ROBERT DESNOSLike
Laïque, says the Frenchman to the Frenchman, and the Frenchman is civil.
Lake? says the pleasure-boat captain, and the tripper trips up the gangplank.
Leica, explains the tourist snap-happily.
Like, I say like and everything is metamorphosed, marble into water, the sky
into orange ribbons, wine into new bottles, three into two, the heart into little
pieces, one’s back into it, laughter into tears.
But when the Englishman says as, it’s his turn to see the world change shape to
his liking.
As for me, I only see a single aspect, one sign on a playing-card,
The ace of hearts if it’s astringent February,
The ace of diamonds and the ace of clubs, penury in Asturias.
The ace of spades ready for the assault.
What if it pleases me to say ‘‘whatsit’’ to you,
Pitcher, mashed potato, pumpkin.
Let the English say whatsit,
Whatsit the stationmaster,
Whatsit what’s his name,
And me as well.
Whatsit.
Even whatsit thingummy.
It’s true you don’t give a toss
Whether you get the point of this poem.
Me neither for that matter.
Poem, I’ve one or two favours to ask you.
Poem, could you give me a little more jam,
A little more lamb,
Another little glass of wine
To get us going properly...
—martin sorrell
No, Love Is Not Dead
No, love is not dead in this heart and these eyes and this mouth which
announced the beginning of its burial.
Listen, I have had enough of the picturesque and the colourful and the
charming.
I love love, its tenderness and cruelty.
My love has but one name, but one form.
All passes. Mouths press against this mouth.
My love has but one name, but one form.