By Guillaume Apollinaire
Alcools, first released in 1913 and one of many few crucial books of 20th- century poetry, offers a key to the century's historical past and attention. Champion of "cubism", Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918) models in verse the sonic similar of what Picasso accomplishes in his cubist works: simultaneity. Apollinaire has been so influential that with no him there could were no ny institution of poetry and no Beat move. This new translation unearths his advanced, attractive, and absolutely modern poetry. published with the unique French on dealing with pages, this is often the one model of this seminal paintings of French Modernism at the moment on hand within the usa.
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Extra resources for Alcools: Poems
Its intent is mordant. It’s weak and it wants beauty. It was here that I first observed this question of withheld arcadia. It leans on the transparent balustrade. It is a continuous astonishment. It arrives at nothing but the rolling year. It always means everything. For instance, to do, to be, to suffer, to bark, to like, to crumble, to sit: in each verb I’ve entertained ambition. It was only half past eight, but the month was April. With greeny pleasure I wrote. This is the melodic contour of the cry of a kind of fruitdove.
If pressed to account for strangeness and resistance, I can’t. I’m speaking here for dogs and rusting ducts venting steam into rain. I wanted to study the ground, the soft ruins of paper and the rusting things. I discover a tenuous utopia made from steel, wooden chairs, glass, stone, metal bed frames, tapestry, bones, prosthetic legs, hair, shirt cuffs, nylon, plaster figurines, perfume bottles and keys. I am confusing art and decay. Elsewhere, fiction is an activity like walking. Any girl who reads is already a lost girl.
The fleeing was into life. It was the same world, the same garments, the same loose rain. It was no longer the end of a season but the beginning. Clean as a tree, a face waits for form. At about four in the morning, that first day Which is a surface? 52 What is the concept of transformation? The intellect struggled to its stanza. The earth spoke in figures. Its pebbles and tropes and vertebrae withdrew. I felt a willingness to enter righteous emotion. I became willing to enter certainty. Then after a month it was the month of July.