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Guillevic’s Geometries
Guillevic The great French poet Guillevic has been a personal favorite of mine ever since I came across Denise Levertov‘s translation of his Selected Poems in 1970 or ’71. I’ve read Englished volume of his, I think, and only one failed to capture my imagination, the sequence published by Unicorn Press under the title Euclidians; as translated by Teo Savory, the poems struck me as a bit loose-jointed, somehow overly relaxed. Besides, I’m terrible at math, and each poem either addresses or is written in the voice of a particular geometrical figure—so the collection felt like an exercise.Read More
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Guillevic Excerpts
What I think I don’t know,What I don’t remember, Is most oftenWhat I write in my poems. * The poem: A containerFinding its form As little by littleIt is filled. * I don’t knowWhether I’ll be understood, I don’t even knowWhether I’ll understand myself. I carry onWeighing up the apple. * You’ll not be the rose,It won’t be you, But between you there isWhat you have in common, Knowing how to liveAnd knowing how to share. —Guillevic, from Art Poétique(tr.Read More
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The Web at It’s Best … and Return from a Voyage
From a link to this blog on William Michaelian’s blog, Canadian writer Annie Wyndham found my earlier post on Guillevic and wrote to tell me about it. Turns out she operates a fine blog herself, called Jottings of an AmeriQuebeckian. In the world BW (Before the Web), how would our paths ever have crossed? ::::::::::::: And speaking of paths, about 9 days ago I queued a number of posts to appear while I was out of the country, which is why I was unresponsive to a few of your emails.Read More
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Time Concentrating On Itself
I have little to say about Guillevic’s The Sea & Other Poems (translated by Patricia Terry, introduction by Monique Chefdor, foreword by the poet’s daughter Lucie Albertini Guillevic) except: Buy it. Buy it now. This is a desert island book. I feel bound to quote from it, but nothing as brief as I have time for can do justice to Guillevic’s extended sequences in which menhirs, a canal, salt flats, and the sea speak.Read More
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A Gift
I’ve been reading with immense pleasure a translation of the great French poet Guillevic’s Art Poétique (scroll down for the publisher’s description), brought over into crisp English by Maureen Smith. As the cover description says, this book “is a highly personal account of the process and experience of writing poetry,” which makes it sound like a dry business. It isn’t. Guillevic’s poems amount to a subtle and varied meditation on the nature of poetry and the nature of the poet. He is sometimes tentative, sometimes assertive, and never doctrinaire.Read More