint-Michel in Amparibe. Left schooling at the thirteen continued to read widely the classics western. He was secretary and interpreter of the head of the Canton of Ambatolampy, and then returned to Tananarive. Rabearivelo worked in odd jobs, but ended as a proof-reader at the printing press in Imerina until his death. Razafitrimo, and have five children .A terrible blow for him was the death of his youngest daughter blow for In Un conte de la nuit, a short story, he recounts the family tragedy.
Rabearivelo's mother encouraged him to write at the age of 20 he published his first poems . In 1923 the international revue Anthropos accepted an article of him on the poetry of Madagascar. He contribute to journals in his own country, in the neighboring Mauritius, and in Europe. Rabearivelo's early poems were influenced by French Symbolist poets. In 1930s he lauched his own journal, Capricorne, in 1931 he was accepted into the Academie Malgachethe .Rab*arivelo never got a higher-paying job from the administration which he always hoped.
. In the 1910s several nationally prominent writers had been imprisoned, Malagasy- language writing was restricted, but memories of independence were still fresh under the colonial rule. In his early collections Rabearivelo's recurring theme was exile, the journey away from the native land, referring to the loss of independence. When all text written in French were considered to belong to French literature, Rabearivelo supported bilingual works and proposed that 'Malagasy literature' would recognize French-language texts composed by the Malagasy.
Like Baudelaire Rabearivelo was too much of an aesthetician to join the cadres of militant poets. He created his own world,-strange and mythical-,which was shadowed by visions of suffering and death, teeth marks of colonized civilization. Cosmos was for Rabearivelo full of sad beauty, wandering tribes, and bodies in perpetual mutation. His plays, Imaitsoanala, Fille d'oiseau (1935) and Aux portes de la ville (1936), focused on rituals and folklore and carefully avoided any reference to politically inflammable issues. On the other hand, none of his critical works were published in his lifetime.

I know a child, a prince in God's kingdom
Who would continue the tale:

'Fate too pity on the lepers
And told them to plant their flowers
And guard their springs afar from man's cruelty.'

(from Presque-songes, 1934)