eight point proclamation of the poetic act

– h.c artmann (april 1953)

 

there is a premise which is unassailable, namely that one can be a poet even without ever having written or spoken a single word.

 
however the prerequisite is the more or less felt wish to act poetically. the alogical gesture can itself be performed such that it is raised to an act of outstanding beauty, indeed to poetry. beauty is however a concept which is here allowed a greatly enlarged field of play.

 
1) the poetic act is that form of poetry which refuses to be quoted second hand, that is to say, it rejects every mediation be speech, music or the printed word.

 
2) the poetic act is poetry for the sake of pure poetry. it is pure poetry and free of all ambition for recognition, praise or criticism.

 
3) a poetic act will perhaps only come to the attention of the public by accident. that is however but one case in a hundred. on account of its beauty and integrity it must never subsume itself to the intention of becoming public, for it is an act of the heart and of pagan modesty.

 
4) the poetic act is very consciously extemporized and anything but a mere poetic situation which in no way requires a poet. every idiot can land in such a situation without even noticing it.

 
5) the poetic act is the pose in its noblest form, free of every vanity and full of joyous modesty.

 
6) among the most admirable masters of the poetic act we count in the first rank the satanic-elegiac c. d. nero and above all out lord, the philosophical-human don quixote.

 
7) the poetic act is completely void of material value and thus from the very start it never conceals the bacillus of prostitution. its unalloyed accomplishment is purely simply noble.

 
8) the complete poetic act, recorded in our memories, is one of the few riches which we can in fact carry with us without fear of it being snatched away.

 

Other People’s Poetry

 
Language Event Two

 
Two Poets. Questions and answers are always independent.

(Suzanne Muzard, Andre Breton:)

 
What is a kiss?
A divagation, everything collapses.

 
What is daylight?
A naked woman bathing at nightfall.

 
What is exaltation?
It’s a blob of oil in a brook.

 
What are eyes?
The night watchman in a perfume factory.

 
What is hovering between Suzanne and me?
Great black threatening clouds.

 
What is a bed?
A fan quickly opened. The sound of a bird’s wing.

 

 

Translation from the French by Marcel Jean
From Poems of the Millenium, edited by
Jerome Rothenberge and Pierre Joris

Other People’s Poetry

 
The Dead In Frock Coats

 
In the corner of the living room was an album of unbearable photos,
many meters high and infinite minutes old,
over which everyone leaned
making fun of the dead in frock coats.

Then a worm began to chew the indifferent coats,
the pages, the inscriptions, and even the dust on the pictures.
The only thing it did not chew was the everlasting sob of life that broke
and broke from the pages.

 

 

Carlos Drummon de Andrade 1902 – 1988

Other People’s Poetry

 
Route

Her voice roosts in my memory.
My body rocks my thoughts to sleep.
The telegraph wires vanish in the distance.

Pebbles collide, sound the stroke of noon.

 
Life-Saving Medal

My nose cuts the air,
my eyes are red from laughing.
At night, I gather milk and moonlight
and run without turning back.
If the trees behind me get frightened,
I don’t give a damn.
It is great to be indifferent
in the middle of the night
where all these people go,
the pride of the cities,
the village musicians.
The crowd is dancing, furiously,
and I am just this anonymous passer-by
or somebody whose name I can’t remember.

 
Phillipe Soupault (1897-1990)