Thursday, March 21, 2013

Untied 4

I'm reading French poetry again.
Philippe Jaccottet.
I want to write like that.
I want his words' pureness and simplicity and humility and accuracy and perfection.
There's a veil before my eyes.
His poems lift it gently, as if undressing my mind,
And I stare naked at the poetic grace of the words and the images they paint
- the sun on our back again, shining on the table, and the page, and the grapes.
They vibrate with disarming truth and overwhelming beauty.
French doesn't cast its heavy shadow on meaning.
It is used with such measure, wisdom and intelligence.
I can see the age-dappled hands of the old poet, his skin as thin as paper, his soul gathered in his eyes.
Reading him makes me feel dizzy like when I philosophize for a while and reach a state in my thinking where everything falls into place and what I thought was the last door opens to another one and I feel my consciousness going higher than I thought it could and I look down at the premise which started this vertigo-inducing mind ride and contemplate all the things that make me feel vast.
Jaccottet's poetry brings my mind to the last door instantaneously, shows me the wall behind it and crosses it, making me lose all perception of space as when dancing with someone you love and realizing by the end of the song that you're not in the same room anymore.

[Show French Version]

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