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 Benjamin Peret's Profile |
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July 4, 1899 - September 18, 1959 |
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| Age: | 87 years old |
| Sex: | Male |
| Location: | DOM |
| Country: |  France |
| Height: | 0' 1" |
| Zodiac: |  Cancer (Jun 21 - Jul 22) |
| Last Login: | Nov 4, 2007 (299 days back) |
About Me |
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SPILLED BLOOD translated by Keith Hollaman The ashes which are the cigar's malady imitate the concierges rushing down the stairs after their broom that fell from the fifth floor killed the gasman that employee resembling a bug in a salad The bird lies in wait for a bug and it's the broom that got you gasman Your wife's hair will be white as sugar and her ears will be unpaid bills unpaid because you are dead But why didn't this gasman have feet shaped like a three why didn't he have the lucid look of a glovestore why didn't he have his mother's dried-up breast hanging from his belly why didn't he have flies in the pockets of his jacket He would have passed away damp and cold like a smashed porcelain vase and his hands would have caressed the bars of his prison But the sun in his pocket had put on its cap THE HELM OF THE UNKNOWN translated Peter Nijmeijer & Paul Brown The wind the voices of insects caress the cheek of the dying melomaniac One of them being bigger than the others jumps from one illusion to another with a dumb laugh which chills the ghastly bones of the lunatics They are also dying and they laugh because laughter is their last cartridge and because they want to kill an everlasting sigh But they die and their death changes the order of human desires A pale young man whose electric eyes are the forests headlights gathers their dust with which he covers his forehead that becomes an appalling gun aimed at everybody's destiny So this is the end from the sky the weary clouds have fallen on the earth which proceeds to vomit its final animals THE STAIRCASE WITH A HUNDRED STEPS Translated by David Gascoyne The blue eagle and the demon of the steppes in the last cab in Berlin Legitimate defence of lost souls the red mill at the beggars' school awaits the poor student With the housemaid Know huntsmen how to hunt on pay-day Know huntsmen how to hunt as papa speculates with the smile By the dagger the dagger the dagger the tiger of the seas dreams of happiness Avenged The vestal virgin of the Ganges cries out Vanity when the flesh succumbs Stop look and listen the famous turkey spends a day of pleasure turning round in an enchanted circle with the pluck of a lion M'sieur the major My Paris my uncle from America my heart and my legs slaves of beauty admire the conquests of Nora while someone asks for a typewriter for the black pirate It is not possible that a woman dressed as the Merry Widow could become the wind's prey because the millionairess Madame Sans-Gene leads a wild existence in another's skin Her son was right Patrol-leader 129 who wears an Italian straw-hat and is the ace of jockeys is abandoning a little adventuress for a woman It is the April-Moon which chases the buffalo to Notre-Dame of Paris Oh what a bore the indomitable man with clear eyes wishes to judge him by the law of the desert but the lovers with children's souls have gone away Ah what a lovely voyage |
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I'd like to meet:Excerpt from "The Dishonour of the Poets," 1945. Translated by James Brook. Printed in "Death to the Pigs, and other writings," University of Nebraska Press, 1988. If one looks for the original significance of poetry, today concealed by the thousand flashy rags of society, one ascertains that poetry is the true inspiration of humanity, the source of all knowledge and knowledge itself in its most immaculate aspect. The entire spiritual life of humanity since it began to be aware of itself is condensed in poetry; in it quivers humanity's highest creations and, land ever fertile, it keeps perpetually in reserve the colourless crystals and harvests of tomorrow. Tutelary god with a thousand faces, it is here called love, there freedom, elsewhere science. It remains omnipotent, bubbling up in the Eskimo's mythic tale; bursting forth in the love letter; machine-gunning the firing squad that shoots the worker exhaling his last breath of revolution and thus of freedom; gleaming in the scientist's discovery; faltering, bloodless, as even the stupidest productions draw on it; while its memory, a eulogy that wishes to be funereal, still penetrates the mummified words of the priest, poetry's assassin, listened to by the faithful as they blindly and dumbly look for it in the tomb of dogma where poetry is no more than delusive dust. Poetry's innumerable detractors, true and false priests, more hypocritical than the priesthood of any church, false witnesses of every epoch, accuse it of being a means of escape, a flight from reality, as if it were not reality itself, reality's essence and exaltation. But incapable of conceiving of reality as a whole and in its complex relations, they wish to see it only under its most immediate, most sordid aspect. They see only adultery without ever experiencing love, the bomber plane without recalling Icarus, the adventure novel without understanding the permanent, elementary, and profound poetic inspiration that it has the ambition of satisfying. They scorn the dream in favour of their reality as if the dream were not one of the most deeply moving aspects of reality; they exalt action at the expense of meditation as if the former without the latter were not a sport as meaningless as any other. Formerly, they opposed the mind to matter, their god to man; now they defend matter against the mind. In point of fact, they have brought intuition to the aid of reason without remembering from whence this reason sprang. The enemies of poetry have always been obsessed with subjecting it to their immediate ends, with crushing it under their god or, as now, with constraining it under orders of the new brown or "red" divinity - the reddish-brown of dried blood - even bloodier than the old one. For them, life and culture are summed up in the useful and the useless, it being understood that the useful takes the form of a pickaxe wielded for their benefit. For them, poetry is only a luxury for the rich - the aristocrat and the banker - and if it wants to become "useful" to the masses, it should become resigned to the lot of the "applied," "decorative," and "domestic" arts. Instinctively they sense, however, that poetry is the fulcrum Archimedes required, and they fear that the world, once raised up, might fall back on their heads. Hence the ambition to debase poetry, to deny it all efficacity, all value as an exaltation, to give it the hypocritical, consolatory role of a sister of charity. But the poet does not have to perpetuate for others an illusory hope, whether human or celestial, nor disarm minds while filling them with boundless confidence in a father or a leader against whom any criticism becomes a sacrilege. Quite the contrary, it is up to the poet to give voice to words always sacrilegious, to permanent blasphemies. The poet should first become aware of his nature and place in the world. An inventor for whom a discovery is only the means of reaching new discoveries, he must relentlessly combat the paralyzing gods eager to keep humanity in servitude with respect to social powers and the divinity, which complement one another. Thus he will be a revolutionary but not one of those who oppose today's tyrant, whom they see as baneful because he has betrayed their interests, only to praise tomorrow's oppressor, whose servants they already are. No, the poet struggles against all oppression: first of all, that of man by man and the oppression of thought by religious, philosophical, or social dogmas. He fights so that humanity can attain an ever more perfect knowledge of itself and the universe. It does not follow that he wants to put poetry at the service of political, even revolutionary action. But his being a poet has made him a revolutionary who must fight on all terrains: on the terrain of poetry by appropriate means and on the terrain of social action, without ever confusing the two fields of action under penalty of re-establishing the confusion that is to be dissipated and consequently ceasing to be a poet, that is to say, a revolutionary. |
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| MaritalStatus: | Single |
| Children: | I don't want kids |
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Georg Trakl, Raymond Roussel, queen jane approximately, Vladimir Mayakovsky, bruce, ~Susana~ Dancevert.org, Gary Lucas, Andrew Lundwall, tobias, Tom Thayer, produções Ganza, KOLLAPSiMPULS [aka "k;"], LiNa, EllaRegina, ((((( thierry tillier (23) ))), Sid Redlin, Charette, Murder Breque, galerie nuitdencre 64, Sister Sophie, Mischa Auer as Orson's Don Quijote
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Benjamin Peret's profile has been tagged with the following keywords. Click a tag to search for profiles with the same tags. david gascoyne, benjamin peret, porcelain vase, human desires, melomaniac, death changes, legitimate defence, electric eyes, gasman, spilled blood, blue eagle, concierges, housemaid, unpaid bills, paul brown, steppes, fifth floor, lunatics, malady, beggars |
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