Various - "War Poetry of the South"

Louis Tracy - "The Wheel O' Fortune"

Purnananda Chakravartin - "The Tattva Muktavali"

Henry Blake Fuller - "Bertram Cope's Year"

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La Mort amoureuse, poesie by Huguette Bertrand

H >> Huguette Bertrand >> La Mort amoureuse, poesie




des que ma nuit s'endort
je pratique le silence sans intention malfaisante
tout pareil a la mort
a ses moments hermetiques

c'est un peu comme ces histoires qui n'interessent personne
sauf la personne qui les raconte
mais elle pense qu'elle ne peut pas
parce qu'en realite ce ne sont pas de vraies histoires
ce sont des souvenirs effarouches
trop lointains pour etre racontes

parfois le dimanche
dans mes moments de repit
j'etale tous mes mots sur le divan
je les livre a l'assaut des passants

sans cesse ils defilent dans mon salon
parmi les cadavres mutiles du pouvoir
ensuite ils s'en retournent silencieusement a leur monotonie
je ne les revois plus

je ne suis la qu'en passant
sur une surface ensoleillee
et ce qui est en noir n'est qu'illusion

ce jour parmi les loups se degrade
je m'absous a l'avance
en reflechissant aux effets d'une digestion trop rapide de la vie
de ses accoutumances

c'est peut-etre une autre histoire a dormir debout derriere un paravent
un sujet a la mode qui se promene en ascenseur
comme si les hauts et les bas ne faisaient plus partie de la famille

sans douleur sans cris
je tente de me frayer un passage a travers les silences
et les mots qui ne se prononcent jamais
heureusement il y a les sourires de l'imaginaire
ils savent si bien transmettre la seve d'un froid a l'autre
surtout l'hiver

lorsque mes images s'en vont expirer dans une phrase
je bascule dans une reverie
ca rafraichit le quotidien qui s'annonce brutal

je pose ensuite des regards indecents sur le monde
par un miroir sans tain
cela me permet d'entrouvrir des portes
et d'en refermer d'autres

je peux ainsi enumerer par leurs petits noms
toutes les portes ouvertes
et celles qui sont fermees

cette fonction renouvelle le silence
lorsque je marche pieds nus sur la sellette
investie d'une mort amoureuse

figee entre deux jours trop gris
je me fais du cinema
en attendant que le discours reapparaisse
en attendant que les formes prennent corps
en attendant la promesse des chuchotements
des sueurs des legitimes defenses
des suffocations des abandons
et parfois des entorses

en attendant le lever du rideau
je peux prendre le risque de parler de Dieu
pour eviter l'engourdissement
mais je pense que le temps n'est pas encore venu
je pourrais aussi parler de l'amour
toutefois je pense que ca peut attendre encore quelques jours
il y a bien quelques passages rouge feu passionne pour les urgences
ca peut faire perir d'un coup sec
ce n'est pas ce que j'envisage pour l'avenir

nous sommes jeudi
et la mort peut bien attendre
ce jour unique fait le tour sur lui-meme
taquine les fantomes que j'emprisonne dans ma memoire
ma douleur a l'os les agace
je fais semblant de trepasser un peu
cela me repose en paix
j'ai alors tout ce qu'il faut pour prendre parole
pour prendre pied quelque part au monde

je sais que tout n'est que projection de ce qui n'evolue pas
ca s'agglutine aux neurones
comme un vieux microbe desenchante
de plus
ca salit les rideaux

je lorgne parfois du cote de la porte sans rien dire
sculptee a meme mon ennui

il n'y a plus de tragedie
ce matin est en etat de grace
le temps fievreux me parcourt en silence
je n'avais pas remarque que je m'etais endormie
et maintenant je reve
je songe a mes reves inquiets
je m'inquiete


=====================================

(C) Editions En Marge et Huguette Bertrand
Depot legal / 2e trimestre 1993
Bibliotheque nationale du Quebec, Montreal
Bibliotheque nationale du Canada, Ottawa
ISBN 2-9802204-3-4
Tous droits reserves - All rights reserved

===========================================================

Ce recueil de poesie est aussi edite sur le site web de la
Bibliotheque nationale du Canada dans sa collection electronique
a l'adresse suivante :
[ http://collection.nlc-bnc.ca/100/200/300/huguette_bertrand/mort/lamort.html ]

This poetry book is also edited on the National Library of Canada's website
in it's electronic collection at the following URL :
[ http://collection.nlc-bnc.ca/100/200/300/huguette_bertrand/mort/lamort.html ]

************

President Obama teams up with one of Marvel's greatest heroes, reports Alison Flood

Here's Michael Wolff, still doing the rounds promoting his Rupert Murdoch biography, The man who owns the news. This interview with Jon Stewart is fun. It starts off with Wolff saying: "You wanna start a rumour, tell Rupert. He's the biggest gossip I've ever met." And there's an amusing pay-off too. (Via Comedy Central/The E&P Pub)

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Poetry Workshop creature features

For many years my local corner shop displayed a large sign in its window telling local residents to "use us or lose us!" It always looked a rather toothless threat to me. After all, if I didn't use them, what difference would it make to me if they weren't there? And surely a corner shop, one that had been there for years, would have enough customers to survive without recourse to such apocalyptic warning? But it didn't and was soon converted into flats.

This community shop was destroyed not so much by the pressures of the supermarkets or people's commuting patterns, but simply by customer apathy. It's something to think about as crime writers and readers across the world mourn the imminent passing of Maxim Jakubowski's celebrated Charing Cross Road bookshop in London, Murder One.

Apathy is a strange word to connect to a bookstore that thrives on passion. It's noticeable when you walk through the door, when you speak to the friendly, knowledgeable staff, when you look at the shelves and see the vast range of titles on offer. This isn't your regular kind of bookstore: the first time I visited spent a whole lunch break looking up and down, from floor to ceiling from table to table; it was an hour that changed my perception of both crime writing and of bookselling.

Murder One was – and for a few weeks will remain – a shop that took crime seriously. Not in the sense that it intellectualised it, or made unsubstantiated claims for its importance, but in the way that it treated crime writing with the respect it was due. With a genre that has so many off-shoots, branches and sub-genres, it took a shop of Murder One's calibre to show just how diverse, interesting and mentally stimulating crime could be – far more than the guilty pleasure I had, until then, considered it.

Thanks to judicious recommendations, enticing table displays and hours of foraging among the stacks, I discovered writers that I would never have picked up, let alone read. You could always get the latest blockbuster, but delve a little deeper and you'd find books that were not stocked anywhere else, novels that, like the perfect crime, were hidden from public view. The Martin Beck novels by Sjöwall & Wahlöö – probably my favourite sequence of novels in any genre – were introduced to me via Murder One, as were Kem Nunn, Sue Grafton, and Henning Mankell. It's also the staff of Murder One who piqued my interest in the inimitable Fred Vargas, and I can't thank them enough for the introduction.

Inclusive and without snobbery, Murder One amply demonstrated that the best bookshops are places not just of commerce, but of community; places that make feel you belong. It's the kind of store that bibliophiles dream about: well-stocked, well-staffed and shabby enough to lose days browsing within. It's just unfortunate that such shops don't have enough paying customers to keep them afloat, or that these customers visit all too infrequently – something of which I'm certainly guilty.

These kinds of shops are facing a long, bloody battle – and one which, without significant reinforcements, they are likely to lose. As we hear of the travesty of another brilliant independent going down, we'll mourn the loss, wring our hands and damn Amazon and the supermarkets and Waterstone's. Yet perhaps the most important detail we'll probably keep under wraps: the last time we actually spent any money there.

Murder One closing its doors for the final time is undoubtedly a .38 shell for independent bookshops, but whether it's body blow or a warning shot all depends upon us, the consumers. No one, no matter how iconic or established, can exist on fond memories alone: just ask Woolworths. Use these shops now, because it doesn't take a master sleuth to deduce what will happen if we don't.

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In focus: Liz Jobey looks at the work of photographic printer Richard Benson
From winged wonders to creepy crawlies, Mark Doty is impressed by the creatures that emerged from his workshop on encountering animals