The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

(WallPaper) #1
FRANCIS PONGE

But the poet on his professional walk mulls this over in his mind: ‘‘Clearly,’’ he
says to himself, ‘‘the patient e√orts of a very delicate flower succeed to a large
extent although protected by a forbidding tangle of brambles. Lacking many
other qualities—blackberries are perfectly ripe—the way this poem is ready.’’
—serge gavronsky


The Oyster


The oyster, the size of an average pebble, looks tougher, its color is less
uniform, brilliantly whitish. It is a stubbornly closed world. And yet, it can be
opened: one must then hold it in the hollow of a dish towel, use a jagged and
rather tricky knife, repeat this many times. Curious fingers cut themselves on it,
nails break on it: it’s tough going. Hitting it that way leaves white circles, like
halos, on its envelope.


Inside, one finds a whole world to drink and eat: under a nacreous firmament
(strictly speaking), the heavens above recline on the heavens below and form a
single pool, a viscous and greenish bag, that flows in and out when you smell it or
look at it, fringed with blackish lace along the edges.


Sometimes, a very rare formula pearls in their nacreous throat, and right away
you have an ornament.
—serge gavronsky


Trees That Come Undone within a Sphere of Fog


Within a fog that enfolds the trees, their leaves are spirited away. They—those
leaves—already taken aback by slow oxidation, and mortified by the withdrawal
of sap for the greater good of flower and fruit, have been loosening their ties since
the sweltering heat of August.
Vertical channels open within the bark, and through them moisture is drawn
down to the ground, drawn to lose interest in vital portions of the trunk.
The flowers are scattered, the fruit is dropped. From a tender age, the relin-
quishing of their living attributes and bodily parts has been a familiar exercise
for trees.
—lee fahnestock


Slate


If one reflects well on slate—in other words, not very much, since its range of
reflections is very limited and not unlike the wing of a bullfinch in full flight,
except under the e√ect of critical precipitations, of skies changing from blue-grey

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