mardi 21 septembre 2010

I'm sorry, did I break your concentration?

Haven't you ever felt like breaking free from all the vicissitudes of modern life?

From having to behave the way the life you built for yourself now dictates you to behave? From having to become this biased persona you created for others to look upon, from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you go back to your dreams?
From having to chose a political standpoint to claim your credibility ? From having to belong to a zeitgeist and stick to a limited number of dress-codes and mindsets ? From having to create lists of movies, bands and books that best define you as a person?

From having to read what you're told you should read? From being spoon-fed pre-calculated web pages that necessarily correspond to your personal tastes and habits?

This is not your daily cup of finely ground espresso served with half a sugar cube and a drop of milk.
This is not the yuppie black silk necktie that hangs you to the gallows from morning to evening.
This is not your dream holidays.
This is not your best deal car insurance.
This is not your average dosis of substitute, canned dissidence.
This is not an answer.

This is hazard, a happy encounter.
This is the voice in your head, that outworldly window. A few single frames of poetry, inserted in the steady reel of everyday human events.

                                                                     -Lady Maldoror-



This is our entrance door. It may be a bit too convenient, but many of us started where poètes maudits ended.


Often our sailors, for an hour of fun,
Catch albatrosses on the after breeze
Through which these trail the ship from sun to sun
As it skims down the deep and briny seas.

Scarce have these birds been set upon the poop,
Than, awkward now, they, the sky's emperors,
Piteous and shamed, let their great white wings droop
Beside them like a pair of idle oars.

These wingèd voyagers, how gauche their gait!
Once noble, now how ludicrous to view!
One sailor bums them with his pipe, his mate
Limps, mimicking these cripples who once flew.

Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud,
Who ride the storm and mock the bow's taut strings,
Exiled on earth amid a jeering crowd,
Prisoned and palsied by their giant wings.

Charles Baudelaire,
 Translated by Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)