The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

RENÉ CHAR

He dries up the thunder. He sows in the quiet sky. If he touches the ground, he
breaks.

The swallow is his counterpart. He detests her domesticity. What good is the
tower’s lace?

He will pause in the darkest crevice. None is more stringently lodged than he.

In the long brilliance of summer, he slips through the shutters of midnight
into shadow.

No eyes can hold him. His presence is all in his cry. A slender gun is going to
strike him down. The heart is like that.
—patricia terry

Every Life...

Every life, as it dawns,

kills one of the injured.

This is the weapon:

nothing,

you, me, interchangeably

with this book,

and the riddle

that you, too, will become

in the bitter caprice of the sands.

—james wright

The Mortal Partner

for Maurice Blanchot

He challenged her, went straight for her heart, like a boxer—trim, winged,
powerful—centered in the o√ensive and defensive geometry of his legs. His
glance weighed the fine points of his adversary who was content to break o√
fighting, suspended between a pleasant virginity and knowledge of him. On the
white surface where the combat was being held, both forgot the inexorable
spectators. The given names of the flowers of summer’s first day fluttered in the
June air. Finally a slight grimace crossed the adversary’s cheek and a streak of
pink appeared. The riposte flashed back, brusque and to the point. His legs
suddenly like linen on the line, the man floated, staggered. But the opposing fists