Thursday, May 31, 2012

Three by Reverdy

The Book

The white paper leaf new-grown on the fence. One climbs up and climbs down.
     The mountain is a book whose heroes travel the wind. The pages turn. Words often fall.
     The sound of thunder rolls over the paving stones. That’s where the accident happens. The book is done. Men climb up, one section of it under each arm.
     Leaning against the wall, the anxious author watches the world live and does not follow.

Fruit Bowl

A hand reaches toward the arrangement of fruit and, like a bee, hovers over it. The circle where the fingers glide is drawn tight as a trap – then they resume their flight, leaving at the bottom of the dish a bright red scar. A drop of blood, of honey, on the fingertips.
     Between light and teeth, the web of desire weaves the bowlful of lips.


The bottle in the middle of the fire, at arm’s length or on the table. In the shape of hands, in the source of pockets – there is silver and gold – there’s a spirit up the sleeve. When color runs freely, when air is tangled in branches. The heart goes farther than the eyes, flame is reborn from ash. Between the flowing thread and the stroke of light, words stop making sense.
     No more need of words to make ourselves understood.

- Pierre Reverdy
Translated by Dan Bellm

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