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Poems List
The Spectral Attitudes
The Spectral Attitudes
I attach no importance to life
I pin not the least of life's butterflies to importance
I do not matter to life
But the branches of salt the white branches
All the shadow bubbles
And the sea-anemones
Come down and breathe within my thoughts
They come from tears that are not mine
From steps I do not take that are steps twice
And of which the sand remembers the flood-tide
The bars are in the cage
And the birds come down from far above to sing before these bars
A subterranean passage unites all perfumes
A woman pledged herself there one day
This woman became so bright that I could no longer see her
With these eyes which have seen my own self burning
I was then already as old as I am now
And I watched over myself and my thoughts like a night watchman in an immense
factory Keeping watch alone
The circus always enchants the same tramlines
The plaster figures have lost nothing of their expression
They who bit the smile's fig
I know of a drapery in a forgotten town
If it pleased me to appear to you wrapped in this drapery
You would think that your end was approaching
Like mine
At last the fountains would understand that you must not say Fountain
The wolves are clothed in mirrors of snow
I have a boat detached from all climates
I am dragged along by an ice-pack with teeth of flame
I cut and cleave the wood of this tree that will always be green
A musician is caught up in the strings of his instrument
The skull and crossbones of the time of any childhood story
Goes on board a ship that is as yet its own ghost only
Perhaps there is a hilt to this sword
But already there is a duel in this hilt
During the duel the combatants are unarmed
Death is the least offence
The future never comes
The curtains that have never been raised
Float to the windows of houses that are to be built
The beds made of lilies
Slide beneath the lamps of dew
There will come an evening
The nuggets of light become still underneath the blue moss
The hands that tie and untie the knots of love and of air
Keep all their transparency for those who have eyes to see
They see the palms of hands
The crowns in eyes
But the brazier of crown and palms
Can scarcely be lit in the deepest part of the forest
There where the stags bend their heads to examine the years
Nothing more than a feeble beating is heard
From which sound a thousand louder or softer sounds proceed
And the beating goes on and on
There are dresses that vibrate
And their vibration is in unison with the beating
When I wish to see the faces of those that wear them
A great fog rises from the ground
At the bottom of the steeples behind the most elegant reservoirs of life and of wealth
In the gorges which hide themselves between two mountains
On the sea at the hour when the sun cools down
Those who make signs to me are separated by stars
And yet the carriage overturned at full speed
Carries as far as my last hesitation
That awaits me down there in the town where the statues of bronze
and of stone have changed places with statues of wax Banyans banyans.
I attach no importance to life
I pin not the least of life's butterflies to importance
I do not matter to life
But the branches of salt the white branches
All the shadow bubbles
And the sea-anemones
Come down and breathe within my thoughts
They come from tears that are not mine
From steps I do not take that are steps twice
And of which the sand remembers the flood-tide
The bars are in the cage
And the birds come down from far above to sing before these bars
A subterranean passage unites all perfumes
A woman pledged herself there one day
This woman became so bright that I could no longer see her
With these eyes which have seen my own self burning
I was then already as old as I am now
And I watched over myself and my thoughts like a night watchman in an immense
factory Keeping watch alone
The circus always enchants the same tramlines
The plaster figures have lost nothing of their expression
They who bit the smile's fig
I know of a drapery in a forgotten town
If it pleased me to appear to you wrapped in this drapery
You would think that your end was approaching
Like mine
At last the fountains would understand that you must not say Fountain
The wolves are clothed in mirrors of snow
I have a boat detached from all climates
I am dragged along by an ice-pack with teeth of flame
I cut and cleave the wood of this tree that will always be green
A musician is caught up in the strings of his instrument
The skull and crossbones of the time of any childhood story
Goes on board a ship that is as yet its own ghost only
Perhaps there is a hilt to this sword
But already there is a duel in this hilt
During the duel the combatants are unarmed
Death is the least offence
The future never comes
The curtains that have never been raised
Float to the windows of houses that are to be built
The beds made of lilies
Slide beneath the lamps of dew
There will come an evening
The nuggets of light become still underneath the blue moss
The hands that tie and untie the knots of love and of air
Keep all their transparency for those who have eyes to see
They see the palms of hands
The crowns in eyes
But the brazier of crown and palms
Can scarcely be lit in the deepest part of the forest
There where the stags bend their heads to examine the years
Nothing more than a feeble beating is heard
From which sound a thousand louder or softer sounds proceed
And the beating goes on and on
There are dresses that vibrate
And their vibration is in unison with the beating
When I wish to see the faces of those that wear them
A great fog rises from the ground
At the bottom of the steeples behind the most elegant reservoirs of life and of wealth
In the gorges which hide themselves between two mountains
On the sea at the hour when the sun cools down
Those who make signs to me are separated by stars
And yet the carriage overturned at full speed
Carries as far as my last hesitation
That awaits me down there in the town where the statues of bronze
and of stone have changed places with statues of wax Banyans banyans.
👁️ 856
Less Time
Less Time
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of
everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my
fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept
them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of
suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the
entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't
keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby,
or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I
introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but
I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns
have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A,
return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with
boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under
God's
perpendicular.
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of
everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my
fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept
them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of
suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the
entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't
keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby,
or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I
introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but
I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns
have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A,
return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with
boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under
God's
perpendicular.
👁️ 922
Freedom of Love
Freedom of Love
(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)
My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire
(Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)
My wife with the hair of a wood fire
With the thoughts of heat lightning
With the waist of an hourglass
With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
And of steam on the panes
My wife with shoulders of champagne
And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
My wife with wrists of matches
My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
With fingers of mown hay
My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
And of Midsummer Night
Of privet and of an angelfish nest
With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
My wife with legs of flares
With the movements of clockwork and despair
My wife with calves of eldertree pith
My wife with feet of initials
With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
With breasts of night
My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
With the belly of a gigantic claw
My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
With a back of quicksilver
With a back of light
With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
My wife with hips of a skiff
With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
And of shafts of white peacock plumes
Of an insensible pendulum
My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
My wife with buttocks of spring
With the sex of an iris
My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
My wife with a sex of mirror
My wife with eyes full of tears
With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
My wife with savanna eyes
My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire
👁️ 802
Always for the First Time
Always for the First Time
Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
It is there that from one second to the next
In the inviolate darkness
I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring
The one and only rift
In the facade and in my heart
The closer I come to you
In reality
The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room
Where you appear alone before me
At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain
It's a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse
With the diagonal slant of its girls picking
Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare
Before them a T-square of dazzling light
The curtain invisibly raised
In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in
It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep
You as though you could be
The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you
You pretend not to know I am watching you
Marvelously I am no longer sure you know
You idleness brings tears to my eyes
A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures
It's a honeydew hunt
There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the
forest
There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings
Flaring out in the center of a great white clover
There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy
There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time
Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
It is there that from one second to the next
In the inviolate darkness
I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring
The one and only rift
In the facade and in my heart
The closer I come to you
In reality
The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room
Where you appear alone before me
At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain
It's a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse
With the diagonal slant of its girls picking
Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare
Before them a T-square of dazzling light
The curtain invisibly raised
In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in
It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep
You as though you could be
The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you
You pretend not to know I am watching you
Marvelously I am no longer sure you know
You idleness brings tears to my eyes
A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures
It's a honeydew hunt
There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the
forest
There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings
Flaring out in the center of a great white clover
There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy
There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time
👁️ 963
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Andre Breton (19 February 1896 – 28 September 1966)
Born to a family of modest means in Tinchebray (Orne) in Normandy, he
studied medicine and psychiatry. During World War I he worked in a
neurological ward in Nantes, where he met the devotee of Alfred Jarry,
Jacques Vaché, whose anti-social attitude and disdain for established artistic
tradition influenced Breton considerably. Vaché committed suicide at age 24,
and his war-time letters to Breton and others were published in a volume
entitled Lettres de guerre (1919), for which Breton wrote four introductory
essays.
Breton married his first wife, Simone Kahn, on 15 September 1921. The
couple relocated to rue Fontaine # 42 in Paris on 1 January 1922. The
apartment on rue Fontaine became home to Breton's collection of more than
5,300 items: modern paintings, drawings, sculptures, photographs, books,
art catalogs, journals, manuscripts, and works of popular and Oceanic art.
From Dada to Surrealism
In 1919 Breton initiated the review Littérature with Louis Aragon and Philippe
Soupault. He also associated with Dadaist Tristan Tzara. In 1924 he was
instrumental in the founding of the Bureau of Surrealist Research.
In a publication The Magnetic Fields (Les Champs Magnétiques), a
collaboration with Soupault, he implemented the principle of automatic
writing. He published the Surrealist Manifesto in 1924, and was editor of the
magazine La Révolution surréaliste from 1924. A group of writers becameassociated with him: Philippe Soupault, Louis Aragon, Paul Éluard, René
Crevel, Michel Leiris, Benjamin Péret, Antonin Artaud, and Robert Desnos.
Anxious to combine the themes of personal transformation found in the
works of Arthur Rimbaud with the politics of Karl Marx, Breton joined the
French Communist Party in 1927, from which he was expelled in 1933.
During this time, he survived mostly by the sale of paintings from his art
gallery.
In 1935, there was a conflict between Breton and Ilya Ehrenburg during the
first "International Congress of Writers for the Defense of Culture" which
opened in Paris in June. Breton had been insulted by Ehrenburg—along with
all fellow surrealists—in a pamphlet which said, among other things, that
surrealists were "pederasts". Breton slapped Ehrenburg several times on the
street, which resulted in surrealists being expelled from the Congress.
Crevel, who according to Salvador Dalí, was "the only serious communist
among surrealists" was isolated from Breton and other surrealists, who were
unhappy with Crevel because of his homosexuality and annoyed with
communists in general.
In 1938, Breton accepted a cultural commission from the French government
to travel to Mexico. After a conference at the National Autonomous University
of Mexico about surrealism, Breton stated after getting lost in Mexico City (as
no one was waiting for him at the airport) "I don't know why I came here.
Mexico is the most surrealist country in the world".
However, visiting Mexico provided the opportunity to meet Leon Trotsky.
Breton and other surrealists traveled via a long boat ride from Patzcuaro to
the town of Erongaricuaro. Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo were among the
visitors to the hidden community of intellectuals and artists. Together,
Breton and Trotsky wrote a manifesto Pour un art révolutionnaire
indépendent (published under the names of Breton and Diego Rivera) calling
for "complete freedom of art", which was becoming increasingly difficult with
the world situation of the time.
1940s
Breton was again in the medical corps of the French Army at the start of
World War II. The Vichy government banned his writings as "the very
negation of the national revolution" and Breton escaped, with the help of the
American Varian Fry and Harry Bingham, to the United States and the
Caribbean during 1941. Breton got to know Martinican writer Aimé Césaire,
and later composed the introduction to the 1947 edition of Césaire's Cahier
d'un retour au pays natal. During his exile in New York City he met Elisa, the
Chilean woman who would become his third wife.
In 1944, he and Elisa traveled to the Gaspé Peninsula in Québec, Canada,
where he wrote Arcane 17, a book which expresses his fears of World War II,
describes the marvels of the Rocher Percé and the extreme northeastern part
of North America, and celebrates his new romance with Elisa.
Later life
Breton returned to Paris in 1946, where he opposed French colonialism (for
example as a signatory of the Manifesto of the 121 against the Algerian war)
and continued, until his death, to foster a second group of surrealists in the
form of expositions or reviews (La Brèche, 1961–1965). In 1959, he
organized an exhibit in Paris.
By the end of World War II André Breton decided to embrace anarchism
explicitly. In 1952 Breton wrote "It was in the black mirror of anarchism that
surrealism first recognised itself." "Breton was consistent in his support for
the francophone Anarchist Federation and he continued to offer his solidarity
after the Platformists around Fontenis transformed the FA into the Federation
Communiste Libertaire. He was one of the few intellectuals who continued to
offer his support to the FCL during the Algerian war when the FCL suffered
severe repression and was forced underground. He sheltered Fontenis whilst
he was in hiding. He refused to take sides on the splits in the French
anarchist movement and both he and Peret expressed solidarity as well with
the new FA set up by the synthesist anarchists and worked in the Antifascist
Committees of the 60s alongside the FA."
André Breton died in 1966 at 70 and was buried in the Cimetière des
Batignolles in Paris
Eserleri:
Mont de piété (1919)
S'il Vous Plaît (1920 – If You Please)
Les Champs magnétiques (1920 – The Magnetic Fields)
Manifeste du surréalisme (1924 – The Surrealist Manifesto)
Les Pas perdus (Breton) (1924 – The Lost Steps)
Poisson soluble (1924 – Soluble Fish)
Un Cadavre (1924 -- A Corpse)
Légitime Défense (1926 – Legitimate Defense)
Le Surréalisme et la peinture (1926 – Surrealism and Painting)
Nadja (1928 – Nadja)
L'Immaculée Conception (1930 – The Immaculate Conception)
Deuxième Manifeste du surréalisme (1930 – The Second Manifesto of
Surrealism)
Ralentir travaux (1930 – Slow Down Works)
L'Union libre (1931)
La Revolver à cheveux blancs (1932 – The Revolver Has White Hair)
Les Vases communicants (1932 – The Communicating Vessels)
Le Message automatique (1933 – The Automatic Message)
Qu'est-ce que le surréalisme (1934 – What Is Surrealism)
L'Air de l'eau (1934 – Looks Like Water)
Point du Jour (1934 – Break of Day)
Position politique du surréalisme (1935 – The Political Position of Surrealism)
Notes sur la poésie (1936 -with Paul Éluard – Notes on Poetry)
L'Amour fou (1937 – Mad Love)
Point du jour (1937)
Dictionnaire abrégé du surréalisme (1938 --with Paul Éluard – Abridged)
Dictionary of Surrealism
Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art (1938 -with Leon Trotsky)
Fata Morgana (1940)
Anthologie de l'humour noir (1940 – Anthology of Black Humor)
Arcane 17 (1945 – Arcane 17)
Jeunes Cerisiers garantis contre les lièvres (1946 – Young Cherry Trees
Secured against Hares)
Ode à Charles Fourier (1947 – Ode to Charles Fourier)
Yves Tanguy (1947)
Poèmes 1919–48 (1948)
La Lampe dans l'horloge (1948 – The Lamp in the Clock)
Martinique, charmeuse de serpents (1948)
Entretiens, (1952 – Discussions)
La Clé des champs (1953 – The Key of the Fields)
Farouche à quatre feuilles (1954 with Lise Deharme, Julien Gracq, Jean
Tardieu – Wild to Four Leaves)
Les Manifestes du surréalisme (1955 – Manifestoes of Surrealism)
L'Art magique (1957 – The Magic Art)
Constellations (1958)
Le la (1961)
Le Surréalisme et la Peinture (1965)
Selected Poems (1969)
Perspective cavalière (1970)
What is Surrealism? Selected Poems (1978)
Poems of André Breton (1982)