The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

OLIVIER CADIOT

And I closed my eyes
I no longer saw either branches or sky
and I could stay there
to survey + to work.

In the evening I had to continue to map the island—precursor to the scale
model—using cross-hatchings whose spacing in inverse relation to the slope is
equal to a quarter of the distance between two consecutive curves as I’d learned to
do at***.

As I was drawing, I realized that I was becoming more and more contemplative.
And that’s why today I am a saint—yesterday I wasn’t a saint—but today Just like
that I’m a saint. St. X. decides to become a saint (we’ll call him St. X. from now
on) A saint? Yep. But how? How did he become a saint?

Through boredom X became a saint through boredom, through sheer laziness,
but that’s still ‘‘why he became a saint’’ not ‘‘how.’’

And since when? It’s well known that if you set out to measure a rough coastline
you’d better know where to stop or you’ll end up having to consider the angle of
every stone and the position of every grain of sand.

the saint

In my cell to write—reread—consult—on a raised dais its own home—with high
windows on the space containing—the lion on the flagstones poised—the pea-
cock on hold and the partridge dazed—birds striating the windows above—pale
day around—me living a space of intricate sculpted wood—writing-studio-as-
coat—to write inside a desk—thinking in the drawers—a cool dark all around—
with lion in the background ballet upon the flagstones. The partridge dazed and
the peacock on hold.
—cole swensen

Psst!

Psst!
Eh bonjour kids**

Les Kids

ze ze—little ones, ze

approach, halt!

‘‘target’’