Belgian Women Poets

Belgian Francophone Library

Donald Flanell Friedman

General Editor
Vol. 11

PETER LANG
New York Washington, D.C./Baltimore Boston Bern
Frankfurt am Main Berlin Brussels Vienna Oxford
 Belgian Women Poets

An Anthology

Edited and Translated by

Rene Linkhorn and Judy Cochran

PETER LANG
New York Washington, D.C./Baltimore Boston Bern
Frankfurt am Main Berlin Brussels Vienna Oxford
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Belgian women poets: an anthology /
edited and translated by Rene Linkhorn and Judy Cochran.
p. cm. (Belgian francophone library; vol. 11)
French and English on facing pages.
Includes bibliographical references.
1. Belgian poetry (French)Women authorsTranslations into English. 2. Belgian
poetry (French)Women authors. 3. Belgian poetry (French)20th century
Translations into English. 4. Belgian poetry (French)20th century.
I. Linkhorn, Rene. II. Cochran, Judy. III. Series.
PQ3858.E3B45 841.91080928709493dc21 98-53633
ISBN 0-8204-4456-1
ISSN 1074-6757

Die Deutsche Bibliothek-CIP-Einheitsaufnahme

Belgian women poets: an anthology / ed. and trans. by: Rene Linkhorn and Judy
Cochran. New York; Washington, D.C./Baltimore; Boston; Bern;
Frankfurt am Main; Berlin; Brussels; Vienna; Oxford: Lang.
(Belgian francophone library; Vol. 11)
ISBN 0-8204-4456-1

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Table of Contents

Foreword: A Panoramic View of French-Language

Poetry in Belgium (18801980) vii
by Jean-Luc Wauthier

Translators Introduction and Acknowledgments xxv

1. Marie Nizet (18591922) 1

2. Jean Dominique (18731952) 11
3. Marie Gevers (18831975) 21
4. Andre Sodenkamp (1906) 29
5. Rene Brock (19121980) 45
6. Anne-Marie Kegels (19121994) 59
7. Jeanine Moulin (19121998) 77
8. Marie-Jos Viseur (19151999) 93
9. Lucienne Desnoues (1921) 111
10. Ccile Miguel (1921) 125
11. Claire Lejeune (1926) 143
12. Rene Lematre (1926) 161
13. Ariane Franois-Demeester (1929) 179
14. Madeleine Biefnot (1930) 197
15. Nicole Houssa (19301959) 213
16. Liliane Wouters (1930) 227
17. Franoise Delcarte (19361996) 243
18. Lucie Spde (1936) 263
19. Anne-Marie Derse (1938) 283
20. Vra Feyder (1939) 305
21. Rose-Marie Franois (1939) 321
22. Colette Nys-Mazure (1939) 341
VI Table of Contents

23. Monique Thomassettie (1946) 365

24. Evelyne Wilwerth (1947) 389
25. Mimy Kinet (19481996) 417
26. Franoise Lison-Leroy (1951) 431
27. Batrice Libert (1952) 443
28. Marie-Clotilde Roose (1970) 465
 Foreword

A Panoramic View of
French-Language Poetry in Belgium
18801980

From the outset we come up against a problem of semantics, an issue, as

novelist Conrad Detrez once said, that makes impractical the very no-
tion of literature in Belgium: must we speak of Belgian literature in French
or of the French-language literature of Belgium? The answer to this
question is not as simple as it may seem, nor is it a mere accessory of
secondary importance.
It is a well-known fact that, since its creation in 1830, Belgium has
been officially a trilingual country. In the East, a small German-speaking
region is composed of so-called redeemed cantons, placed under Bel-
gian rule at the end of World War One in 1918. This area has its own
representatives and parliament, its own TV channels and its own specific
literature, mainly in German, but sometimes in the local dialect. The ma-
jor portion of the Belgian population lives in Flanders, the Dutch-speak-
ing northern part of the kingdom, while the South, known as Wallonia, is
French-speaking. Brussels has sometimes been labeled the capital of
Flanders, but in actuality it is a bilingual region whose population is
unofficially estimated to be two thirds Francophone.
All this complex accounting aside, it can be said that a total of four and
one half million people are French-speaking, excepting of course resident
aliens or illegal immigrants, making a global official population of nearly
ten million, in a territory of merely 11,752 square miles.
It is easy to imagine the many conflicts and demands that can arise in
this small patchwork state where sensitivities are constantly put to the
test. No wonder Yasser Arafat has shown such keen interest in the socio-
VIII Foreword

economic management problems of this complicated nation, a nation

which, in this writers opinion, was constructed in a very artificial manner
from the beginning.
Let us now move from the political scene and concentrate on litera-
ture, which is the subject at hand. First, we may note that, regrettably, few
bridges span the gap between the Dutch-language literature of Belgium
and its French-language counterpart. We may further observe that in the
early days of its existence, Belgium was fragile and unstable; all of Europe,
except perhaps Great Britain, expected it to be short-lived as a nation. In
those early days, Francophone Belgian writers, with few exceptions, and
especially poets, followed closely in the wake of French literature and
adopted its tendencies. It would take nearly one half century after the
creation of Belgium for her poets to gain their proper status and acquire
true autonomy. Romanticism thus left but anecdotal marks on Belgian
poetry. At the time, Belgian poets were swayed by the prestige of Victor
Hugo, and to a lesser extent of Vigny, Musset and Lamartine, that is to
say by the least romantic representatives of the movement, in the Ger-
man or English sense of the term. Nor did Grard de Nerval, Marceline
Desbordes-Valmore or Xavier Forneret leave any visible trace of their
influence on Belgian poetry.
In ensuing years, many writers born in Belgium chose to live in France
(Plisnier, Maeterlinck, Norge, Rodenbach, Vivier), and some, notably Henry
Michaux, became naturalized French citizens. At the end of the nine-
teenth century, strong ties existed between French and Belgian Symbol-
ists. Later, Surrealism itself underwent a significant schism: on the one
hand, the so-called Brussels Surrealism (including Magritte, Mesens,
Noug, Colinet and Scutenaire) wanted to separate from the French move-
ment. This relative distanciation, however, was in no way an attempt to
affirm belgitude as a status, since Belgium herself then belonged to the
Surrealists panoply as an object of derision. On the other hand, the La
Louvire branch of Surrealism remained completely loyal to French leader
Andr Breton.
Let us add that a large number of Belgian poets proclaimed to be
francophiles (Thiry, Goffin, Hubin among others); it then follows that
Belgian poetry in French became, and still remains, justly or not, much
more important than its Dutch-language counterpart which, in turn, has
often been influenced by French literary movements and triumphs.
In the first forty years of Belgiums independence, the impact of the
great French neighbors literature was both powerful and sterilizing. Thus
it would be difficult to cite a single poet in Belgium between 1830 and
 Foreword IX

1880, not only a prominent one, but merely an honorable one. In prose,
however, three significant names may be recalled, those of De Coster,
Pirmez and Van Bemmel. Nonetheless, the field of poetry remains a desert,
although there was no lack of would-be authors. We might evoke the
names of Andr Van Hasselt and Charles Potvin, but their examples only
serve to illustrate the limitations and lack of perspective of Romanticism
in the Belgian style. As was mentioned earlier, the preferred Romantic
models imported from France were Vigny, Musset (in his poetic works)
and Lamartine, literary temples often cited, but rarely visited today. As for
Hugo, what nineteenth century Belgian poets inherited from him was his
emphatic style which, in the hands of the untalented, sometimes turns
into bombastic lyricism. The most intimate or openly visionary side of
Hugo, which later will fascinate Rimbaud, totally escapes the attention of
our minor poets who only retain his image as a Founding Father, statu-
esque but also old-fashioned and irritating. In contrast, no one but Octave
Pirmez seems to be interested in a writer as prominent as Chateaubriand.
It is therefore apparent that our compatriots will not know all that true
Romanticism can bring to the self-exploration of man freed from the
bondage of rationalism. Confronted with the bold revolutionary ways of
Romanticism, the Belgians take great care not to become involved; they
are prone to align themselves with the same middle-of-the-road attitude
that can be so exasperating when, devised by glum masters of compro-
mise, it forms the basis for the countrys domestic policy. It is precisely
this type of compromise that has often contaminated, contaminates, and
will keep on contaminating our literary space. Fortunately, some excel-
lent poets will emerge after 1880, poets who will leave a lasting imprint,
not only on Belgian letters, but on the international literary scene.
Those who came to be known as the men of 1880 were definitely
not men of compromise. This Pleiad of poets, born between 1855 and
1862, are endowed with genuine talent; they not only bring fame to our
literature, but they are able to hold their own in the poetic dialogue of
their time which, of course, is the time of Symbolism. Two of them stand
out in priority: Verhaeren (18551916) and Maeterlinck (18621949).
But it is only fair to add at least three other names: Charles Van Lerberghe
(18601907), Georges Rodenbach (18551898) and Max Elskamp (1862
1937). All of these poets share a dual culture: natives of Flanders, they
were brought up and educated in French, and they chose to express them-
selves in the French language. In each case, this is a choice they assumed
more, or less, decisively. Rodenbach, for example, will move to Paris.
Verhaeren (intermittently) and Elskamp express with sensitivity a
X Foreword

flandritude that conveys to their poetic language its peculiar resonance,

somewhat barbaric or formally austere. This style will be of great interest
to Frances writers, so much so that Andr Gide will claim that, early in
his career, he wrote in Belgian. By contrast, Maeterlinck (who up to this
day is the only Belgian to receive the Nobel prize in literature) will de-
scribe Flemish as a muddled patois.
Represented by the Francophones of Flanders, this literary current
will last until the contemporary period, in spite of greater and greater
opposition by Dutch-speaking extremists. It should be said, however, that
after 1880 the novelists and playwrights, rather than the poets, are the
prime targets of this animosity: Franz Hellens (18811972), Marie Gevers
(18831975), Fernand Crommelynck (18861970), then Ghelderode
(18981961), Suzanne Lilar (19011995), Paul Willems (19121998)
and Guy Vaes (born in 1927), none of whom may essentially be classified
as a poet.
Poetry, however, will be the favored, if not exclusive, mode of expres-
sion for the Symbolists: even though Maeterlinck remains famous for his
theater and essays, the published dramas of Verhaeren and Van Lerberghe
are not well-known. As for Rodenbach, it is his novel Bruges-la-Morte
(Bruges, the Dead City), and not his plays, that brought him, albeit post-
humously, a resounding success.
The most celebrated and productive poet in the second half of the
nineteenth century is uncontestably Emile Verhaeren, who lived long
enough for his art to evolve and undergo many metamorphoses that were
both significant and spectacular.
Born in Saint-Amand on the Scheldt river in 1855, educated in French-
language schools, Verhaeren earned a law degree from the University of
Louvain, after graduating from the famous Collge Sainte-Barbe in Gand,
which was also attended by other major poets of the period: Grgoire Le
Roy (18611940), Van Lerberghe, Rodenbach and Maeterlinck. Later,
Verhaeren joined a group of poets in La Jeune Belgique, a literary move-
ment whose objective was to acquire a specifically Belgian cultural iden-
tity, and to gain autonomy from neighboring cultures. The prime mover
of this association was poet Max Waller (18601889), who unfortunately
died too young to fully realize his potential.
In 1883, at the age of twenty-eight, Verhaeren published Les
Flamandes, (Flemish Scenes), a book whose connotative title could be
labeled pictorial, since at that time Verhaeren was a good friend of
painter Tho Van Rysselberghe. After the publication of Les Moines (The
Monks), in 1866, in which Parnassian influence can be perceived,
 Foreword XI

Verhaeren experienced a grave moral crisis that inspired some of his best
poems: Les Soirs, Les Dbcles, Les Flambeaux noirs and Les
Campagnes hallucines (respectively: Evenings, Debacles, Black Torches
and Hallucinated Countryside). Because of their psychoanalytic nature
and their somber mood reminiscent of nordic Symbolism, these books
are considered the poets most modern and captivating works. Verhaerens
marriage in 1891 heralds a new phase in his life and in his art, as con-
firmed by Les Heures claires (translated as The Sunlit Hours).
In the last years of the century, Verhaeren first expresses fear as he
witnesses the alienation and dehumanization caused by what is known
today as wild capitalism (Les Villes tentaculaires, 1896, Sprawling
Towns). Yet, later, in a paradoxical turnabout, he sings the praises of the
modern world as, for instance, in La Multiple splendeur (1906, The
Multiple Splendor). During this period, his poetry takes on an oratory
quality that brings him fame and helps to create the myth of a Belgian
Hugo. However, one might judge that this particular portion of Verhaerens
work did not withstand the test of time as well as the rest of his poetry.
Rodenbach and Van Lerberghe, friends of Verhaeren (and in
Rodenbachs case, his exact contemporary), will remain loyal to Symbol-
ism throughout their short lives, although they will not become as famous
as Verhaeren. Rodenbach is uncontestably a true poet; perhaps his art is
best displayed in Bruges-la-Morte, a novel newly rediscovered that is
directly in the line of Nervals works. Rodenbach is Symbolism incarnate:
secluded lives, murmurs and tremblings of the souls, a world of chimeras
and fantasms, flower-women, while real life is elsewhere. Van Lerberghe,
despite his premature death, achieved the status of a substantial and en-
gaging poet, author of two books that count among the masterpieces of
Symbolism, Entrevisions and La Chanson dEve (Glimpses and The
Song of Eve). There is nothing oversentimental or outmoded about his
brand of Symbolism. Van Lerberghe is to poetry what Debussy is to mu-
sic: beneath an easy-going and somewhat effeminate form, can be found
a solid and precise structure that is at once skilled, scholarly and inspired.
In a highly personal way, yet with a quite different tone, he achieves
Rimbauds esthetic program, by catching a glimpse of what man only
thinks he may have seen.
Many other Belgian poets, such as Mockel, Le Roy or Fontainas, may
be associated with Symbolism. Undeniably, the most original is Max
Elskamp (18621931) whose dense, sensitive and generous works con-
stitute also, and perhaps primarily, a reflection on language. To my knowl-
edge, he is the only Flemish poet of the time whose grammatical
XII Foreword

constructions are consistently archaistic, folksy and full of flandricisms.

This intentional roughness of style, in sharp contrast with the elegant
phrasing of most Symbolists, is what makes Elskamps poetry utterly origi-
nal as well as profoundly human. Elskamp was an irrgulier du langage
before the term was invented to designate, retrospectively, poets who
indulge in verbal transgressions. Through carefully calculated formal de-
vices, Elskamp seeks to rediscover and capture the soul and sensitivity of
the common people.
In contrast, Grgoire Le Roy (18611940), who lacks Elskamps origi-
nality, may be described as a prudent Symbolist. Even though Albert
Mockel (18661945) authored poems of great purity of tone, and though
his emotive vision reveals itself in smooth-flowing, transparent verse, his
role was primarily to stimulate and awaken. He awakened a dormant
Walloon consciousness, and he stimulated our literature at the end of the
century by founding La Wallonie, a remarkable journal that became a
forum for some of the most prominent writers of the period.
We now come to Maurice Maeterlinck who was awarded the Nobel
Prize in 1911. His major works may be subdivided into two genres: his
theater, in the early 1900s, and many years later, his essays. Maeterlinck
lived to be eighty-seven; had his life been as brief as Rodenbachs or Van
Lerberghes, his poetry would probably have been his most notable achieve-
ment. As it is, Maeterlincks contribution to poetry as a genre is limited to
approximately fifty pieces, assembled in Serres chaudes (1889) and Douze
chansons (1896), a collection that a few years later will be titled Quinze
chansons. Even though Maeterlincks poetic works are distinctly fewer in
number than Verhaerens, their impact was no less intense. Serres chaudes
(Greenhouses) exude a sort of cerebral poison that can be compared to
Verhaerens Flambeaux noirs. It evokes the suffocation of man who,
enclosed in an inner world that both protects and asphyxiates him, longs
for, yet fears, a reality made of snow and ice from which he is separated
by an inner glass panel. Douze chansons (Twelve Songs) is made up of
brief, touchingly simple poems that plunge us into an intemporal uni-
verse; they lift up Flemish folklore to its highest expression, in an atmo-
sphere that is both secretive and vibrant. One may of course regret that,
in ensuing years, Maeterlinck devoted his art exclusively to the theater,
then to essays, to the detriment of his poetic inspiration mysteriously
interrupted.
It will now be clear to the reader that, until this point, women writers
were few in Belgium. Indeed Marie Gevers, born in 1883, may be the first
who will attain a prominent place in Belgian letters. Before we leave
 Foreword XIII

Symbolism, however, the name of Jean Dominique merits attention. This

younger contemporary of Elskamp and Van Lerberghe, who wrote under
a masculine pseudonym, was little-known in her day, but is now often
associated with the Symbolist movement.
As we conclude this all too rapid survey of the 1880 poets, it is
obvious that, at the end of the nineteenth century, the major imprint on
Belgian poetry was made by Flemish writers who chose French to ex-
press their nightmares and their dreams. It is also clear that most of their
contemporaries of the Symbolist school, born in Brussels or in Wallonia,
soon became outdated. Such was the fate of Fernand Sverin (1867
1931) and of the Three Gs who had achieved fame in their days: Iwan
Gilkin (18581924), Valre Gilles (18671950) and Albert Giraud (1860-
1929). The latter, however, did survive through his Pierrot lunaire, set to
music by Schoenberg.
By contrast, the next generation of poets, born around 1900, will
include Francophones from Brussels and southern Belgium who, this time,
will affirm their art in a spectacular manner.
Although Franz Hellens or Marie Gevers, both also from Flanders,
published poetry, they do not owe their fame to this genre. Hellens, in
regard to chronology and the importance of his works, is chiefly known,
along with Jean Ray (his junior by six years), as the father of the so-called
littrature de ltrange, or literature of strangeness that will spread its
nocturnal wings and casts its shadow over the works and creative process
of many a Belgian writer. Marie Gevers, primarily a novelist, is often
compared to Colette or to Giono, and is praised for a style that combines
poetic sensitivity with substance. Her works depict a Flanders hovering
between dream and reality; the literary mood thus created will also be
characteristic of her son Paul Willemss writings.
From a chronological point of view, the major poets of the new gen-
eration begin their career in the wake of Surrealism. It should be noted
that Belgian Surrealism is contemporary with, and not posterior to, the
development of this movement in France. Moreover, dates do not lie:
Breton and Tzara were born in 1896; Belgians Paul Noug (18951957),
Paul Colinet (18981957), E.L.T. Mesens (19031971), Marcel Lecomte
(19001966) and Louis Scutenaire (born in 1904), are all of the same
generation as their French counterparts. However, Belgian Surrealism
remained autonomous, which explains why a Scutenaire or a Noug each
spoke in his own voice. The pervading atmosphere of the works of each
is at once opposite and yet complementary: for Noug, who may be con-
sidered a late disciple of Mallarm, poetry represents a total, deep and
XIV Foreword

tragic commitment of the self. By contrast, Colinet engages, extrovert

fashion, in healthy comical antics. To the hostile and even violent tone
voiced by Mesens, Lecomte responds with a subdued, intimist, albeit
strange and disturbing mood. Scutenaire favors a joyous iconoclastic style,
while Chave focuses on surreality itself. Finally, we cannot ignore Clment
Pansaers (18951922), a most intriguing, dazzling meteor of a poet who,
to my knowledge, is the only representative of Dadaism in Belgium.
Although other poets of this same generation are marked by Surreal-
ism in various degrees, they will nevertheless maintain their esthetic inde-
pendence from the movement, and will distance themselves from all dic-
tates. In general these poets were misunderstood and even ridiculed by
the avant-gardes. Today, however, they should be regarded with more
moderation and critical objectivity.
In this perspective, it would be a mistake, or even an insult, to consider
Robert Vivier (18941989) or Marcel Thiry (18971977) as mere neo-
classic reincarnations without far-reaching influence. Marcel Thiry can be
regarded as the melancholy watchman of the soul. Disturbing, protean,
and yet subtly elegant in their tragic lucidity, his works take root in the
modern world with its trains, its astral automobiles, the diving prows
of its ships and the New York skyscrapers, which Thiry labels crevices.
In fact, through his prosody and the spirit of his writings, Thiry follows
Apollinaires footsteps. As in his predecessors Zone, Thiry brings the
poets deep sensitivity into a world of iron and blood. For Thiry, the
modern poet is a man transformed into an usine penser des choses
tristes, a factory of sad thoughts. Unfortunately, Thiry became engulfed
in a premature literary career and soon was sought after by all the
Belgian literary societies of his time. Only an impartial reader will judge
him to be a great writer, the kind of reader able to discover and appreciate
both the powerful force of Thirys verse and the inner fragility of the man,
who depended on his creative work to enable him to face the hardships of
life.
Robert Vivier was a remarkable essayist and a professor of literature at
the University of Lige and at the Sorbonne in Paris. The fact that his life
was very private and, all in all, quite comfortable, should in no way ob-
scure his poetic creativity which, in the wake of Supervielle, is focused
exclusively on the enigma of existence, in verses of acute and sensuous
surreality that are deceptively transparent, streaked with paradoxically
calm anxiety. The poet, who journeys through the brambles of space,
throws his words into a deep well as he would a stone, and from the
ripplemarks the poem emerges. In close proximity to Viviers, Edmond
 Foreword XV

Vandercammens thought-provoking works (19011980) echo voices from

South America, whose poets he translated with great finesse.
If we now omit the name of Henry Michaux (18991984) who cat-
egorically refused to be identified as a Belgian, there remain two other
writers, powerful companions who, although different, are complemen-
tary: Go Norge (18981991) and Albert Ayguesparse (19001996).
They share an exceptionally long life, as well as a fraternal and attentive
interest in the works of other poets from all over the world.
Norge is chiefly known for his prose poems and for his research in the
fields of literary form and of metaphysics. In this regard, he is akin to his
contemporaries Ren Magritte (born the same year as Norge) and the
French poet Jean Tardieu (19031995). Under a surface of carefully
planned and complex humor, Norges writings, such as LOignon (the
Onion) or Les Cerveaux-brls (The Hot-Heads), reveal a man who,
though fully conscious of lifes dramatic mysteries, offers poetry as a tal-
isman against absurdity, oblivion and malevolence. His art, therefore, is
vigorous; it does not turn away from ugliness, but it rejects despair, all the
better to capture the immense joy of gods who have a human face. The
prose poem is ideally suited to Norges expression, as this form allows
him to wander in and around words, to lose us on the way, then to come
back and hold our hand just before fear sets in, and finally to guide us
precisely to where we least expected to be.
A graver tone characterizes Albert Ayguesparses poetry. He might be
caricatured as a lyrical visionary utterly devoted to the cause of humanity.
In his first works, Derniers jours terre (1931, Last Days on Earth) and
La Mer boire (1938, To Drink the Sea Dry), is felt his eagerness to
scrutinize the human persona and to decipher its contradictions and mys-
teries. These two volumes, published in the 1930s, consist of long lyrical
stanzas undeniably marked by the Surrealists taste for hallucinating im-
ages, but they also attest to Ayguesparses talent for manipulating words,
for evoking things that had, until then, been judged foreign to poetry:
factories, dismal slum streets, canals, coal-mining villages, workmen on
strike. Uncontestably, Ayguesparses works bear signs of the materialistic
poetry foretold by Rimbaud that would emerge in the twentieth century.
After 1945, and until his death in 1996, Ayguesparses literary produc-
tion is punctuated by definitive works such as Encre couleur du sang
(Blood-colored Ink) and Le Vin noir de Cahors (The Black Wine from
Cahors), both published in 1957, or Les Armes de la gurison (1972,
The Arms of the Cure), which evokes the poets inner world. In all these
volumes, the forces of love and hope are pitted against the absurdity and
XVI Foreword

cruelty ever present in our world. At the age of eighty, this great poet will
strengthen his phrasing, fragmenting it without reducing its powerful
expressivity. He will use denser words, tighten the Gordian knot of style
and, through ellipses and contractions, bear witness to the twentieth
centurys decadent and apocalyptic ending.
The poetry of Robert Goffin (18981985) remains in the shadow of
French poet Blaise Cendrarss writings. Nevertheless it is full of vitality
and commands respect despite its uneven quality.
Likewise, we may wonder whether the abundant poetic production of
Georges Linze (19011991), characterized by its futuristic tendencies,
will resist the test of time. The author tirelessly repeats his hope for a
better world dominated by machines in a state of grace. In an age disen-
chanted with Progress, it is difficult to estimate the ultimate fate of this
type of poetry.
Along with cartoonist Herg, detective novelist Simenon and Tour-de-
France hero Eddy Merckx, Maurice Carme (18991978) has acquired a
place among the most famous citizens of Belgium. A very active Carme
Foundation perpetuates his memory and his poetic legacy. In any case, a
book such as Mre (Mother), published in 1934, is proof that Carme
should not be relegated, as he sometimes is, to the ghetto of childrens
literature. His prolific works are deliberately highly readable and also very
sensitive, much like those of Maurice Fombeure, or of French poet Paul
Fort. They occupy a deservedly honorable place in the field of French-
language literature, and their popular success alone makes them impos-
sible to ignore.
Charles Plisnier (18961952), a contemporary of Ayguesparse, is chiefly
renowned as a novelist. Nevertheless his poetic works are relatively abun-
dant and have a peculiar history. Son of a Mons bourgeois family, young
Plisnier, a very gifted and precocious poet, was first attracted by Surreal-
ism and by Leninist communism. Influenced by Ayguesparse, he will de-
vote himself to materialist poetry, and will denounce societys injustices.
Yet, because he is a Surrealist, he uses imagery in a magical way to sur-
prise and illuminate a narrative line leading indirectly to man and his
struggles. His blasphemous Prire aux mains coupes (1933, A Prayer
with Cut-off Hands) established Plisnier as a poet marked by the progressist
ideas of his time. Later, and most curiously, Plisnier the atheist, the rebel,
goes back to the faith of his childhood and becomes an authentic Chris-
tian poet with a beautiful and moving book, Ave Genitrix, published in
1947. As a result of this paradoxical, but thoroughly sincere conversion,
we are able to explore the meanderings of a tormented soul consumed by
its own inner fire.
 Foreword XVII

Also in the forefront in the 1930s and 1940s are the so-called poets
of transparence who bring fresh voices to the poetic scene, but are still
earmarked by Symbolism. Odilon-Jean Prier (19011928) stands out,
for his pure song will blaze across the post-war skies with the speed of a
meteor. Auguste Marin (19111940) undeniably his spiritual son, unfor-
tunately lost his life as a young man in the early days of the second World
War.
Following in the footsteps of these two prematurely departed writers,
Roger Bodart (19101974) remains to be discovered. His Le Ngre de
Chicago (Negro from Chicago), for instance, reveals a highly original tal-
ent that it would be inappropriate to term neoclassic. The book is re-
markable, not only for its elegant style and formal inventiveness, but for
the sensitive, yet cruel, lucidity of its message as well.
Wholly separated from any conventional trend, from any sort of life in
society, removed from all influences, Arthur Praillet (19071992) built a
manifold work, fine and hard as a crystal sword, with a tone all its own,
even though at times reminiscent of Eluard. In a very natural manner,
through the prism of words, Paillets poetry soars in the realm of
intemporality and permanence with a passionate attention to mans fate.
Recently the Arbre Paroles editions (which will be discussed further)
undertook the excellent and courageous initiative to reprint the complete
works of Paillet, a poet of light and solitude.
From what precedes, it is easy to conclude that the 1900s poetic gen-
eration is exceptionally rich and varied in Belgium. In the framework of
this brief introduction, however, it is not possible to study it in depth. It is
certainly not incumbent on the literary historian to award first and second
prizes or pass out failing grades. However, with time, it becomes pro-
gressively feasible to weigh the chances of survival of such and such a
poet, to sketch preferences, while endeavoring to throw some light on all
sides of a poetic trove that many specialized journals make it their objec-
tive to reveal. Among the most informative of these publications we may
cite Le Thyrse, founded in 1899; Marginales, in 1945; Le Journal des
Potes, in 1930, Le Disque Vert, in 1922; or Phantomas whose cre-
ator, Thodore Koening, is recently deceased.
The Acadmie Royale de Langue et de Littrature franaises was
founded in Brussels in 1920, with the objective of promoting all aspects
of French-language literature. It also serves as a publishing house, and
awards literary prizes, some of which are reserved for poetry. Like its
prestigious model, the Acadmie franaise of Paris, the Belgian Acad-
emy is comprised of forty elected members, some of whom are poets,
including several who are featured in this Anthology. Unlike its French
XVIII Foreword

counterpart, however, the Belgian Academy has welcomed women mem-

bers from its inception, whereas women were not admitted to the French
Academy until 1980, when Marguerite Yourcenar (who happens to have
been born in Belgium!) was elected.
Up until now, the next generation of the 1920s has been relatively
neglected. A large number of its poets are still active today; as a result,
remarking on their on-going progress may often be inappropriate. Poets
such as Thins, Jones or Miguel are far from having expressed their last
word. Still, chronological distance is slowly established and helps us to
acquire a better perspective.
As tradition often proves, some names highly acclaimed in the 50s or
60s have already sunk into oblivion, whereas others, unknown or under-
estimated at the time, now suddenly reveal themselves. Such is the case
of Andr Romus, born in 1927, whose important and thoroughly authen-
tic work remained in the shadows for far too long. More recently, in a
retrospective anthology published in 1998, the public was greatly sur-
prised to discover the works of Marcel Lambiotte (1921), a poet who, in
his youth, was praised by Ren Char.
Because of a grave misunderstanding concerning poets born around
1920, it has been claimed that their works bear the marks of neoclassi-
cism, as though a sort of atonement was needed after the atmosphere of
turmoil and protest prevailing in the time of Surrealism. We know today
that such an analysis is simplistic, if not completely false. Even if Andr
Gascht (1921), Louis Daubier (1924), Carlo Masoni (1921) or Roger Foulon
(1923) all seem to wistfully adhere to the pure song of crystal clear po-
etry, many other poets have followed different avenues.
In the case of Jean Tordeur, born in 1920, the situation is fairly com-
plex. He freely admits that he has been influenced by T.S. Eliot and Saint-
John Perse, and that he is fond of lyrical, well-balanced rhythms. How-
ever, in Le Vif (The Living), published in 1966, he opts for a poetry of
dry-point precision that separates him from any neoclassic tendencies.
Le Vif stands out as one of his major works, illuminating the path of a
poet deeply tormented by a disquieting inner anguish.
Arthur Haulot (1913) might be considered Ayguesparses younger dis-
ciple. Like the author of Armes de la gurison, Haulot writes to celebrate
humanity and to reconcile men with themselves and with poetry. A de-
clared enemy of hermeticism and of minimalism, he excels in formal,
amply developed lyrical verse. His poetry does not ignore existential an-
guish, but it sings of love and the love of life, and thus bears witness to the
authors jubilant and enduring joie de vivre. Haulots abundant and mul-
 Foreword XIX

tifaceted production suffered somewhat, as did Ayguesparses, from the

authors involvement in other matters. Throughout the past fifty years,
Haulot has earned the reputation of a prodigiously talented leader and
animator in poetic colloquia, editor of Le Journal des Potes and presi-
dent of the International Biennal Poetry Convention. He has been ac-
claimed for his role in countless other functions related to the literary
field.
Other poets of this generation are primarily writers who break free of
contemporary movements and search for poetic renewal. Although Andr
Schmitz (1929) has published relatively few books, his voice gains more
resonance with the appearance of every new volume, densely structured
and unconventional. In his recent poems particularly, he touches upon
the most delicate and secretive aspects of the human condition with a
sort of feigned naivete. From his somewhat abrupt style, emerges a sen-
sitivity to suffering, a tenderness, that cannot be compared with any other,
not even Supervielle, with whom Schmitz demonstrates spiritual, if not
stylistic affinities.
In the wake of Surrealism, two other Andrs deserve recognition: Andr
Miguel, born in 1920, and Andr Balthazar, born in 1927. Both are
equally prominent as writers and as personalities in the literary circuit.
Miguel, who was the friend of such celebrities as Prvert, Picasso and
Paulhan, has been instrumental in discovering and inspiring many a young
poets vocation. Abundant and inventive, his own works follow two seem-
ingly diverging paths: on the one hand, Miguel plays with language and
creates portmanteau words or neologisms, such as, for instance, in
LOiseau vespasien (Vespasian Bird), a book that had a strong impact on
young poet Jean-Pierre Verheggen, among others. On the other hand,
Miguels subtle search for inner realities is interwoven with beautifully
convulsive metaphors. This second aspect of Miguels poetry can be
particularly appreciated in Oeil immense or in Corps du jour, whose
titles alone are revealing (Immense Eye; Body of Day). Andr Balthazar,
whose tone is characteristically ironical and humorous, is the founder of
the famous Daily Bul Editions. Still active today, this publishing house,
along with Fernand Verhesens Le Cormier, is one of the ultimate refuges
for the true poets unswayed by social prestige, conventions, literary ter-
rorism or current trends.
To a certain extent, Philippe Jones (1924) may be considered another
descendant of Surrealism. He expressesand betrayshis love for the
plastic arts in poems that appeal to the eye. His books, both expansive
and covertly intimate, speak in whispers to communicate an almost
XX Foreword

imperceptible, yet insistant sensuality, at the heart of carefully controlled

vibrancy. Thus, Joness poetry progresses discreetly, opening up new
avenues.
Three other poets share this sense of the mysterious and unknowable.
Although they differ in several ways, they all illustrate perfectly the aber-
ration of designating their generation by the term neoclassicism. Fernand
Verhesen (1913) is active in the international poetic world, mainly through
his editorship of Editions Le Cormier. He is also a celebrated translator of
Hispanic, primarily Latin-American, poetry. Thus, because of his remark-
able work as a discoverer of talent, his own poetic and critical writings
remain somewhat in the background. Yet, Verhesenss works, through
their esoterism and sensitive precision, will greatly influence several younger
poets, such as Pierre-Yves Soucy and Yves Namur. Moreover, Verhesens
numerous critical publications will culminate in Propositions, an impres-
sive collection of articles that we hesitate to describe as theoretical, as
this volume comes alive with the very flesh and blood of poetry itself.
Born in 1918, Marcel Hennart, also a critic and translator, does not
receive the recognition he deserves as a poet. The unique tone and mood
of his work reveal a wounded soul pouring out its distress as immutably as
the sands of Time filtering through his fingers. Highly gifted in the fields
of both science and literature, Georges Thins (1923) first became known
as a novelist, published in Paris by Editions Gallimard. Yet in addition to
being an imaginative and individualistic novelist, he is also, and perhaps
above all, a powerful poet whose vigorous works are built on a porten-
tous foundation. In an atmosphere reminiscent of Paul Valrys universe,
Thinss writings follow a visionary path that takes us through mythologi-
cal labyrinths revisited by the arcana of the unconscious. Thus were born
his key-books Janus and Connatre lErbe (Erebus Discovered).
Other poets, Franois Jacqmin (19281997), or Raymond Quinot
(1920) also prove that neoclassicism is definitely not on their agenda: the
first, by following a very intense and highly personal poetic itinerary; the
second, through a mischievously satirical approach. In the same genera-
tion, the Piqueray brothers and Marcel Marin have remained resolutely
loyal to Surrealism and continue to typify marginal, but fruitful impropriety.
This anthology will clearly demonstrate that there is no shortage of
women poets in Belgium, and that they are as diverse and talented as
their male counterparts. However, they do not come into full bloom until
the 1920s generation. Before that time they are few, Marie Nizet being a
sort of pioneer, standing alone and, due to circumstances, remaining un-
known throughout her lifetime. Since many of the 1920 generation women
 Foreword XXI

are introduced in the following pages, I will limit myself to a rapid survey.
Besides Andre Sodenkamp (born in 1906), some of the most prominent
poets include Anne-Marie Kegels (19121994), Jeanine Moulin (1912
1998), Lucienne Desnoues (1921), Marie-Jos Viseur (19151999) and
Ccile Miguel (1921) whose works, intimate and intimidating, consist es-
sentially of prose poems presented as dream fragments. Ccile Miguels
poetry has been unfairly neglected by critics in comparison with her
husbands, and all the more unjustifiably since both Andr and Ccile
Miguel are equally, albeit differently, talented.
Claire Lejeune (1927) and Liliane Wouters (1930) will follow, each
with her own poetic vision, yet expressing affinities. Also born in 1927,
Rene Lematre, after somewhat hesitant beginnings, is today fully devel-
oping her potential.
Jacques Izoard (1936) has often been defined as a man of few words
and a champion of hermeticism by those who would focus exclusively on
his conceptual austerity while ignoring the spellbinding power and the
penumbral ambiance of his verse. Izoard favors the questioning mode in
a poetry that might be considered dream-like were it not for his very
precise prosody, which, even when it flows more freely, always carries
intellectual connotations. In truth, Izoards poetry is unique. Those who
have attempted to imitate him, or to follow in his footsteps, have only
succeeded in turning pure enchantment into dogmatism.
The same labels of hermeticism and minimalism have been applied to
Werner Lambersy, born in 1941. However, if we look at Lambersy in the
proper chronological perspective, he appears to be one of the major po-
ets of his generation. Influenced by oriental thought, he is first and fore-
most a calligrapher, an artist of the penstroke. Lambersy writes with great
sobriety and without premeditation. His poetry is free of particular stylis-
tic devices or calculated effects; it fulfills a deep inner necessity, an ascetic
plan leading to purification of the poetic discourse. Accordingly, Lambersy
shuns ostentatious lyricism, preferring concision and intensity of expres-
sion. All poetic eloquence, or rhetoric, is completely foreign to his art
and he rightfully rejects it.
It is precisely this type of eloquence, proffered on a background of
apocalyptic despair that permeates the poetry of Jacques Crickillon (1940).
Crickillon is atypical at a time when compression and ellipsis take prece-
dence over the visionary and fully developed poetry characteristic of an
Ayguesparse, and now reflected in Crickillons style. Regardless, he de-
serves more attention for his constantly alert intellectual and esthetic cu-
riosity that at times brings him close to Saint-John Perse or Pieyre de
XXII Foreword

Mandiargues, or places him on the verge of the American thriller novel.

Everything can be a source of inspiration for Crickillons ample and pro-
fuse discourse, in a poetry both significant and compelling in its pangs of
anguish and unleashed fits of anger.
If not the most unusual, at least the most individualistic in his genera-
tion is Jean-Pierre Verheggen (1943), a baroque poet who thrives on
portmanteau words and puns in the Dadaist style, and whose works are a
perfect illustration of the so-called irregularity of language, here mixed
with an instinctive taste for lexical playfulness. Obscenities, insults, sexual
frenzy, all abound in Verheggens meticulous and obstinate language. This
type of poetry, like a Rabelaisian tidal wave, brings us an accurate picture
of a century in which constant mental zapping is the order of the day.
Christian Hubin (1941) has undertaken a graver and more compact
program. His collection La parole sans lieu (Words without a Place),
published in 1976, was unanimously received as the highest expression
of a poetic language that is clear, uncompromising, and moves at its own
pace. Admired and appreciated by some, Hubins poetry will evolve with
the years and reach its true measure after the histrions and buffoons of
poetry clear the stage.
Among the prominent poets of the 1980s, we could have cited Gaspard
Hons (1937) as a follower of Jacques Izoard. However, in the past few
years, after pondering over hermeticism, Hons brillianty resolved his di-
lemma when, oscillating between clarity and obscurity, he came to blend
a sense of the mysterious with a refusal of coarse, if not absolutely unac-
ceptable, discourse. Among other models, Hons turns to the recurring
and haunting figure of Paul Clan, a French poet of Romanian origin.
We would be remiss not to mention here the rare, pure and very genu-
ine poetry of Francis Chenot (1942) and Francis Tessa (1935) who, in
collaboration with poet Andr Doms (1932) are today the prime movers
of LArbre Paroles publishing house and of La Maison de la Posie,
both of which, thanks to these mens indefatigable efforts, have become
distinguished centers of Poetry in Amay, Belgium. These three poets are
in the process of developing a potential that, after being somewhat ob-
scured by their present involvement as leaders and critics, will come to
light with time.
After 1980, a new generation of poets will emerge in Belgium. Once
again, as was the case for their predecessors of the 1920s, they will often
be viewed as neoclassicists or new lyricists. For my part, I find it impos-
sible to categorize contemporary poets whose points of view diverge so
widely on the nature of poetry, its definition, or even its raison dtre.
 Foreword XXIII

Which poet will be consecrated by posterity? Will it be Guy Goffette

(1948) who is highly acclaimed in Parisian circles? Or Marc Dugardin
(1948), a true spiritual descendant of Arthur Praillet? Will it be perhaps
the introverted and sensual Yves Namur (1952)? Or Philippe Lekeuche
(1955), the proponent of clarity first?
After Anne-Marie Derse, Colette Nys-Mazure, Monique Thomassettie,
Franoise Lison-Leroy, and Batrice Libert, who are all actively involved
with their art, and after Mimy Kinet, prematurely departed (19481996),
feminine poetry seems to have slowed down somewhat, although several
younger women show great promise for the near future.
If certain poets, such as Pierre-Yves Soucy (1947) or Eric Brogniet
(1957) pursue a secret inner quest that is tightly controlled by language,
others like Carl Norac (1962) or Karel Logist (1962) seem to be tempted
by a sort of tragic ludism with a new resonance. Lucien Noullez (1957),
for his part, revisits the Scriptures in the ironical but tender light of turn-
of-the-century ambiguity. Others display their independence as well: Henri
Falaise (1947), Claude Donnay (1953), Philippe Leuck (1955) or Philippe
Mathy (1957). With sobriety and discretion, they announce the advent of
a future poetic discourse that will be at once grave and luminous.
Once again the names overwhelm us, as though at the turn of the
century, in Belgium as well as elsewhere, a new vital force is emerging, a
much-needed urgency to speak, like the one that prevailed among the
decadents in the late nineteenth century. Who today can predict, with-
out risking tomorrows ridicule, which poets will be the next centurys
great? Perhaps some new ascetic Elskamp, Noug or Sodenkamp may be
at work, far from the spotlight and the din of society, busy elaborating a
type of poetry that will reach its true measure after a few more years have
gone by.
We now let the women poets take the stage, as we end this survey on
the eve of a new millenium. Although there may have been some omis-
sions in the preceding pages, and inevitably a measure of subjectivity, we
hope to have brought to light the uncommon abundance and quality of
one hundred years of poetry in the French-language Community of
Belgium.

Jean-Luc Wauthier

Born in Charleroi, Belgium, in 1950, Jean-Luc Wauthier teaches litera-

ture at the Ecole Normale of Nivelles (known as Haute Ecole Paul-Henri
Spaak). He has authored sixteen books: poetry, short stories, essays and
XXIV Foreword

the novel Le Royaume, published in Lausanne by LAge dHomme. Two

of his poetic collections received awards from the Acadmie Royale of
Belgium. In 1993, he was the recipient of the Ren Lyr Prize for Les
Vitres de la nuit, and in 1998 of the Lucian Blaga Prize for his global
works (a prize offered by the Romanian Cultural Center). Since 1991,
Jean-Luc Wauthier has been editor-in-chief of Le Journal des potes, a
major periodical that promotes poetry from all over the world.

Translators Introduction

Is there such a thing as feminine poetry? asks Belgian writer Jeanine

Moulin in the preface to her international anthology covering eight centu-
ries of poetry by women.
Whether there exists a style of writing that can be characterized as
specifically feminine, is a question that generates much debate and elicits
conflicting answers. This anthology makes no attempt to shed light on
such a controversial subject, rather the anthologists hope that the texts
offered here may serve to illustrate the insignificance of the question:
women, like men, have their own individual style of writing, and there are
truly as many styles as there are writers.
It is true, of course, as Jeanine Moulin further observes, that if one still
hears of university women or women executives, no one ever spoke
of university men or of men executives! Nor, we might add, has there
been mention of an anthology of masculine poetry. Of course, Moulin
wrote these lines in 1966, and times have changed. It remains true, none-
theless, that for various reasons, poetry by women is often neglected in
favor of poetry by men.
By definition, an anthology is the end result of a selection. Limitations
exist. Choices must be made, and choice implies judgment (always), seg-
regation (perhaps), sacrifice (sometimes), elimination (regretfully). Some
anthologies evolve within the confines of thematic, ideological, historical
or other chronological limits. We follow a different path, and hope our
approach will not be regarded as a parti-pris for exclusion, but rather as a
desire to include. To include women who in earlier days were ignored,
derided or ostracized as writersor, in a less distant past, marginalized. It
can hardly be denied that women poets occupy a far too modest place in
all-inclusive anthologies. This being said, the feminine poetry in this vol-
ume serves as a focal point only, not as a manifesto.
XXVI Translators Introduction

Our objective is to offer the English-speaking public a representative

sample of poetry from the French-language community of Belgium, a
country whose writers have generally not received the attention they de-
serve from non-Francophone readers, and perhaps more specifically from
readers in the United States. Yet, according to poet and literary historian
Marc Quaghebeur, Belgium has generated the most prominent French-
language literature in existence outside of France. Moreover, poetry is a
genre that has been, and still is, particularly flourishing in the Belgian
literary landscape. It is our hope that this anthology will not only expand
the knowledge of scholars, but also arouse the interest of a broad reader-
ship who will discover in these pages a significant aspect of Belgiums
contribution to the world of letters.
This book is different from most bilingual anthologies in several ways.
First and foremost, it concerns Belgium uniquely and, in Belgium, only
women poets. Moreoever, in a historical perspective, one cannot speak
of Belgian literature per se before this nation came into existence in 1830.
Therefore, the texts selected belong primarily to the twentieth century,
and thus can be considered contemporary in a broad sense. Although
three of our authors were born before 1900, all the works represented
here were published after that date. As Jean-Luc Wauthiers foreword
demonstrates, even Belgian male writers were few in the nineteenth cen-
tury. For obvious social and cultural reasons, women writers were even
fewer. Because Belgium is such a small and relatively young country, the
growth of its literary production in this century is all the more spectacular.
Moreover, works specifically by women (novels, poetry, drama), have only
substantially developed, in quantity as well as in quality, since the end of
World War II.
The twenty-eight poets we selected all have merited, and received, the
criticsacclaim. The large majority have authored a substantial corpus of
works, and all have earned recognition by their peers. Many are the re-
cipients of literary prizes, not only from Belgium, but from other coun-
tries as well. Four of the poets are, or were in their lifetime, elected mem-
bers of the Belgian Royal Academy. These considerations all carried weight
in our selective process, although we did not overlook poets who prefer
to remain secluded in their private world, and who avoid publicity and any
contact with the media. Of course, we also acknowledge that our choices
reflect personal decisions on our part. Some of these writers can look
forward to many more years of poetic creativity, and therefore their present
status may eventually be reassessed. Moreover, we are aware that many
 Translators Introduction XXVII

young women poets show great promise early in their career. Their po-
ems may find their place in tomorrows anthologies, as they already have
in special issues of literary journals. These future developments notwith-
standing, the turn of the century seems to be an appropriate time to take
stock of the prevailing literary values, and the evolving significance of the
concept of poetry.
To be truly representative, an anthology must be of an eclectic nature.
All the poets featured in this volume possess distinctive characteristics.
While some favor classical prosody, others rebel against formal constraints.
Some poems are transparent, others, recondite. Hymns to Nature alter-
nate with songs of Love or reflections on Death; some verses appeal to
the emotions while others appeal to the intellect. Nostalgia, gravity and
sorrow may be present, but so are humor, ludism and joie de vivre. Most
pieces are in verse, but texts in prose are also included because of their
intrinsic poetic quality.
Jeanine Moulin was convinced that poetry by women reflects a way of
thinking, a sensitivity, an outlook on life that are specific to their sex.
Others affirm that the relationship between writing and identity is par-
ticularly strong in womens poetry. French writer Hlne Cixous, author
of Dedans (Inside), suggests that women write from inside, that the
bodyas an inner experiencemakes its presence felt in a powerful way
in womens writings. These characteristic traits can be discovered in many
of the texts we offer.
The poets in this volume appear in the chronological order of their
birth and, for each poet, the pieces selected follow the order of their
publication. Whenever possible, we have endeavored, for each poet, to
present excerpts from several of her collections, thus offering a more
accurate sampling, and sometimes pointing to a stylistic or thematic evo-
lution in her work. In a few cases some indits, texts as yet unpub-
lished, appear in print for the first time in our pages. We are especially
pleased to include a few art reproductions by two of the women whose
poetic talent is also expressed in the plastic arts.
This anthology is a collaborative project by two professors of French,
one of whom is American-born, the other Belgian-born, although she has
lived in the United States most of her life. Both of us have a special
interest in poetry and have published our own. In preparing this anthol-
ogy, we jointly translated the poems and wrote the introductory bio-bibli-
ographies. Every page of this book reflects our complete and highly com-
patible collaboration.
XXVIII Translators Introduction

Acknowledgments

We should like to express our gratitude to the Ministre de la Communaut

franaise de Belgique, and particularly to the premier conseiller, Mr. Jean-
Luc Outers, for their generous support of the Belgian Francophone Li-
brary series to which this anthology belongs.
Our warmest thanks go to Professor Donald F. Friedman of Winthrop
University, general director of the series, who encouraged our work and
provided judicious comments throughout the project. Great appreciation
is due also to poet and literary critic Jean-Luc Wauthier who graciously
devoted his time and talent to the writing of the foreword.
We are grateful to Mr. Owen Lancer, acquisitions manager of Peter
Lang Publishing, and to his staff for their amiable cooperation during the
preparation of the manuscript.
We would like to acknowledge the generous support provided to us by
Denison University in the acquisition of authorial rights.
We also wish to give recognition to the French and Belgian publishers
of the original poetry collections, as well as to authors or other copyright
holders, for granting us permission to reproduce and to translate the texts
(for each author, all pertinent credits can be found in the bio-bibliographi-
cal introduction to her work).
Above all, we express our wholehearted gratitude to the poets who
grace these pages. Our task was greatly facilitated by their open and
friendly attitude, their generosity in supplying texts, and in a few cases,
their willingness to provide information difficult to obtain on this side of
the Atlantic, as well as assistance with various business matters.

Judy Cochran Rene Linkhorn


Marie Nizet
(18591922)

Marie Nizet was born in Brussels when Belgium was still a very young
country. What little is known about her life has all the elements of a
romantic novel. She was just eighteen when she published her first collec-
tion of poems, Moscou et Bucarest, in France. In these verses she vehe-
mently supports Romania in its revolt against tsarist Russia. In 1878, she
authored Romania, a series of poems on the same theme. That year, she
also wrote a short essay criticizing Peter the Great.
Marie Nizets father, a doctor at law, was the curator of the Bibliothque
Royale (Royal Library). He had turned the family home into a boarding
house where several Romanian exiles found shelter. This may explain the
authors keen interest in a country she had never visited but whose prob-
lems were most likely discussed daily at the dinner table.
Le Capitaine Vampire, a novella with a Romanian setting that ap-
peared in 1879 was to be Marie Nizets last published work, for she re-
mained silent the rest of her life. She married Mercier, had a child, and
soon divorced and left Belgium. In 1922, she returned to Brussels and
died shortly afterwards.
Documents found among her possessions included a collection of po-
ems composed many years earlier and dedicated to a naval officer, Cecil
Axel Veneglia (Axel de Missie) with whom she had shared an ardent love
affair. Axel travelled extensively by sea to far-off lands, and one day his
ship returned to port without him. After his death, Marie continued to
write poignant poems in memory of their passionate love. This work was
published posthumously in 1923 under the title Pour Axel de Missie.
Nizets unrestrained frankness in the expression of sensual love is rare
among nineteenth century women writers. Contemporary author Jeanine
Moulin is among the first to have called attention to this unknown poet,
2 Marie Nizet

when in her anthology of feminine poetry, Moulin speaks of Nizets po-

ems as songs of love and death that meld into a violent, pure and fiery
ring . . . She created them only for herself: this is why they are so beauti-
ful and bold. In her essay on feminine literature, Evelyne Wilwerth em-
phasizes Nizets powerful vision that does away with conventions and
never yields to sentimentalism. Furthermore, Liliane Wouters, in her
magistral anthology of Belgian poetry (in collaboration with Alain Bosquet),
has judged Marie Nizet to be a poet for all times, because her verse re-
flects classical and immutable qualities.
 Marie Nizet 3

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Moscou et Bucarest. Versailles: E. Aubert, 1877.
Romania (Chants de la Roumanie). Paris: Ghio, 1878.
Pour Axel de Missie. Bruxelles: La Vie Intellectuelle, 1923.
4 Marie Nizet

La chanson de Mahli

La matresse blanche et blonde

Dont lamour tensorcela
Est lautre bout du monde:
Je suis l!

Pour ma joie, voque celle

Qui met ton tre en moi.
Dsire-la, meurs en elle . . .
Et prends-moi!

Cest elle qui met la flamme

Au bcher o je me tords.
Que me fait quelle ait ton me:
Jai ton corps!

Jai la chair; elle a le rve.

Je te presse, je te sens . . .
Elle a ton coeur: jai la sve
De tes sens.
******

LEt

Nous rdons par les bls roussis que midi brle.

Une fivre amoureuse en nos veines circule.
Nous nous sommes couchs aux pentes des talus,
Sous le ciel bleu, moins bleu que le bleu de nos mes,
Sous un soleil moins fort, moins ardent que la flamme
Qui consume nos sens . . . Et nous nen pouvons plus.

Puis nous avons cherch les tangs et les saules.

Jai pos mes deux mains, ainsi, sur vos paules,
Afin de mabsorber mieux en votre beaut . . .
Et delle jai joui plus que je ne puis dire
Et de vous je me suis grise, et jai vu rire
Dans vos yeux clairs, le rire immense de lEt.

(Pour Axel de Missie)

 Marie Nizet 5

Mahelis Song

You were bewitched, at the command

Of a blond lover so dear,
Who now is in a distant land,
But I am here!

Bring me joy as you recall

The delights that used to be:
Desire her, and die enthralled,
But take me!

She is the one who sets aflame

The pyre where for you I pine.
She may have your soul, but I proclaim
Your body mine!

I have you in the flesh; she has the memory.

I hold you close, feel your caress . . .
She may have your heart, I claim the glory
Of your senses!

******

Summer

As we wandered through fields that noontime sets aflame,

We felt desires fevers coursing through our veins.
We lay by a knoll, closely embracing,
Under skies of blue, less blue than our souls,
Under a blazing sun, less strong than the fire
Of our senses consumed by love overwhelming.

We then sought the cool ponds and the shade of willows;

I placed my hands on your shoulders, like so,
To more fully absorb your beautiful features . . .
And how can I express the height of my pleasure
When, enraptured by love, I saw your eyes glimmer
With a joy as immense as the joy of Summer?
6 Marie Nizet

La torche

Je vous aime, mon corps, qui ftes son dsir,

Son champ de jouissance et son jardin dextase
O se retrouve encor le got de son plaisir
Comme un rare parfum dans un prcieux vase.

Je vous aime, mes yeux, qui restiez blouis

Dans lmerveillement quil tranait sa suite
Et qui gardez au fond de vous, comme deux puits,
Le reflet persistant de sa beaut dtruite.

Je vous aime, mes bras, qui mettiez son cou

Le souple enlacement des languides tendresses.
Je vous aime, mes doigts experts, qui saviez o
Prodiguer mieux le lent frlement des caresses.

Je vous aime, mon front, o bouillonne sans fin

Ma pense la sienne jamais enchane
Et pour avoir saign sous sa morsure, enfin,
Je vous aime surtout, ma bouche fane.

Je vous aime, mon coeur, qui scandiez grands coups

Le rythme exaspr des amoureuses fivres,
Et mes pieds nus nous aux siens, et mes genoux
Rivs ses genoux et ma peau sous ses lvres . . .

Je vous aime, ma chair, qui faisiez sa chair

Un tabernacle ardent de volupt parfaite
Et qui preniez de lui le meilleur, le plus cher,
Toujours rassasie et jamais satisfaite.

Et je taime, mon me avide, toi qui pars

Nouvelle Isistentant la recherche perdue
Des atomes dissous, des effluves pars
De son tre o toi-mme as soif dtre perdue.

Je suis le temple vide o tout culte a cess

Sur linutile autel dsert par lidole;
Je suis le feu qui danse ltre dlaiss,
Le brasier qui nchauffe rien, la torche foll e . / . . .
 Marie Nizet 7

The Torch

Body of mine, I love you, for you were his desire.

His field of joy, garden of ecstasy.
In you there still remains the taste of his delight,
Like rare perfume in a vial of ivory.

Eyes of mine, I love you, for you are still dazzled

By the wonderment he would bring everywhere;
And still you reflect, as in two deep wells,
The persistent image of the things that once were.

Arms of mine, I love you, for you circled his neck

In a supple embrace of languid tenderness.
Fingers of mine, I love you for being so perfect
In dispensing the slow pleasure of a caress.

Brow of mine, I love you; you bring back the echo

Of my thoughts with his closely entwined;
Lips of minethough now fadedI love you so,
And even more for having bled under his bite.

Heart of mine, I love you, for relentlessly beating

In the violent rhythm of his amorous game,
My bare feet with his, my knees with his locking,
As his lips to my skin laid their claim.

Flesh of mine, I love you, for you provided him

With a tabernacle of voluptuous nights,
As you received the best and the dearest in him,
Always fulfilled, but never satisfied.

Soul of mine, I love you, new Isis attempting

An impossible quest to find scattered remains
And dissolving atoms of his body, hoping
That you can, within him, lose yourself once again.

I am an empty temple where all worship is vain;

The altar stands useless when the idol is gone.
In an abandoned hearth I am a dancing flame,
A forlorn brasier, a torch that burns alone. /. . .
8 Marie Nizet

/. . .
Et ce besoin daimer qui na plus son emploi
Dans la mort, prsent retombe sur moi-mme.
Et puisque, mon amour, vous tes tout en moi
Rsorb, cest bien vous que jaime si je maime.

(Pour Axel de Missie)

 Marie Nizet 9

/. . .
My love lost its purpose the day you died;
It has returned to me anew.
And since deep in my heart you are alive,
Loving myself is loving you.

Jean Dominique
(18731952)

When she published LOmbre des roses, Marie Closset became Jean
Dominique. It is said she chose this masculine pseudonym because of the
novel Dominique by Eugne Fromentin, a story of unrequited love that
deeply impressed her.
The choice to write under a pseudonym reflects the poets desire for
privacy, which may account for the relative lack of attention paid to her
work. In fact, little is known about her personal life, with the exception of
some autobiographical details revealed in two of her late prose publica-
tions.
As a child, Marie was poor, of fragile health and apparently unloved,
except by her father who died when she was still quite young. She gradu-
ated from a highly-respected private Teachers College in Brussels. There
she met women who were to remain her lifelong friends and discovered
her dual vocation of writing and teaching. After working as a private tutor
for a short time, Marie Closset taught literature at the college level for a
period of five or six years. She resigned her position in 1912 and founded
the Belgian Institute of French Culture (Institut Belge de Culture Franaise),
which she directed until her death in 1952, at the age of seventy-nine.
During her lifetime, Jean Dominique acquired a reputation for recitations
of both her own poems and works by French poets as well as Shakespeare
in French translation. Those who attended Dominiques classes and pub-
lic readings were impressed by her ability to transfer her own emotions to
an audience. Although she remained active in the Institute and continued
to publish literary studies, she was in her forties when her last collection
of poetry appeared.
In their Anthology of Belgian Literature, Wouters and Bosquet intro-
duce Jean Dominique as a poet in transition, not quite free from
12 Jean Dominique

Parnassian influence, yet already distancing herself from the Symbolist

movement. Some critics, however, find affinities between Jean Domin-
ique and the foremost Symbolist poets. Hellenist scholar Marie Delcourt
evokes Verlaine, Laforgue and Belgian poet Van Lerberghe in her preface
to a posthumous collection of Dominiques works. Despite these influ-
ences, Jean Dominiques style is very much her own. Although her work
does not adopt the strict classical ideals, her poetry often illustrates the
use of regular meter and rhyme, or assonance.
French writer Francis de Miomandre states that Dominique speaks to
us in a whisper as she holds our hand, while Wouters and Bosquet
detect in her a certain ambiguity, observing that she can be eloquent to
excess, or she can modulate her voice and become allusive.
Recurring themes in Dominiques works include the joys and sorrows
of love, the retreat to an inner self that becomes the repository of peace
and beauty, and finally, Poetry itself, which transfigures even the ideal,
creating an entirely new universe. Although the predominant mood in
Dominiques verse is one of melancholy, on occasion the poets sense of
humor emerges in light, spirited touches. Nearly blind in her old age,
Dominique could record her thoughts only by dictation, but the account
she left of her final days reveals that she accepted death with serenity and
even humor.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Un got de sel et damertume. Bruxelles: Lacomblez, 1899.
LOmbre des roses. Bruxelles: Ed. du Cyclamen, 1901.
La Gaule blanche. Paris: Mercure de France, 1903.
LAnmone des mers. Paris: Mercure de France, 1906.
LAile mouille. Paris: Mercure de France, 1909.
Le Puits dazur. Paris: Mercure de France, 1912.
Le Vent du soir. Lige (Belgium): Bnard, 1922.
Pomes choisis. Bruxelles: La Renaissance du Livre, 1955.
(An anthology edited by Marie Delcourt)
 Jean Dominique 13

Essays
Les Enfants et les livres. Bruxelles: Lamertin, 1911.
Charles Van Lerberghe. Bruxelles: Le Thyrse, 1913.
Eloge de la posie. Bruxelles: Le Thyrse, 1929.
Katherine Mansfield. Bruxelles: Le Thyrse, 1952.

Other Prose
Une Syllabe doiseau. Antwerp: Buschmann, 1926.
Souvenirs. Bruxelles: Le Thyrse, 1953.
14 Jean Dominique

Chanson
Le bateau sentait le th
Quand nous traversions la mer,
A deux, trois, pour aller
A Folkestone en Angleterre.
Ctait un jour bleu dt.
A Folkestone en Angleterre,
O les vieux collges verts
Dormaient leur calme cong
Dans lherbe des monastres.
Lglise trop bien cire
De Folkestone en Angleterre,
Et les lys du baptistre,
Et les vitraux peu teints,
Et le joyeux cimetire,
Quand irons-nous les aimer
A Folkestone en Angleterre?
Nous avons pris notre th
A Folkestone en Angleterre,
Dans un htel du pass,
Aux meubles dacajou clair.
Et cette salle manger,
Et ces compotiers de verre,
Et ces pelouses bombes
Sous les chnes noirs et verts,
Que cela nous a charms,
A Folkestone en Angleterre!
Nous reprendrons un hiver
Le bateau qui sent le th,
Et ce sera pour aller
A Folkestone en Angleterre,
Pour voir les dalles laves
Et les fleurs du baptistre,
Et, par les vitres teintes,
Le tout petit cimetire.
Pour boire un th parfum
De spleen, de brume et de mer,
Dans un htel du pass,
A Folkestone en Angleterre.
(La Gaule blanche in Pomes Choisis)
 Jean Dominique 15

A Song
The boat was fragrant with tea
As we were crossing the sea
Both of usor was it three?
On to Folkestone, England.
It was a blue summer day
There in Folkestone, England,
Where old colleges sleep away
Their green and tranquil holiday
On monastery lawns.
The church polished time and again,
There in Folkestone, England,
The lilies in the baptistry
The windows with faded stain,
And the joyous cemetery,
We love them so! When will we go,
There to Folkestone, England.
We had a cup of fragrant tea
There in Folkestone, England,
In some hotel of long ago
Furnished in light mahogany.
And this dining-room so cosy,
And these crystal bowls sparkling clean,
And these lawns gently swelling
Under the oak trees black and green . . .
All of this, perfectly charming,
There in Folkestone, England.
Some winter we will board again
The boat all fragrant with tea
It will take us across the sea
On to Folkestone, England,
So we can walk on spotless tiles,
See the baptistrys flowered aisles,
And through the tinted windows, dart
A glimpse at the wee graveyard.
Well have a cup of fragrant tea,
Of nostalgia, of mists and sea,
In some hotel of long ago,
There in Folkestone, England.
16 Jean Dominique

Jai lu que les potes, en Chine . . .

Jai lu que les potes, en Chine, sont trs doux.

Et quil y en a un qui est mort de la lune;
Et les Chinois ne disent pas quil tait fou,
Car cest, chez eux, une aventure assez commune.

Jai lu quils senivraient de vin et de la lune,

Et leurs vers se balancent comme de longs bambous
Entre leau de leur cur et les brouillards de plume
Qui saccrochent, dans leur pays, un peu partout.

Leur me frle et sombre, printanire et fidle,

Fend le ciel et le fleuve comme un vol dhirondelle,
Et les larmes qui glissent sur la soie de leurs manches,
Sont des feuilles de saule, fines, longues et tendres.

Peut-tre est-ce un Chinois qui ma mis dans le coeur

Cette chanson de leau, de la lune et des fleurs,
Et ce doux paysage en noir et en couleur
Dun jonc qui tremble au vent dans la main dun pcheur.

Peut-tre que mon cur est un peu bien chinois

Et mourra de la lune un beau jour comme un autre . . .
Et quest-ce quon dira, et quest-ce quon dira
De laventure, dans un pays comme le ntre?

(La Gaule blanche in Pomes Choisis)

 Jean Dominique 17

Ive read that in China . . .

Ive read that in China poets are mild-natured

And that one of them died when stricken with moonlight;
But the Chinese do not say that he lost his mind,
For in their land this is a common adventure.

Ive read they get drunk on wine and on moonlight

And thus their poems sway like graceful bamboo wisps
Between their hearts rivers and the feathery mists
Which, in their land, hover just about everywhere.

Their soul is frail and solemn, loyal and spring-like:

It breaks through sky and river like a swallow in flight
And the tears slowly gliding down their silken sleeves
Are long and delicate, tender like willow leaves.

Perhaps it was a Chinese who dropped in my heart

This melody of moon, of waters and flowers,
These dark and colored hues over a peaceful land
Reed trembling in the wind in a fishermans hand.

Perhaps I also have a heart that is Chinese,

And some day it will die, stricken by a moon ray . . .
And then what will they say? And then what will they say
Of such an adventure in this country of ours?
18 Jean Dominique

Les enfants que jinstruis

Quand ce sera lt et que je serai mort,

Et quil fera plus doux et parfum dehors
Que dans lobscur salon sentant la violette,
Ils iront quelquefois jusqu me faire fte
De quelques vers perdus comme des sons de cor,

Ils seront forts et grands, et moi je serai mort

Et peut-tre effac, presque, de leur mmoire
O cependant jai mis une si longue histoire . . .
Ils seront beaux, mais moi je coucherai dehors,
Pour jamais, sur un lit de violettes noires.

Quand ce sera lhiver aussi, ou bien un soir

Quentre eux, en devisant, ils se partageront
Les livres amasss dans la vieille maison,
Ils seront tonns tout coup de savoir
Quun jour, lointain dj, jeus cette vision.

Mais moi je serai mort, et mon coeur sera mort!

Et mes mains qui touchaient leurs nuques puriles,
Mes yeux qui rencontraient leur douce me tranquille,
Mes lvres qui disaient leur nom . . . et puis encor,
Mon coeur, mon coeur, mon coeur! car moi, je serai mort.

(LAnmone des mers in Pomes Choisis)

 Jean Dominique 19

A Teachers Musings

One summer day, after I die,

And when it is more mild and more fragrant outside
Than in the dark parlor that smells of violets,
Perhaps theyll reminisce about the days of old
And read a poem of mine, faint like a distant call.

They will be tall and strong, alas I will have died

And perhaps linger no more in their memory,
And yet I filled their minds with such a long story . . .
They will be beautiful, but I will be outside
Asleep forever, on a bed of black violets.

Also when winter comes, or perhaps one evening,

Theyll meet in this old house to sort among themselves
The many books accumulated on the shelves.
Suddenly they will be surprised, realizing
That one day, long ago, this vision came to me.

But I will be dead then, and my heart will be dead!

And my hands that once touched their eager young faces,
And my eyes that once met their gentle, quiet souls,
My lips that once called them by name . . . and then again
My heart, my heart, my heart! For I, will long be dead.

Marie Gevers
(18831975)

Marie Gevers belongs to a generation of Flemish writers whose literary

language is French. Among novelists of the first half of the 20th century,
she achieved celebrity for her foresighted portrayal of womans role in
society. Although in this respect, her novels are more innovative than her
poetry, which remains traditional, her verse deserves recognition, par-
ticularly as a crucible from which important works in prose were even-
tually to emerge.
An early grande dame of Belgian literature, often referred to as the
Colette of the North, she published her first of many novels in 1931.
Yet, she was originally known as a poet. As a child she began to express
in verse her emotions and her love of nature. She was only six years old
when she wrote her now famous first distich. Later, many of her poems
were published in periodicals, and five collections appeared in book form.
Marie Gevers was born near Antwerp on the magnificent family estate
of Missembourg, a former hunting lodge dating back to the seventeenth
century when this territory was under Spanish rule. She lived in
Missembourg all her life and died there. She was the youngest child, and
only daughter, in a family of six children. The beautiful landscape sur-
rounding her, and the peculiar education she received were to have a
decisive influence on her character and on her literary career. She did not
attend school on a regular basis; private tutors provided instruction in her
home. Maries mother was especially instrumental in her formation and
introduced her to French grammar through readings of the seventeenth-
century masterpiece, Les Aventures de Tlmaque by Fnelon. Every
day, Marie was required to write a dictation excerpted from this work. Her
mother also taught her basic geography with the help of maps displaying
the voyages of Ulysses and of Jules Vernes heroes. Thus, Marie became
22 Marie Gevers

an avid reader at an early age while at the same time developing a close
relationship with the bountiful natural surroundings in Missembourg.
Later, poets such as Verhaeren and Max Elskamp were among her
dear friends and helped her publish her first collection of poetry,
Missembourg, in 1917. Marie Gevers married Franz Willems, a talented
painter. One of their children, Paul Willems, was to become a major Bel-
gian playwright and novelist (he also completed his early education under
the supervision of his grandmother, with the Tlmaque dictations!). In
1937, Marie Gevers was elected to the Acadmie Royale de Langue et
de Littrature franaises, the first Belgian woman to be so honored. As
a novelist, she received several prestigious awards, and her works have
been translated into German, Danish, Dutch and other languages.
Marie Gevers is perhaps at her best when she writes of her life in
Missembourg or evokes local customs and legends. One of her memoirs,
Vie et mort dun tang (Life and death of a pond) is considered by many
critics to be her masterpiece (the pond referred to was, of course, located
on the family estate). Although Gevers seldom left Missembourg, she did
travel to Africa on three occasions to visit her daughter Antoinette who
had settled in Rwanda, which at that time was a colony of Belgium. Her
reflections on these African journeys are recorded in two volumes of
memoirs.
The major themes in Geverss novels are already present in her poetry:
the relationship between man and nature, praise for natures bounty, fam-
ily life and motherhood, remembrance of the past, folklore. Although
written in the early part of the twentieth century, Geverss verse does not
bear the imprint of symbolism, of Verhaerens modernist eloquence, or
of Elskamps art nouveau tendencies. Her poetry is direct and simple in
form and autobiographical in content.
Although French is the language Gevers chose for her art, her works
are enriched by the dual culture to which she belongs, as she explains:
Like many children of the Flemish bourgeoisie, I was brought up exclu-
sively in French . . . [My parents] communicated to me their love for trees,
plants, meteors . . . and so nature spoke to me in French. However, the
plain folk part of my life remained Flemish: humanity, represented by
me, the farmers, and the village people. I was a child silently pondering,
growing up between my parentswho were half-godsand the garden, a
god all its own.
 Marie Gevers 23

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Missembourg. Antwerp: Buschmann, 1917. Lige: Desoer, 1935.
Les Arbres et le vent. Bruxelles: Sand, 1923.
Antoinette. Antwerp: Buschmann, 1925; Renaissance du Livre, 1935.
Almanach perptuel des jeux denfants. Antwerp: Buschmann, 1930.
Brabanonnes travers les arbres. Antwerp: Lumire, 1931.

Novels
La Comtesse des digues. Paris: Victor Attinger, 1931. Bruxelles:
Durandal, 1950; Labor, 1983.
Madame Orpha ou La Srnade de mai. Paris: Victor Attinger, 1933.
Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1981; Labor,1992.
Guldentop. Paris: Lethielleux, 1935; Bruxelles: Libris, 1942, 1948;
Oudenaerde: Sanderus, 1965; Bruxelles: Labor, 1985, 1991.
La Ligne de vie. Paris: Plon, 1937, 1941. Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine,
1984.
Paix sur les champs. Paris: Plon, 1941. Bruxelles: Toison dOr, 1943;
Vromant, 1955; Jacques Antoine, 1976.
Chteau de lOuest. Paris: Plon, 1948.

Memoirs
Plaisir des mtores. Paris: Stock, 1938. Antwerp: Librairie des Arts,
1968. Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1978.
Vie et mort dun tang. Paris: France Illustration, 1950. Bruxelles:
Brpols, 1961; Jacques Antoine, 1979.

African Journals
Des mille collines aux neuf volcans. Paris: Stock, 1953.
Plaisir des parallles. Paris: Stock, 1958.
24 Marie Gevers

Le petit ruisseau, par son doux murmure,

Mendort comme par enchantement.
(Marie Geverss first distich at age 6)

******
Printemps

Le grand coq tait blanc, avec un chapeau rouge,

Et lenfant tout en rouge, avec un bonnet blanc;
Le vent lger bougeait, sur lherbe des pelouses
Et les cris des pinsons traversaient le printemps.

Le coq battait de laile et sonnait son chant rouge,

Lenfant se mit rire et son rire tait blanc.
Son rire frlait lair, comme les plumes douces
Dont svente le vol des pigeons roucoulants.

La pluie avait si fort imprgn deau les mousses

Que le ciel se mirait dans leurs bouquets noys
Et perlait en fracheur sur les corces rousses,
Quand le soleil parut dans le matin lav.

La terre fut dore au choc de la lumire,

Tout le jardin vibrait, comme un coq dans son chant,
Des nuages, au loin, tels des glaciers brillrent,
Et le ciel fut pareil au rire de lenfant.
(Missembourg)

******
Jeux

Et les meilleurs jouets, ce sont la terre et londe,

Leau docile, le sable frais,
Je te les offre, aucun jouet
Nest si grand, aucun si petit, ils sont le monde.

Jouez, petits pas, jouez petites mains,

Herbe cueillie, herbe jete,
Tertre franchi, butte saute,
Enfant, ce beau soleil te donne le jardin.
(Antoinette)
 Marie Gevers 25

The sweet murmur of the little stream

Lulls me to sleep as if by magic.

******
Spring

The big rooster was white, and wore a bright red hood,
And the child all in red wore a bonnet of white.
A light breeze was stirring across meadow and wood
And the call of finches was heralding springtime.

The rooster flapped his wings, a red song he intoned,

The child began to laugh and his joy was all white,
His laugh rose in the air in soft feathery notes
Just like the cooing call of a pigeon in flight.

After a heavy rain the moss gorged with water

Was reflecting the sky as if in a mirror,
And on russet tree bark strings of pearls were shining
As the first rays of sun swept through the fine morning.

The earth became golden, suddenly drenched in light,

The garden, vibrant like the song of the rooster,
Clouds far away were glaciers sparkling bright,
And the sky as clear as the childs laughter.

******
Games

Earth and water are the best toys, my child,

Water so docile and sand so mild,
I give them to you. No other plaything
Is so big or so small; they are the world you live in.

Play, little feet, play, little hands,

Pick a blade of grass, put it away,
Jump over a mound, hop into the hay,
Child, the suns gift to you is this garden.
26 Marie Gevers

Chanson pour une nuit de Nol

Viens la porte. Ecoutons.

Bientt chanteront les cloches,
Les sirnes siffleront,
Et tonneront les bourdons,
Ecoutons, minuit est proche.

Ecoutons jusqu minuit.

La voie lacte se dnoue,
Et lenfant Jsus secoue
Le blanc duvet de son lit.

Il en neige un lait dtoiles

Des diamants de poussire,
Des envolements de voiles,
Des prsages de lumire,
Un apaisement immense. . .

Il en tombe un grand silence.

Le vent porte ces feries
En offrandes Nol.
Bientt minuit sonnera
Nentendez-vous point des pas?

Entrez, Joseph et Marie!

Cest pour vous que luit le ciel,
Voici du pain et du beurre,
Des pommes et du caf;
Asseyez-vous au foyer,
Pour attendre ensemble lheure
O dans un miracle blanc
Natra le petit Enfant.
(Brabanonnes travers les arbres)

******
Je ne te quitterai jamais, vie,
Je taime trop, mais si toi tu ten vas,
Choisis le moment o, bien endormie,
Morphe ami me tiendra dans ses bras.
(Marie Geverss last quatrain, found by her bedside
after her death)
 Marie Gevers 27

Song for Christmas Eve

Come to the door. Let us listen.

The bells will soon be singing,
The sirens will be whistling
And the church organ booming.
Midnight is near. Let us listen.

Let us listen until midnight.

The milky way is shining bright
And from his bed the child Jesus
Lets eiderdown waft down on us:

Its a snowfall of milky stars,

Of diamonds in powdery sprinkle;
Gossamer veils float near and far
To herald a great light coming
And peace on earth never ending.

All is silent, all is quiet.

The wind carries these wondrous things
On Christmas day as offerings.
The clock will soon strike midnight.
Cant you hear footsteps approaching?

Come in, Joseph and Mary!

It is for you the sky sparkles!
Please accept this bread and butter,
With hot coffee and some apples.
Sit with us by the fireside;
Together well wait for the hour
When in a miracle of white
Is born the heavenly Child.

******
O life, I will never leave you, so deep
Is my love for you. But should you leave me,
I pray you choose a time when I will be
In the arms of Morpheus, fast asleep.

Andre Sodenkamp
(1906)

Andre Sodenkamp was born in 1906, in Saint-Josse-ten-Noode, not far

from Brussels, on June 18, the date of the anniversary of the Battle of
Waterloo. She has always delighted in her astrological sign, Gemini, whose
dual image represents for her the oppositions inherent in the human con-
dition. She also likes to evoke her gypsy ancestors, from whom she claims
to have inherited her bohemian spirit. Andre Sodenkamps father was
Dutch and his career as journalist for a hunting and fishing magazine
entailed travel in Scandanavia and in Russia, where he once met Czar
Nicholas II. Her mother, more than twenty years younger than her hus-
band, was of Flemish origin. At the age of six, Andre lost both parents
and went to live with her maternal grandparents in Schaerbeek. The au-
thor fondly recalls the support and encouragement she received there
from her uncle Henri, who was killed in World War I.
Andre began writing when she was very young, and she recounts
with humor her grandmothers unsuccessful attempts to discourage her
from writing verse instead of her school assignments. The renowned liter-
ary critic Emilie Noulet introduced Sodenkamp to the writings of Mallarm,
Rimbaud, Valry, and Colette. History was another of her passions, and
she taught history and geography for several years. In 1938, Andre
Sodenkamp married Camille Libotte, who was her companion until his
death in 1987, which she evokes tenderly in Ctait une nuit comme
une autre. Since then she has lived in Gembloux, in the province of
Namur. From 1959 until 1971, she served as Inspector of Public Librar-
ies, an administrative position that allowed her to effect some significant
changes in the library system and to share her love of books.
Sodenkamps early poetry is written in classical alexandrine verse, a
form perfectly in keeping with her sometimes nostalgic, sometimes ironic,
30 Andre Sodenkamp

depiction of times gone by and clandestine loves. In the more recent

collection Cest au feu que je pardonne, the poet explains her choice to
abandon the enchanted rhythm of the twelve syllable line in favor of
free verse, better suited to the accelerated rhythm of her thoughts and to
the amplitude of thematic content in her later work.
Andre Sodenkamp has enjoyed a distinguished literary career. She
has given many public lectures and is the recipient of several highly es-
teemed awards for poetry, including the Prix Desbordes-Valmore and the
Prix Louise Lab. She has been recognized by the Belgian Royal Acad-
emy and the Society of French Poets. A retrospective of her work, Pomes
choisis, recently published by the Royal Academy of French Language
and Literature, has been described by critic Francine Ghysen as a music
for all the passions of the flesh and of the spirit. A song for all seasons.
 Andre Sodenkamp 31

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Des oiseaux tes lvres. Charleroi (Belgium): Paule Hraly, 1950.
Sainte terre. Paris: Librairie des Lettres, 1954. Prix Rene Vivien.
Les dieux obscurs. Bruxelles: Editions Georges Houyoux, 1958. Prix de
la Province de Brabant.
Femmes des longs matins. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1965; 2nd edi-
tion 1969. Prix Triennal de Littrature, 1968. Prix Desbordes-
Valmore, 1970. Prix Van Lerberghe, 1972.
A rivederci Italia. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1965.
La fte debout. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1973. Prix Louise Lab,
1973.
Autour de moi-mme. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1976.
Choix (anthology). Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1980; 2nd edition 1981.
Prix Auguste Beernaert de lAcadmie Royale, 1982. Prix des
Amitis Franaises, 1984.
Cest au feu que je pardonne. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1984.
Ctait une nuit comme une autre. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles,
1991.
Pomes (anthology). Bruxelles: Le Cri, 1993.
Pomes choisis (anthology). Bruxelles: Acadmie royale de Langue et de
Littrature franaise, 1998.
32 Andre Sodenkamp

Je tai bti . . .

Je tai bti, mon amour, ma ville grise.

Rue aprs rue en y perdant tous mes chemins.
Tu levais durement tes mts et tes glises
Hors de la haute mer, que lavait le matin.

Je te suivais alors en ta foule marchande

Dans ta peau dhomme et dans tes banques du bonheur
Par tes palais cirs o de calmes servantes
De leurs doigts sans anneaux te caressaient le coeur.

Mes orgueils balancs mon pas de bourgeoise,

Mon me ne portait jamais que du lin blanc,
Et cet or hollandais sous la guimpe sournoise.
Je rgnais sur ma ville et vendais le beau temps.

Et puis tu tcroulas sur tes bords, pierre pierre

Pris dans le vent dhiver, pour qui? pour tout, pour rien
Vtu du mme corps, n de la mme mre
Tu ne te ressemblais plus jamais que de loin.

Mais si tu me reviens dans la haine et la peur

Sais-tu que tu me tiens tout engrosse dimages?
Ton poing de mendiant a beau frapper le coeur
Je brille comme un bois reverdi par lorage.

******
Je suis du temps . . .

Je suis du temps des lents et vieux romans damour,

Des Grands Meaulnes poussant des portes solennelles.
On se mangeait le coeur en guettant sur la tour
Un pays balanc de bois et dhirondelles.

Ctaient les temps heureux des grandes fautes tendres

Des confessionnaux pleins de voix murmures,
Et de chagrins si beaux quon ne pouvait attendre
Pour les souffrir dj de ntre plus aime.

(Femmes des longs matins in Pomes)

 Andre Sodenkamp 33

I built you . . .

I built you, my love, my gray city,

Street upon street until I lost my way.
Steadfastly you raised your masts and steeples
Beyond the high sea washed by morning.

In those days I pursued you in your thronged markets,

In your manly body and in your troves of happiness,
Through your shining palaces where serene maidservants
Would caress your heart with their ringless fingers.

Balancing my bourgeois dignity with every step,

My soul was clothed in nothing but white linen
And the Dutch gold pendant beneath my cunning wimple.
I reigned over my city, meting out fine weather.

And then you began to crumble, stone by stone,

Seized by the winter wind, for whom? for all, for naught,
Still dressed in the same flesh, born of the same mother,
Only at a distance did you resemble yourself.

Should you return to me in hatred and in fear,

Will you know you left me imbued with your image?
Though your beggars fist keeps pounding at my heart,
I gleam like the green wood after the storm.

******
I lived in the days . . .

I lived in the days of old-fashioned love novels,

When reading the Grand Meaulnes opened solemn portals.
We ate our hearts out while we watched on the tower
A hovering fairyland of forests and swallows.

Those were the happy times of grave and tender sins,

Of confessionals brimming with soft murmurings,
Of sorrows so poignant that we could scarcely wait
To suffer them ourselves, after loves betrayal.
34 Andre Sodenkamp

Je nai pas vu Venise . . .

Je nai pas vu Venise au bout de mon voyage,

Ses carnavals ouverts sur leau comme des fleurs
Je me dis de beaux noms qui nont pas de visage,
Tout un thtre dor me tremble sur le coeur.

Voici les ponts bossus, les marchs clatants

O la bouche se vend plus frache que la pche,
Les bateaux balancs, les nonnes sen allant
Toutes tides de Dieu, vers la premire messe.

Je touche lair dt quand le matin levant

Met des pigeons ouverts sur les ruelles basses
Les morts passant sur leau et les verriers pigeant
Dans leurs jouets de verre un temps lger qui casse.

Au hasard des palais je pousse quelque porte

Plus leste quune bulle, un dieu brille et senfuit
Des baisers font un bruit trs doux de feuilles mortes
Autour des lits dserts sous leurs satins jaunis.

(A rivederci Italia in Pomes)

 Andre Sodenkamp 35

I did not see Venice . . .

I did not see Venice at the end of my voyage,

Its carnivals spilling into the canals like flowers
So I imagine lovely names that have no face,
A great gilt theatre trembles in my heart.

Its hunchbacked bridges, its dazzling marketplaces

Where mouths fresher than peaches are for sale,
The swaying gondolas, nuns on their way to church
Filled with the warmth of God, for the morning mass.

I touch the summer air when in the rising day

Flocks of pigeons soar above the narrow streets
Spirits pass over the water, the glassblowers entrap
In their crystal trinkets weightless time, sure to break.

At one of the palaces I chance to press a portal

Lighter than a bubble, a god shines forth and flees,
Kisses sound like the soft rustling of autumn leaves
Around empty beds with yellowed satin sheets.
36 Andre Sodenkamp

Mon livre

Mon livre est sorti, jeune coq dont jcoute le cri se rpercuter de
proche en proche.
Je ne suis plus que des dbris de coquilles.

Est-ce vrai ce quon dit que je suis un bon pote?

Je regarde cette phrase avec une sorte de terreur.
Je ne sais pas comment me construire sa taille.
Pas de balance o me peser.
Pour mieux voir, je dcoupe mes pomes en vers.
Isols ainsi, ils prennent des gueules dorphelins.

Je voudrais appeler au secours vers ceux qui savent, et, sils me

parlent, je crois quils mentent, que la piti leur emplit la bouche
comme une bouillie.

Et cependant, ce que je veux, (Ah, pourquoi le cacher?)

ce sont ces loges dont je doute, ces baumes sur mon incrdulit.
Et peine psent-ils sur mes blessures que je les arrache afin de
les laisser vives pour de prochains pansements.

******
Larmes

Le vrai dsespoir se porte comme la jarre sur la tte,

bien droit, sans remuer.
Cest une affaire atrocement personnelle.
Cela se passe entre soi et les forces du malheur.
Cest un combat qui na que faire des spectateurs.
Mes amies pleureuses mexasprent.
Mais autour de la vraie douleur orgueilleuse, je tourne,
le coeur serr de tendresse, presque sans paroles.
Jespre seulement qu travers la peau de mon me passera dans
lautre, un peu damour merveill et suppliant.

(Autour de moi-mme)
 Andre Sodenkamp 37

My Book

My book is out, young cock whose cry resounds

as it sets forth on its own.
All that is left of me are fragments of shells.

Is it true that they say I am a good poet?

I look at this statement in a kind of terror.
I dont know how to construct myself in its measure.
There is no scale where I can weigh myself.
In order to see better, I cut up my poems by verse.
Isolated in this way, they look like orphaned children.

I would like to cry for help from those who know, and if they
talk to me, I think they are lying, that pity fills their mouths
like gruel.

And yet, what I want, (Ah, why conceal it?)

is this very praise I question, this balm on my suspicions.
And scarcely does it touch my wounds before I rip it off
in order to leave them open for the next dressing.

******
Tears

True despair is carried like a clay jar on ones head,

upright, with serenity.
It is an agonizingly personal matter.
It takes place between the self and the powers of misfortune.
It is a combat that needs no onlookers.
My mournful friends exasperate me.
However, I hover about the dignity of true sorrow,
overcome with tenderness, virtually speechless.
I only hope that from my soul may filter,
a bit of entreaty, of wonderment and love.
38 Andre Sodenkamp

Statuette chinoise

Ce ne fut quun peu de terre sous les doigts des hommes.

Ainsi naissent les desses.

Venue dune Chine trs ancienne, avec ce visage plat de la

srnit, elle est bleue vous dsaltrer, rassembler tous
les bleus invents.

Sa main souvre au bord de la large manche comme une

rose puise. Si lgre pourtant, elle casserait le temps
sappuyer dessus. Elle porte sur le bras droit une urne
scelle dont chaque jour je dtourne un peu plus les yeux.

Je ne connais pas son nom. Prononc, il doit chanter

longtemps.

Je ne sais rien delle, seulement quelle fut ptrie pour

attester et quelle est bleue. Bleue comme le paon, la nuit
sans toiles, le visage des morts.

Dans ce mouvement qui lincline, dans cette robe

tumultueuse et son indiffrence infinie, elle est la parfaite et
vide beaut. On peut laimer sans peur puisquelle nexiste
qu peine.

(Les Veuves de lt in Cest au feu que je pardonne)

 Andre Sodenkamp 39

Chinese Statuette

It was just a bit of clay in the hands of men.

Thus goddesses are born.

Come from China of long ago, her flat features mirror

serenity, her blueness takes your thirst away, embraces
every blue that ever was.

Her palm opens, at the edge of her long sleeve,

like a faded rose. So fragile, yet time would break
beneath her weight. Her right arm holds a sealed urn;
my gaze turns from it a little more each day.

I do not know her name. When spoken, it would be

an everlasting song.

I know nothing of her, except that she was molded

to testify and that she is blue. Blue as the peacock,
blue as the starless night, blue as the faces of the dead.

In her bowing gesture, in her flowing gown,

in her eternal indifference, she portrays
ideal, empty beauty. One may love her with impunity,
for she exists so slightly.
40 Andre Sodenkamp

Du lilas

Du lilas,
si tu savais comme cest pudique et tendre.
Cela crie sous la bouche
comme un oiseau bless,
llan dun thyrse,
la douce fatigue des fleurs sous la journe.
Tu mcherais sur elles
la douleur de Mai.
Cela va tellement plus loin que Toi,
que ta permanence,
ton ennuyeuse ternit de cent ans.
Cela crie de jeunesse
fragile, violette, refuse.
Cest comme un murmure de femme
dans un arbre,
le haltement violent
de cent bouches prises,
la fatigue dune volupt avare,
dune histoire damour
qui cde, bouche bouche, branche branche
avec de faibles lueurs de lvres touches.
(La neige effacera les hauts corbeaux du jour in Cest au feu
que je pardonne)

******

Jentrerai dans la mort

Jentrerai dans la mort

comme dans le ventre de ma mre.
Il y fera calme, sourd et clos.
Enfin jarracherai mes herbages de vivants
qui tranaient aprs moi.
Ouverte sera ma bouche pour rire sous la terre.
Tout restera trac par longle de lesprit
dans le cerveau sans battement,
papyrus crit de signes immobiles.
Je pourrais tre encore un livre.
(LAlphabet de la nuit in Cest au feu que je pardonne)
 Andre Sodenkamp 41

Lilac

Lilac,
if you only knew how demure and delicate!
Pressed by ones lips, it cries
like a wounded bird,
a bursting thyrsus,
the sweet sleep of flowers at the end of the day.
Chewing it, you would taste
the sorrow of May.
It by far surpasses You,
your permanence,
your tedious century-old eternity.
It proclaims youth
fragile, violet, rejected.
It is like the whisper of a woman
in a tree,
the violent panting
of a hundred kisses,
the lethargy of selfish pleasure,
or a story of love
yielding, mouth to mouth, branch to branch,
with the faintest glimmer of touching lips.

******

I Will Go into Death

I will go into death

as into my mothers womb.
It will be peaceful there, quiet and secure.
At last I will be free of the life
that has entwined me.
I will laugh aloud beneath the ground.
All will remain engraved by the spirit
in this brain now silent,
papyrus inscribed with indelible signs.
I might become another book.
42 Andre Sodenkamp

La momie de Londres

Il avait dormi deux mille ans

dans la paix de ses linges.
Bandelette bandelette,
on dshabille sa mort.

On le dmoule de son ternit.

Sur le visage sculpt dans lossement

stagnent encore les ruines de lme.

On voit bien quil a d penser longtemps.

******

Les cendres de lternit

1
Les cendres de lternit
lui collaient au visage.

Jusquaux premires clarts de laube,

je lai berc comme un enfant
et quand la chaleur de la vie
a gliss lentement de lui,
jai lev la main de son front
pour quil sen aille sans mmoire.

(Clbration de la mort, excerpt, in Ctait une nuit comme une autre)

 Andre Sodenkamp 43

The London Mummy

He had slept for two thousand years

at peace in his wrappings.
When, strip by strip,
they undress his death.

They divest him of eternity.

On the face sculpted in bone

linger the ruins of the soul.

What a long time to have spent thinking!

******

The Ashes of Eternity

1
The ashes of eternity
clung to his face.

Until the first light of dawn,

I cradled him like a child
and when the vital warmth
slowly slipped away,
I lifted my hand from his brow
so that he might go without memories.

Rene Brock
(19121980)

Rene Sarlet was born in Lige, the eldest daughter of upper middle class
parents. During her school years in a prestigious girlsschool, her literary
talent did not go unnoticed, although it would be years before she consid-
ered writing as a profession.
She was just twenty when she married Henry Brock, who was to be-
come a prominent businessman. Later, with their two sons, they settled
on a beautiful estate in the Ardennes. During the Second World War, the
Brocks helped the underground, and they sheltered refugees and mem-
bers of Resistance. When peace returned, they became devoted patrons
of the arts, and many renowned French and Belgian writers and artists
frequented their literary soires. Marguerite Yourcenar, Nathalie Sarraute,
Francis Ponge, and Roger Caillois were among the famous authors who
visited the Brockshome. A close friend, Belgian writer Marcel Thiry, was
instrumental in encouraging Renes penchant for poetry, and thus, at
age thirty-one, she began writing. She also exercised her talent for music,
ballet dancing, painting.
When Rene Brock was forty-one years old, she penned her first short
story. Many others followed and were published in France. In Belgium,
she later received the prestigious Prix Rossel. Rene Brock continued to
write until her untimely death in 1980. Three volumes of short stories
appeared posthumously; also posthumous was the RTL-Posie I Prize
awarded in 1984.
Many critics regard Rene Brock as the poet of motherly love, a
dominant theme in her first collection, Pomes du sang (awarded the
Polak Prize by the Belgian Acadmie Royale de Langue et de Littrature
franaises). Noteworthy as well, are the poems that celebrate everyday
life. In an autobiographical account, Brock states: Poetry can exist only
46 Rene Brock

in what is real . . . Everyday life is what poetry is all about . . . She finds
beauty in humble things that often go unnoticed: laundry hanging on a
line, the fragrance of freshly waxed furniture, the family at the dinner
table. Brocks poems however often reveal philosophical undercurrents:
they may portray her deep love of nature, her compassion for all suffer-
ing, her sense of the tragic, and her search for the meaning of life.
At first fairly classical in structure, her poems later evolve toward a
freer, more modern style. Brocks images can be unusual, or charged
with subtle connotations, yet her poems are never obscure. Shunning the
type of intellectualization sometimes found in contemporary poetry, Brock,
with sobriety and elegance, appeals primarily to the emotions. Her ability
to communicate has universal appeal, while critics and fellow poets
praise more specifically the literary qualities of her writing and what has
been called her magic touch with words.
 Rene Brock 47

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Pome du sang. Paris: Laffont, 1949.
Solaires. Paris: G.L.M., 1950.
LAmande amre. Paris: Seghers, 1959.
Posies Compltes. Paris; Saint-Germain-des-Prs, 1982.
(Includes the three preceding collections and forty new poems)
Le Temps unique. Paris: Saint-Germain-des-Prs, 1986.

Short Stories
LEtranger intime. Paris: Saint-Germain-des-Prs, 1970 and 1978.
Ceux du canal. Paris: Le Cherche-Midi, 1980.
LEtoile rvolte. Paris: RTL Ed. & Le Cherche-Midi, 1984.
Les Bleus de la nuit. Paris: Le Milieu du Jour, 1990.
48 Rene Brock

Anniversaire

Plus tu avances dans le temps,

plus le temps me ramne
aux huit lunes bnies
davant ta naissance,

quand je te portais,
petite anmone de mer
toujours mouvante
dans le flot de mon amour
et le mystre de mon ventre.

(Pome du sang)

******

Fils

Savoir quils vivent, quils respirent, quils palpitent

Au rythme des saisons et de leur coeur qui souvre.
Savoir quils sont l sur les routes dherbe ou les routes de gel,
savoir le foulement doux de leurs pieds nus sur la terre,
savoir le cri clair de leurs souliers clouts sur les seuils,
savoir leur joie de bte libre
au milieu des fougres et la pointe des pins.

Savoir tout cela

esseule dans le silence,
mais entendre battre en moi le sang que je leur ai donn
et ntre avec eux quun mme fleuve qui traverse le monde.

(Pome du sang, excerpt)

 Rene Brock 49

Birthday

The more you progress through time,

the more time brings me back
to the blessed eight moons
before your birth,

when you lived in me,

my little sea anemone
always in motion
in my loves swelling tides
in my wombs mystery.

******

Sons

Knowing they live, they breathe, they vibrate

To the rhythm of seasons and of their waking hearts.
Knowing they are there, on grassy lanes or wintry roads,
knowing the soft strides of bare feet in the garden,
the clear ring of studded shoes on the doorstep,
knowing their joyous animal freedom
among the ferns and at the top of pines.

Knowing all this

as I sit alone in silence,
yet feeling pulsate in me the blood we share
and with them flowing as one river throughout the world.
50 Rene Brock

Repas

Il y eut de saintes tables,

mais nulle heureuse, nulle bnie
ainsi que notre table.

Notre nappe de paille

crisse sous nos paumes
et la jarre vernie, o dort un trsor deau,
a des courbes plnires
o reluisent nos quatre faims.

Repas bni, repas aim,

qui rassemble notre sang
autour dun mme pain
de tranquillit.

Nos rires vont aile contre aile

tirer des lisrs au bord de la vaisselle,

tandis que le bonheur, pieds nus,

nous sert en tablier bleu.
(Pome du sang)

******
Croix noires

Avant Soissons, sur le chemin dIle-de-France,

Dans un jardin darabette blanche
Salignent les croix noires.

Le vent grle davril fait murmurer les fleurs.

Et ce que les morts ont dire

Ils le disent avec des fleurs,
Les jolis morts de vingt-cinq ans
Qui ont la terre entre les dents,
Les veines vides de leur sang
Et la semence plein le ventre.
(Solaires)
 Rene Brock 51

Meals

There have been holy tables,

but none happier, none more blessed
than our table.

Our hands on the tablecloth

make the burlap rustle,
and the polished jug where treasured water rests
mirrors our four hungers
on its well-rounded curves.

Blessed meal, beloved meal

that binds us as family
around a common loaf
of peace.

Wings aflutter, our laughter rises

drawing bright borders on each dish,

while, barefoot, in a blue apron,

Happiness fills our plates.

******
Black Crosses

Near Soissons, on the road to Ile-de-France

In a garden where white iberis grow,
Black crosses stand, row after row.

In the brisk April wind whispering flowers sway.

And what the dead may have to say

They say with flowers,
The handsome dead, aged twenty-five,
Whose lips are now sealed with cold earth,
Whose veins are drained of their young blood
Whose loins are filled with wasted seed.
52 Rene Brock

Le veilleur

Une heure du matin dans le hall du Palace

Francesco le veilleur veille.
Sa face pleur de laurier, illumine
Se penche sur la rose complique.

Deux heures du matin, aux tages moelleux

Dorment les trangres bronzes.

Quatre heures du matin,

Le dos du veilleur ploie sous le drap vert olive,
Somnambule, il lave les dalles des longs vestibules.
Il navigue des ocans gris danmie.

La pleine lune allaite le silence

Que vrille le grillon.

La mer dans le dtroit clame sa force aveugle.

Francesco, Francesco, la nuit est longue sur lEspagne.

Et le sang souffre dans lombre.

Le myrte fleurit blanc, la rizire est fertile

Sur la bouche des morts.

Quand le soleil dispensera sa moelle ardente

Pour tout le monde,
Francesco, tu dormiras, depuis longtemps.

(Solaires)
 Rene Brock 53

The Night Watchman

One a.m. in the Palace Hotels lobby:

Francesco, the night watchman, watches.
His face, a pale laurel blossom, lights up
As he bends and peers at an intricate rose.

Two a.m., on the plush upper floors

Suntanned foreign ladies are sleeping.

Four a.m.,
Sleepwalking, the watchman in his drab uniform
Stoops as he mops the tiles in the long corridors.
He goes sailing over dismal grey oceans.

A full moon pours its milk over the stillness

Pierced by the crickets chirping.

The seas blind fury, unleashed, pounds on the shore.

Francesco, Francesco, night over Spain is long,

Suffering in the dark must be endured.

White is the myrtle bloom, thriving are the rice fields

Over the deads lonely hunger.

When the sun spills out its glowing marrow

For all the world to share,
You, Francesco, will have been asleep a long time.
54 Rene Brock

La couronne
Tu mas choisie, petit amant,
Seulement avec le sang
Et seulement pour le sang.
Mais pour que je sois belle
Tu serres mon visage entre tes mains dargile
O tinte encor la chanson en verre des billes.
Mais pour que je sois reine
Tu couronnes ma tte de pourpres framboises
Chaudes des sept soleils des sept jours de juillet.
Et lheure est fleur, et je suis belle, et je suis reine.

******
La maison

Aime-la, notre maison

pour les jours bnis que tu y passes
et pour ceux que tu ny passeras pas.

La terre est bonne au loin et tappelle,

et tous les roseaux des rives inconnues,
les roseaux par milliers crient ton nom.

Va mon enfant, va.

Etreins le monde treins les astres,
treins ta propre image,
use ton sang pour tout lamour.
Mais il nest de si verte pelouse de jeunesse,
de si vaste champ de silence
de si bleus horizons damour
qui ne cachent vipre.
Par elle, tu saigneras
et porteras poison.
Alors tu reviendras notre maison
Comme la crche du dsert.
Elle te lavera,
Elle te gurira.

(Le Temps unique)

 Rene Brock 55

The Crown
You chose me, my child, little lover,
Just because we share common blood
And just for this blood kinship of ours.
And so that I may be pretty,
You hold my face between your hands of clay
Still ringing with marbles crystal song;
And so that I may be a queen,
You crown my head with crimson berries
Warm from the seven suns of Julys seven days.*
And so the hour blooms, and I am pretty, and I am queen.

*Rene Brocks son was born on July 7.

******
Home

Love our home, love it,

for the blessed days you live here
and for the days you will live elsewhere.

From afar the good earth calls you,

and all the reeds on unknown shores
reeds by the thousands shout your name.

Go, my child, go.

Embrace the world, embrace the stars,
embrace your own image,
let all this love enter your heart.
But the greenest grass of youth,
the widest fields of silence,
and the bluest skies of love
may secretly harbor a snake.
His bite will make you bleed,
and will poison your heart.
Then to our home you will return,
as to a haven in the desert.
There you will be cleansed,
there you will be healed.
56 Rene Brock

Les rues
(Chanson)

Jours anciens. Joies anciennes

Qui tranez votre odeur perdue
En la ville o dcembre me mne.
Odeur de pain. Odeur de peine
Et vieux levain des vieilles rues.

Que voulez-vous que je devienne?

Mon dsespoir est immortel
Et mon coeur dans le vide saigne
Comme entre les maisons de pierre
Il tombe des gouttes de ciel.

Jours anciens. Faces de pierre

Accrochez mon coeur en enseigne.

******
Tout sen va de nous

Tout sen va de nous

Tout sen va de moi
Mme jusqu ce mtal de clart
Est pris par la rouille qui le ronge
Cet amour clatant
Sest terni dans la tnbre
Et je ne suis plus moi
Et tu cesses dtre toi
Et nous ne sommes plus rien
Rien dautre que tout ce quils sont.

Parfois je frmis encore

Dtre ce que nous avons t
Et puisque cela nous a t donn
Je puis aller, sereine, vers la mort
Jai tout reu, rien ne ma t refus
Mon passage a t fortun
Et sans plainte je la trouve belle ma mort.

(Le Temps unique)

 Rene Brock 57

Streets
(A Song)

Days of old. Joys of old

Whose forgotten scent is wafting
Through the town where December reigns.
A smell of bread. A smell of pain.
Old streets with their old leavening.

And now what will become of me?

For my despair will never die
And my heart will bleed all alone
Just as between houses of stone
Now are raining drops of sky.

Days of old. Faces of stone.

Hang up my heart as your sign.

******
Everything Drifts Away from us

Everything drifts away from us

Everything drifts away from me
Even daylights metallic glow
Declines and slowly rusts away
This sparkling love of ours
Has tarnished in the dark
And I am no longer myself
And you have ceased to be you
Now you and I are nothing
Nothing more than all the others.

Sometimes my heart is still aquiver

Remembering the way we were,
And since this gift was granted us
I can think of death serenely;
So much did I receive, nothing was denied me
I walked a path blessed by fate.
Without complaint, Ill find it beautiful to die.

Anne-Marie Kegels
(19121994)

Anne-Marie Kegels is a rather unique Belgian poet in that she was born
(Anne-Marie Canet) in Southern France and remained sentimentally at-
tached to her native Aquitaine all her life. She is, however, a Belgian poet,
not only because she married a Belgian and lived in his country most of
her adult life, but because it was in Belgium she began writing and pub-
lishing.
She comes from a long line of viticulturists established in Dunes, France,
where Anne-Marie attended primary school before completing her sec-
ondary studies in nearby Agen. After marrying Joseph Kegels, she lived
in Antwerp, then in Brussels for some time. The Kegels and their young
daughter eventually settled in Arlon, in the Belgian province of Luxem-
bourg. From this remote province, far from literary circles, Kegels was to
establish herself as a writer.
In Arlon, she became a contributor to local cultural magazines. In 1948,
she joined the avant-garde group, the Jeune Faune, where she met
many Belgian and French writers. She was thirty-eight years old when
she published her first collection of poems in Brussels. A short time later
she received two prestigious awards: the Prix Rene Vivien (1953) and
the Prix Grard de Nerval (1956), both in Paris. By the end of her career,
she had earned at least ten prestigious awards in France and Belgium.
Throughout her adult life, Kegels remained active in the literary world,
and her writings gained recognition abroad through translations into En-
glish, German, Spanish, Italian, and Russian. Her poetry reflects her own
life and personal feelings: her nostalgic love for her native French South-
west, and for her adopted North in the Belgian Ardennes. Her early
poetry expresses a lyrical outpouring of her energies and zest for life.
Later her work becomes suffused with metaphysical questioning and re-
60 Anne-Marie Kegels

flections on death. In the collection Lumire adverse, she personifies

Death, addressing it directly. Yet, despite the somber tones of her subject,
Kegels manages to communicate a message of life, life that perpetuates
itself in generations to come. Some of the pieces in Porter lorage also
bear the marks of deep anguish: they were written after Kegels was criti-
cally injured in a car accident in 1976, a traumatic experience that was to
affect her in ensuing years. Finally, after her husbands death in 1986,
Anne-Marie Kegels went through a period of deep depression and even-
tually retired to a nursing home where she died in 1994.
Her poetic style, at first characterized by classical alexandrines, ex-
plores a variety of meters and rhythms, evolving toward free verse. Ac-
cording to Andr Schmitz, the prominent Belgian poet who introduced a
posthumous anthology of Kegelss works, a portrait of Kegels comes to
life through her writings. Schmitz depicts her as both reserved and out-
going, a woman in exile and yet setting down roots, someone who
speaks of what is commonplace and what is extraordinary. In the same
book, Guy Goffette, another acclaimed Belgian poet, analyzes Kegelss
art in some detail, emphasizing the contrast between her personal discre-
tion and modesty, and the intensity of emotion, at times verging on vio-
lence, expressed in her verse, when he attests that poetry is for her a
way of participating in the worlds vital impulse. Both Goffette and Schmitz
characterize Kegelss creation as a song of love.
 Anne-Marie Kegels 61

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Douze pomes pour une anne. Bruxelles: Cahiers de lHippogriffe,
1950.
Rien que vivre. Dison-Verviers (Belgium): lEnseigne du Plomb qui
Fond, 1951.
Chants de la sourde joie. Lyon: Ecrivains Runis, 1955; Paris: La Revue
Moderne, 1956.
Haute Vigne. Bruxelles: Editions du Verseau, 1962.
Les Doigts verts. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1967.
Chants de la prsence. Condom (France): Pierre Gabriel, 1968.
Lumire adverse. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1970.
Les Chemins sont en feu. Mortemart (France): Rougerie, 1973.
Pomes. Luxembourg: Origine, 1975. (In collaboration with Andre
Chedid and Anise Koltz).
Porter lorage. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1978.
Pomes choisis. Bruxelles: Acadmie Royale de Langue et de Littrature
franaises, 1990. (With a portrait by Andr Schmitz and a pref-
ace by Guy Goffette).
During her career, Anne-Marie Kegels authored cultural and literary ar-
ticles that were published in at least thirty different Belgian and French
magazines.
62 Anne-Marie Kegels

La fentre

Pour les autres, pour les passants

Tu es simplement la fentre.
Pour moi qui taime du dedans,
Tu es ma plus profonde fte.

Celle qui accrot le regard

Et limite chaque nuage,
La gardienne du paysage
O je viens me perdre le soir.

Jai le monde sous mes paupires

Mon front ta vitre appuy
Et tu es glissante lisire
Sur le bord de lillimit.

Reste ma sur trs patiente;

Fais-moi laumne dun oiseau,
Redis-moi les paroles lentes
De cet horizon sans dfaut.

Et pose entre ciel et terre

Sois ce chemin arien
Prs duquel doucement je viens
Apaiser ma faim de lumire.

(Rien que vivre, also in Pomes Choisis)

 Anne-Marie Kegels 63

The Window

To others, to the passers-by,

You are nothing but a window.
To me, loving you from inside,
You bring the sweetest joys I know.

Youre the one that expands my gaze

And limits every cloud, it seems,
The keeper of the landscape
Where each evening I come to dream.

The world is enclosed in my eyes,

As my forehead rests on your pane;
You are a gliding borderline
At the edge of limitless space.

Be my ever-patient sister,
Offer me a bird in good faith;
Tell me again in a whisper
What this flawless horizon said.

Poised between heaven and earth,

May you be the aerial path
That I may cross with peace of mind
To appease my hunger for light.
64 Anne-Marie Kegels

Tous les ramiers sont morts

Tous les ramiers sont morts. Les forts sont teintes

o luisait leur envol.
Leur soyeux va-et-vient na laiss dautre empreinte
quun peu de sang au sol.

Jai retrouv leurs corps exils des feuillages

gisant dans les sentiers.
Celui qui les tirait savourait ce carnage.
Pas un neut sa piti.

Tous les ramiers sont morts. Je marche sur des plumes

de terrible douceur.
Ils se sont dbattus follement dans la brume
avant de perdre coeur.

Je fais craquer les os qui furent fuite tendre

sous la haute futaie.
Je foule tant damour retourn la cendre
et pitine des plaies.

Que vienne le nant sur ces formes lgres,

le travail des fourmis.
Les sous-bois ravags dans laube douce-amre
nont besoin que doubli.

(Haute Vigne, also in Pomes Choisis)

******
Ladieu la mmoire

Il fut un temps, grande mmoire,

o je vous sommais dengranger.
Je vous tendais comme une gloire
Les saisons, les coeurs, les dangers.
Cest fini. Vous tes trop lourde.
Je vous portais obstinment.
Avec une lanterne sourde,
je venais tter vos froments
parmi des nuits folles de lune. /. . .
 Anne-Marie Kegels 65

All the Ringdoves Are Dead

All the ringdoves are dead, and the forests grow dim
where brightly flashed their wings.
Of their silken flight not a trace remains
but a little blood on the trail.

I found their bodies exiled from the foliage

left to lie on the path.
He who shot them savored the carnage.
No one escaped his wrath.

All the ringdoves are dead. So soft and so tragic

the feathers I step on.
In the mist their struggle was frantic;
they lost heart in the end.

I walk on crackling bones that once were tender flights

overhead in the trees.
I crush so much love now returned to cinders,
and trample many wounds.

Let nothingness descend upon these frail remains,

let the ants do their best.
In the bittersweet dawn the ravaged forest lanes
need only to forget.
******
Farewell to Memory

Great Memory, there was a time

when I urged you to keep storing.
I held up to you as sublime
seasons, hearts and dangerous things.
This is over. You are too heavy a burden.
Yet I carried you in earnest
and trusting in my dark lantern,
I would come to check your harvest
madly, in the new moons glimmer. /. . .
66 Anne-Marie Kegels

/. . .
On appelle a: souvenirs.
Je nen veux plus. Cette fortune
qui ne me sauve de mourir,
je la laisse glisser terre.
Jai trop halet sous son poids.
Demain je veux tre lgre,
boire le jour, courir les bois,
merger aux combes sauvages
o mattend ce garon qui rit,
yeux perdus, dont jignore lge.

. . . Mais je sais quil se nomme oubli.

Ce nom tout de suite ma prise.
Il mle lombre et le velours.
mmoire, depuis toujours
cest lui que je suis promise.
(Haute Vigne, also in Pomes Choisis)
******
Ecole
Je vois encor la cour peu sage
et le prau qui sensoleille.
lcole de mon village
nous apprenions grande merveille.
Nous apprenions que pour poux
doulce France avait quatre fleuves
et que lun deux riait chez nous.

Pour que trente regards smeuvent

ce vif trsor deau suffisait.
Que nous importaient Seine, Rhne
et cette Loire en ses palais.
Nous tions reines de Garonne.
(Les Doigts verts, also in Pomes Choisis)
 Anne-Marie Kegels 67

/. . .
They call this: Remembrance.
No more do I want this treasure
that will not save me from dying,
I will let it slip to the ground.
It has too long weighed me down.
Tomorrow my steps will be light,
as I drink the day, roam the woods,
and stop by the glen in the wild
where a laughing boy is waiting.
His eyes are vacant, I dont know his age.

. . . But I know his name: Oblivion.

I was taken with it from the start,
a blend of shadows and of velvet.
O, Memory, deep in my heart,
I have always been his promised bride.

******
School Days

I still remember our unruly games

and the sun invading the playground.
In my little village school
we were learning wonderful things.

We learned that our sweet land of France

was the bride of four mighty rivers,
and one of them graced our province.

This treasure of lively waters

could brighten thirty eager eyes.

What did we care about the Seine, the Rhone

or the Loire in its lavish castles?
We were the queens of the Garonne.
68 Anne-Marie Kegels

Paroles pour la Mort

Je te surprends parfois au bord de mes chemins
si ple, si meurtrie, que je reprends courage.
Je sais qu ce moment des semences clatent
follement travailles par un besoin de vert.

Je sais quau mme instant velout de silence

mille enfants nouveau-ns de leur cri te soufflettent.
Inquite des ts qui ctoient ta froideur,
partout blesse de vie, tu peux baisser la tte.
Te demander comment ces combats finiront.
Devant le bl ttu pleurer de dsespoir.

(Lumire adverse, also in Pomes Choisis)

******
La Visite
Je viens vous, hommes des villes,
Voyez-moi fouler vos asphaltes
et me couronner de nons.
Je pense la docile terre
que vos trottoirs ont touffe
et qui dort comme une dfunte.
Je maventure en vos regards.
Ne mexilez pas. Je suis celle
dont les haies ont bais lpaule.
Pour vous je trane au long des rues
un parfum lancinant dcorces,
de bourgeons sous la jeune pluie.
En vos maisons je dis des mots:
euphorbes, pollen, reverdie,
tels des graines pour la semence.
Lorsque je serai repartie
si des buissons, des herbes folles,
se bousculent sur vos tapis, /. . .
 Anne-Marie Kegels 69

Some Words for You, Death

Sometimes I surprise you at the side of my roads
so pale, so bruised, that once more I take heart.
I know that as I speak seeds are bursting
from mad travail in their need for greenness.

And at the same instant of velvety silence

a thousand newborns lash at you with their cries.
Worried about summers bordering your coldness,
scorned by life everywhere, you can now bow your head.
And you may well wonder how these battles will end.
Facing the stubborn fields, you can cry in despair.

******
A Visit

I come to you, city people.

See me walk on your asphalt
and crown myself with neon lights.

I think of earth so docile,

smothered under your sidewalks,
sleeping there as if it had died.

I venture here, you look at me.

Do not send me into exile. I am the one
whose shoulders were kissed by hawthorne.

For you I trail along the streets

a heady fragrance of tree bark,
of buds under a youthful rain.

In your houses I speak such words

as: euphorbia, pollen, greening,
like small seeds ready for sowing.

And after I leave here,

if bushes and tall grasses
are growing wild on your carpets, /. . .
70 Anne-Marie Kegels

/. . .
nen veuillez la paysanne
si charge de fusantes sves
quelle ne put les retenir.
(Les Chemins sont en feu)

Variations pour un Calendrier

III Ce nest que pluie de mars.

Elle bouscule les jonquilles,
jette leau sur le feu,
et puis sen va
en pirouettes
folle de joie.

Elle sait que le feu ne steindra pas.

******
V Il se dressa dans les luzernes
et dit rayonnant: je suis mai.

Au mme instant le cerisier

dans un bruit affol de merles
laissa rougir quelques cerises.

Et ladolescent qui passait,

travers de dsirs en feu,
psalmodia la chanson vieille
o les filles sont des fontaines.

******

VII Jtais lisse au printemps.

Javais la joue limpide.
Mais juillet bien cach
avait dessein sur moi.

Quand je leus rencontr

sur les bords des peautres,
son torse dor bruni
luisait contre le bois. /. . .
 Anne-Marie Kegels 71

/. . .
please do not blame the peasant girl
so laden with essential saps
she could not check their overflowing.

Variations for a Calendar

III Its only a March rain

jostling the daffodils,
throwing water on the fire.
But soon it goes away
in pirouettes
of giddy joy.

It knows the fire will not die.

******

V He rose from the clover fields

and beaming proclaimed: I am May.

Then all at once the cherry tree,

in a mad flutter of blackbirds,
let a few of its cherries blush.

And the young man just passing by,

assailed by fiery desires,
started to hum an old refrain
where girls are said to be fountains.

******

VII It was spring and I was sweet.

Not a blemish on my cheek.
But July lay in ambush
and had plans for me.

When I happened to meet him

by the wheat fields fence,
his chest of burnished gold
glistened against the wood. /. . .
72 Anne-Marie Kegels

/. . .
Nous nous sommes aims
travers les myrtilles.
Jai eu la joue tache
du plus sombre des fruits.

******

XII Les feux crpiteront

aux tres de dcembre.

Je resterai penche,
regarder noircir
la branche torture
qui portait lcureuil.

(Les chemins sont en feu)

 Anne-Marie Kegels 73

/. . .
This is where we made love,
in the blueberry patch.
And the darkest of fruits
left a stain on my cheek.

******

XII Fires will be crackling

in the hearths come December.

Ill lean over, watching

as it turns to cinders,
the tortured branch
where a squirrel once perched.
74 Anne-Marie Kegels

Les objets
Pris avec moi
au pige dune maison
nous sommes devenus complices.
Des gestes vifs ou caressants
volent entre nous, nous rassemblent.
Quand je menlise dangereusement
aux sables du songe
lun deux savance pour me retenir.
Jagrippe bois ou porcelaine.
ma boue, mon seul secours.
Tout redevient sr et tangible.
Je me confie lhumble amour.

******
Ma chambre solitude
Crible de souvenirs,
enferme dans ma chambre solitude,
tour tour me visitent
la joie et la douleur.

Javais pourtant tir le verrou.

Mais plus flexibles quun fil de soie
elles se glissent sans bruit
par le trou de la serrure.
Je les caresse toutes les deux.
Ds que lune senfuit
lautre arrive bientt
et sabat sur ma poitrine.
Ah! toutes les deux sont trompes.
Si je nen aimais quune
la mort qui me regarde
sapprocherait soudain
et mtoufferait.
(Porter lorage, also in Pomes Choisis)
 Anne-Marie Kegels 75

Objects
They are caught with me,
trapped in a house;
we have become accomplices.
Gestures either swift or tender
hover about, bind us together.
When I dangerously sink
in the sands of a daydream,
one of them comes forth and holds me back.
I grab hold of some wood or porcelain,
as a lifebuoy, my lone salvation.
Once again all is real and secure.
I entrust myself to humble love.
******

My Solitary Room
Riddled with memories,
Ive retired to a solitary room.
In turn, two visitors come calling,
one is joy, the other, sorrow.

Although I had locked myself in,

More supple than a silk thread,
they sneak in through the keyhole
without making a sound.
I welcome them both equally.
As soon as one runs away,
the other soon arrives
and rushes to my breast.
Ah! but Im unfaithful to both,
for if I loved only one
Death who has her eye on me
would suddenly draw near,
and take my breath away.

Jeanine Moulin
(19121998)

A native of Brussels, Jeanine Moulin developed an interest in art and

literature from a very early age, as numerous renowned writers and paint-
ers of various nationalities were frequent visitors in her parents home.
Moulins degree in Romance philology from the University of Brussels
marked the beginning of her illustrious literary career. Her dissertation on
the visionary poet Grard de Nerval was published in 1937. This was to
be the first of a long list of highly acclaimed critical studies on French and
Belgian poets.
Jeanine Moulin was remarkable in the diversity of her accomplishments.
First and foremost, Moulin was a poet. She authored ten volumes of
poetry and earned several prestigious awards. Secondly, an established
scholar, Moulin lectured widely, authored literary studies and edited col-
lections of poetry. La Posie fminine, a comprehensive anthology of
poetry by women from the twelfth through the twentieth centuries won
for the author the distinction of the Acadmie Franaise in Paris. In 1977,
Jeanine Moulin became a member of the Belgian Academy of Letters
(Acadmie Royale de Langue et de Littrature franaises), whose president
announced her to be an indefatigable researcher, intuitive and meticulous.
In addition to her poetry and academic pursuits, for many years Jeanine
Moulin acted as manager of her parents company. She travelled exten-
sively and succeeded in balancing the demands of public and private life.
The author married Lo Moulin, also a scholar and writer. Their son is an
accomplished musician.
The excerpts from Moulins poetry presented in this anthology cover
the period from 1957 through 1991, a thirty-four year period that illus-
trates a stylistic and thematic evolution. The first poems are classicalor
nearly classicalin form, but progressively Moulin adopted more supple,
78 Jeanine Moulin

freer patterns. In her work attributes of classical prosody often coexist

with modern forms, and some of her texts are prose poems. The selec-
tion offered here endeavors to give a representative sample of thematic
aspects of Moulins poetry as well, for theme and style are closely con-
nected in her work. The author questions the relationship between life
and the self; she explores the cycles of time, meditates on death and what
she calls the invisible world; she examines the creative power of the
word. In the manner of Francis Ponge, she investigates the life of inani-
mate objects, and she exploits humor both as a poetic device and as a
reflection of her own personality.
Critic Claire-Anne Magnes has highlighted the lyricism and musicality
of Moulins poetry, speaking of her work as a deep song. . . . Lyricism,
intensity of the imagery. Playing with language: words are little colorful
balls the poet can juggle with. Similarly, in his preface to De pierre et de
songe, contemporary Belgian poet Guy Goffette calls Moulins poetry
energetic and positive, emphasizing the authors gift for transposing
common expressions and making of a lackluster image a lasting one. He
adds that her poetry does not content itself with being merely sunny,
but is more aptly compared to a burning fire, an image Moulin often
employs in her writing, where fire, burning, and light are metaphors for
the life contained within the poem.
 Jeanine Moulin 79

Selected Bibliography
Poetry
Jeux et Tourments. Bruxelles: La Maison du Pote, 1947.
Feux sans joie. Paris: Seghers, 1957.
Rue Chair et Pain. Paris: Seghers, 1961.
La Pierre feux. Paris: Seghers, 1968.
Les Mains nues. Paris: Saint-Germain-des-Prs, 1971.
Muse des objets perdus. Paris: Saint-Germain-des-Prs, 1982.
La Craie des songes. Paris: Saint-Germain-des-Prs, 1986.
De pierre et de songe. Paris: La Diffrence, 1991. (Includes selected
poems from previous collections and some new poems).

Short Stories
Voyage au pays bleu. Bruxelles: Pierre de Myre, 1975.
Les Yeux de la tte et autres rcits. Paris: Le Cherche Midi, 1988.

Essays
Grard de Nerval, Les Chimres, Exgses. Geneva: Droz, 1949.
Guillaume Apollinaire ou La querelle de lordre et de laventure.
Geneva: Droz, 1952.
Marceline Desbordes-Valmore. Paris: Seghers, 1955.
La Posie fminine. Epoque moderne. Paris: Seghers, 1963.
La Posie fminine, du XIIe au XIXe sicle. Paris: Seghers, 1966.
Huit sicles de posie fminine. Paris: Seghers-Laffont, 1975.
Fernand Crommelynck ou le thtre du paroxysme. Bruxelles: Palais
des Acadmies, 1978.
80 Jeanine Moulin

Le plafond

Plafond, grand oisif, fier de ta robe sans accrocs,

Tu te moques des murs soumis au nettoyage
Et des planchers qui gmissent sous les pas.
Rien ne tatteint, sauf lexquis:
Le parfum dune cigarette,
Larme dun civet dont le vin te monte la tte.
Tu coutes peine les gammes du rire et les polkas des
sanglots

Parfois des jeunes gens allongs sur des divans

Impriment sur ton blanc visage leurs songes voluptueux.
Parfois des commerants transis
Emplissent ta surface de chiffres brlants.
Ta robuste sant supporte toutes les chimres.

Un jour pourtant, tu priras. Tu te mettras neiger

des flocons de pltre.
Et cest alors que les hommes te dcouvriront avec
tonnement,
Car ils verront enfin lenvers de leurs espoirs:
Une charpente de bois pourri qui subdivise le vide.

(Feux sans joie)

 Jeanine Moulin 81

Ceiling

Ceiling, so leisurely, proud of your snag-free robe,

You scoff at the walls subjected to scrubbing
And at the floors that groan under footsteps.
You remain untouched, except by finer things:
A cigarettes fragrance,
A roast steeped in wine whose aroma goes to your head.
Yet you hardly listen to laughters rippling song
or to sorrows woeful beat.

Sometimes young men stretched out on sofas

Brand your blank face with voluptuous dreams.
Sometimes grim merchants
Fill up your surface with a blaze of numbers:
Your robust health withstands these idle fancies.
Yet, one day you will perish. You will begin to snow
in little plaster flakes.
And then in wonderment men will discover you,
Seeing at last the other side of hope:
A frame of rotting wood crisscrossing emptiness.
82 Jeanine Moulin

Le couple
Au commencement, nous ntions peut-tre que le un.
Lui, lhomme de lant-mmoire
et moi, la femme des aurores sans fin.
Au commencement, nous tions peut-tre une mme peau
toile dun vu de sapience,
pareils au feu qui se bat avec lui-mme
tandis que crpite sa barbe orange,
pareils leau qui nous serrait
dans ses doigts ongls de coquillages.
Mais ntais-je point seule dj, femelle fureteuse
en mon espce verte, petite grenouille rflchie,
mre lointaine de la femme qui danse au bal musette,
avec de bons gros yeux, des bras dhomme son cou?

Et quimporte lavenir ou lavant-devenir!

Nous voici deux au pays des merveilles
qui sappelle Aujourdhui.
Inventeurs reconnus des prsents qui se fanent,
sommes-nous dame et valet dune partie sans issue?
Ne sais! Au commencement, une larme de plaisir
arrosa les froments de notre chair.
Les pis sentranaient nourrir des tables
pendant que jaillissaient des pousses de prires.

Au commencement taient le pain, le vin et la justice.

Trois personnes en une,
car la justice mangea le pain, puis se noya dans le vin.
Dieu nexiste plus que dans les mmoires tout faire
et tout engloutir, mme ce quelles ne comprennent pas.
Or me voil sans trajet ni route,
sans Pre cleste pour mes dimanches:
ni plante que lon repique, ni poisson du Seigneur,
ni frtillante bestiole des corbeilles lacustres.

Ne sais ni ce commencement o nous tions le un

en train de nous rver double au sein du devenir,
ni notre aboutissement
au lieu o se ptrifient les ombres.
(Les Mains nues, also in De pierre et de Songe)
 Jeanine Moulin 83

The Couple
In the beginning, perhaps we were just one.
He, the man from time immemorial
and I, the woman of endless dawns.
In the beginning, perhaps we were of one flesh
starred with a dream of wisdom,
like fire consuming itself
while its orange beard crackles;
like water pressing down on us
with fingers edged in seashells.
But wasnt I already alone, a prying female
of the green species, a small thinking frog,
distant mother of the woman dancing today at the village ball,
with big candid eyes, and a mans arms around her neck?
But what matters our coming or becoming!
There are two of us now in the Wonderland
they call Today.
Renowned inventors of fleeting present times,
are we the Queen and Jack of some hopeless game?
Ill never know! In the beginning, a tear of pleasure
watered the fields of our flesh.
The wheat crops did their best to feed assemblies
while there emerged new shoots of prayers.

In the beginning were bread, wine and justice.

Three persons in one,
for justice ate the bread, then drowned in the wine.
God exists only for minds of all trades
ready to absorb even what they dont understand.
Now here I am with no road or itinerary,
no heavenly Father for my Sundays:
no twig to plant, no fish of the Lord,
no wriggling beasties from miraculous lakes.

Ill never know this beginning when we were one

fancying a future when we would be two,
or our destination
in a place where shadows turn to stone.
84 Jeanine Moulin

Le temps circulaire

Temps, bague du globe

sans flure au mtal de ta pure coule,
cercle parfait de ntre ni fini, ni commenc,
anneau, vou au vacarme des nudits naissantes
et au silence des morts certaines,
sans en tre bossel.
Toi, tu ne joues pas de mesure pour rien.
Tu nen perds aucune,
soumis tout entier la circulaire loi
dtre un anneau press de joindre ses deux bouts!
Mme si elle devait fondre en ton milieu,
la terre ne tempcherait pas dtre rond et de tourner.

(Les Mains nues, also in De pierre et de songe)

******
La lune

Prendre la lune avec ses dents,

la poser sur un plateau de nuages,
la caresser, la mrir du regard,
comme une pche ple.
Mais la lune glisse des nues
dans une conque de vagues
entoures de sables attentifs.
On ne la prend plus avec ses dents.
Beau fruit ne pas cueillir,
elle est la libre rondeur du songe
qui se balance dans un filet dcume:
jamais prsente, accessible
aux mille et un doigts lumineux
des fuses chercheuses
qui pchent ses reflets dans un ciel invers.

(Muse des objets perdus)

 Jeanine Moulin 85

Circular Time

Time, a ring around the globe

with no crack in your flawless cast metal,
a perfect circle having no end and no beginning,
a band made to endure the shrill nakedness of birth
and the deep silence of certain death,
without suffering the slightest dent.
You, time, never play a bar for nothing.
You never skip a beat,
faithful servant to the circular rule
that requires a ring to make both ends meet!
Even if Earth were to melt at your center,
it would not alter your roundness
or your spinning.

******
The Moon

To seize the moon with ones teeth

and place it on a tray of clouds,
with ones eyes caressing it, until it ripens
like a pale peach.
But the moon slips away from the clouds
in a conch of waves
surrounded by watchful sands.
No longer can we seize it with our teeth.
A lovely fruit never to be picked,
it is a free circle of dreams
swinging in a net of foam:
forever present, accessible
to the thousand and one luminous fingers
of probing rockets
that fish for its reflections in an inverted sky.
86 Jeanine Moulin

Posie

Cette ombre qui veut se noyer

dans ltang sans visage
et quon oblige surnager,
cest toi, posie,
contrariante contrarie:
plonge, en eau sombre,
pour lclat des aubes pulpeuses,
en eau grise dcume,
pour la nuit de lindfinissable,

posie, erreur voulue,

quon sauve pour tre sauv.

(Muse des objets perdus)

******

Recommandation

Ne le dites personne, mais tenez-le vous pour dit, il ne faut pas jouer
avec les mots: quil sagisse de demi-mots, de mots couverts ou de ceux
qui veulent toujours avoir le dernier mot.
Il en est qui se drapent dans leur manteau de parade et se dclarent
pompeusement: mots de passe ou mots dordre. Ils exasprent tout autant
quun bruit de scie sur la pierre. Un jour que javais lun deux au bout de
la langue, je tentai de le morigner. Mais il senfuit en me laissant bouche
be.
Ne jouez jamais avec les mots, nessayez pas de les placer ni den avoir
avec votre concierge. Quoi que vous fassiez, ils garderont leur mot dire,
le mot de la fin. Retenez bien la leon.
Et motus! . . .

(La Craie des songes, also in De pierre et de songe)

 Jeanine Moulin 87

Poetry

This shadow that wants to drown

in the faceless pond
but is made to stay afloat,
this is you, poetry,
disturbing and disturbed:
plunging into dark waters,
to find the brightness of pulpous dawns;
into waters grey with foam,
to find the night of the Intangible

Poetry, a deliberate error,

to save that we may be saved.

******

A Recommendation

Dont tell anyone, but let me tell you, you should never play with words:
whether hushed words or veiled words or those always claiming to be final
words.
Some of them are draped in ceremonial cloaks and pompously call
themselves: passwords or watchwords. They can sound as exasperating
as a saw cutting rock. Once I had one of those at the tip of my tongue and
was ready with a reprimand, but it fled, leaving me with my mouth wide
open.
Never play with words, dont attempt to have some with your landlady,
or to put one in edgeways. Whatever you do, theyll always manage to
keep one in reserve, to have the last word. Let this be a lesson.
And, of course, dont breathe a word! . . .
88 Jeanine Moulin

Aller-Retour

Ctait la saison des glissades

au bord des pentes citadines
et des goters marmelade
au bout des isthmes sucriers,
quand la bouche est bourre doublies,
la poche, de cailloux blesss.

Ctait le temps des campanules

cueillies au bleu du papier peint,
quand les doigts esseuls marient
leau et le feu de grand matin.

Je ne sais plus quelle tristesse

traa lhoraire de ma vie,
quelle fe folle me fit peur
en son labyrinthe de verre.

Jerre sans voix et sans deniers,

comme une intruse aux yeux sauvages,
cherchant refuge au fond des failles
dans une terre o rien ne nat,
ni pommes dor, ni pousailles.

Et la rue me fait grise mine

quand je lui conte mes dfaites.
Elle voit laube travers lombre
et se moque bien des potes.
Ses rverbres la dfendent.

Foin du sirop des litanies,

je men irai, avant le jour
vers les goters de mon enfance,
quand le miel mlang de beurre
calmait les pleurs des pnitences.

(La Craie des songes)

 Jeanine Moulin 89

Round Trip

It was the season for sliding

down the sloping city streets
season for five oclock snacking
on mounds of jelly and sweets,
when ones mouth is filled with treats
and ones pocket with injured rocks.

It was the time for bellflowers

picked in the blue of wallpaper
when lonely fingers are idly blending
water and fire in early morning.

I dont remember why sadness

traced the pattern of my life,
or what mad fairy frightened me
in her crystal labyrinth.

Voiceless, penniless, I wander,

a stranger with gaze of anguish,
in the hollows I seek shelter
in this land where nothing is born,
no golden apples here, no wedding bliss.

The street frowns at me as I go

telling about my misfortunes.
It sees dawn through the shadow
and, protected by its lamps,
it has no patience with poets.

Enough of this cloying lament,

I plan to leave before daylight
and head for childhoods sweet delights
when honey and butter would blend
to soothe my tears of repentance.
90 Jeanine Moulin

Si haut que tu les lves

Si haut que tu les lves,

pour les soustraire labsence,

les mots senfoncent dans le temps

aprs tavoir tir leur rvrence

dobjets de passage:

aussitt dits,

aussitt dfaits.

(LEspace sans nom in De pierre et de songe)

 Jeanine Moulin 91

As High As You May Raise Them

As high as you may raise them

to save them from oblivion,

words keep sinking in time

after they make their final bow

as all passing things do:

no sooner said,

than undone.

Marie-Jos Viseur
(19151999)

The Belgian province of Hainaut is the birthplace of many well-known

poets. One of them is Marie-Jos Viseur, ne Marie-Jos Henrotin, who
made her home in her native city of Jumet.
Viseur studied literature and philosophy at the university of Brussels.
In 1937, along with her husband, Gustave Viseur, she became the edito-
rial secretary for the periodical La Renaissance dOccident. Later she
served on juries for various literary awards in Belgium and also collabo-
rated regularly in a number of poetic reviews and journals. Until her re-
cent death in the summer of 1999, Marie-Jos Viseur remained very
active in the literary world.
Viseur began publishing her poetry at age twenty-two. Her career was
interrupted between 1938 and 1969, when she raised her three sons.
During that period, however, she authored two volumes of short stories.
Returning to poetry in 1969, along the years she published at least twenty
collections in Belgium and in France. Her novel La Mort de Sverine
received the Prix des Ecrivains de Wallonie in 1974, and she was awarded
several other prizes for poetry.
A very private person, Marie-Jos Viseur shunned exposure to the
media; she did not seek publicity, did not make guest appearances at
festivals or other public functions. For her, poetry was a true vocation.
Nulle part amarre (Nowhere Anchored), the title of her last collection,
provides an apt metaphor for her intellectual and artistic freedom.
There was a noticeable evolution in Viseurs poems and in her philoso-
phy of life. As Paul Van Melle, a poet and one of her publishers, notes,
Marie-Jos Viseur is not content with raising questions; she looks for
answers, and she finds answers, even though they are not entirely satis-
factory to her. In her strong and powerful poetry, according to Van
94 Marie-Jos Viseur

Melle, she confronts faith and doubt and displays a certain cosmic hope
that sustains her faith. It might be added that her vivid images and lexical
plays reveal a passion for words, whose pollen must be captured, as
stated in a brief maxim from one of her most original collection, whimsi-
cally entitled Adagios. This volume consists of a series of concise
adages, most of which may be considered as a poetic expression of her
philosophical thought (a few excerpts appear in the following pages).
One of these maxims captures Viseurs poetic credo: On natteint pas sa
dmesure/en marchant au pas, (You cannot surpass yourself/by keep-
ing in step). The term au pas which suggests marching in step, aptly
expresses this poets sense of individuality.
 Marie-Jos Viseur 95

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Gouttes de lumire. Namur (Belgium): La Cit Moderne, 1937.
Au creux du silence. Bruxelles: Editions des Artistes, 1969.
Anagramme de ma vrit. Bruxelles: Henry Fagne, 1974.
Brise, licne. Tournai (Belgium): Unimuse, 1982.
Parole naufrage. Paris: St Germain-des-Prs, 1987.
Ddouaner labsurde. Valenciennes (France): Froissart, 1988.
Le dlit, labsolu. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles, 1990.
Lcume, le naufrage. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1991.
Adagios. La Hulpe (Belgium): Le Gril, 1992.
A bout de silence. La Hulpe: Le Gril, 1992.
Errance. Valenciennes: Froissart, 1992.
Voix quite dabsence. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1993.
La vie me fouille jusquau cri. Valenciennes: Froissart, 1995.
Festin dimaginaire. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1995.
Nouer et dnouer le temps. Valenciennes: Cahiers Froissart, 1997.
Franchir le porche du voyage. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1997.
Nulle part amarre. Namur (Belgium): Editions de lAcanthe, 1998.

Short Stories
Instinct. Seraing (Belgium): Editions Gnard, 1939.
Lames de fond. Louvain (Belgium): Editions Styx, 1942.

Novel
La Mort de Sverine. Paris: Millas-Martin, 1973.
96 Marie-Jos Viseur

Solitude

Lautomne, grands coups de ciel,

Taille les aulnes

Loubli lisse la branche imberbe

Coule un filet de bleu des tristesses disjointes

Doigts gars de leurs poursuites,

Gerfauts drivs du froid,
Hirondelles, amarre au soleil.

Pour les garrigues nues, les lytres de lombre

Rfugie contre larbre, lenfance dun nuage

Puzzle
Dapatrides solitudes.

******

Pome

A la brche dun cri

Cet exode dtoiles
Impatient de vivre son exotique joie

Les instants gouttent leurs imprononables

Aux tendresses de leau limage se confie

Longue soif docan

Une le sapprivoise

Extrmes tropismes
Des mares digitales

(Anagramme de ma vrit)
 Marie-Jos Viseur 97

Solitude

Autumn, with great sweeps of sky

Clips the alder trees

The bald branch is smooth from lack of memory

A rivulet of blue flows from unsettled griefs

Fingers diverted from their pursuits,

Gyrfalcons derived from the cold,
Swallows, anchored in the sun.

On the moors, the ghosts of cricket wings

Huddled against the tree, a newborn cloud

A puzzle
Of exiled solitudes.

******

Poem

In the breach of a scream

This exodus of stars
Impatient to live their exotic joy

Trickling away moments unspeakable

The image gives itself to the tender waters

From the long thirst of oceans

An island is tamed

Outermost tropisms
On the fingers of tides
98 Marie-Jos Viseur

Adages

Le pote ne veut pas tomber dans la mort

comme en un puits profond. Il veut quelle
tombe en lui avec la saccade effrne
du dsir.

Les mots qui saimaient se retrouveront

dans lautre phrase, plus longue, plus
effile, dtache du contexte.

La passion peut se rvler luxuriante

comme un sanctuaire baroque, mais la
tendresse se doit dviter toute faute
de got.

Arrtons-nous la croise des chemins,

Ne choisissons pas.
Lun deux nous choisira.

Les arbres prgrinent

jusquau dernier hameau
o se tressent
racines et certitudes.

On nembroche pas lternit

avec des pinces linge.

Y aura-t-il jamais
un ciel assez du
pour ne plus profrer dtoiles?

(Adagios, excerpts)
 Marie-Jos Viseur 99

Adages

The poet does not want to fall into death

as into a deep well. He wants death to fall
into him with the halting frenzy of desire.

Words that once were in love will meet again

in another sentence that will be longer,
more slender, detached from context.

Passion may display its luxuriance

like a baroque sanctuary, but love
is duty bound to avoid bad taste.

Let us stop at the crossroads,

Let us not choose.
One of the roads will choose for us.

Trees wander off

to reach the last hamlet
where roots and certainties
are entwined.

One cannot impale eternity

on a clothespin.

Will there ever be

so disenchanted a sky
that it will no longer proffer stars?
100 Marie-Jos Viseur

Jallume les lgendes

Jallume les lgendes

dans cette prface la chair
qui ouvrira la tragdie

Pourquoi cet arbre qui prend feuilles

quand les volera le vent
pour droguer ses pomes?

Pourquoi ces nids inventant des oiseaux

promis aux festins des chasseurs?

Jallume des lgendes

je campe des hros
qui ne seront que
des hommes.

( bout de silence)

******

Si le soleil se taisait
Si le soleil se taisait,
si larbre ntincelait doiseaux,
si le vent nafftait son cri,
si le sable se lassait denlacer les mares,
si je chantais en sol ce que tu pleures en la
si nous ntions
que les peccadilles
de Dieu?

(La vie me fouille jusquau cri)

 Marie-Jos Viseur 101

I Light up Legends

I light up legends
in this prologue of flesh
destined to tragedy

Why does the tree gather leaves

when the wind will steal them
to spice up its poems?

Why do these nests invent birds

promised to the hunters feasts?

I light up legends
I portray heroes
who will be simply
men.

******

What if . . .

What if the sun fell silent,

if the tree no longer sparkled with birds,
if the wind no longer sharpened its cry,
if the sands grew weary of embracing the tides,
if I sang in G major what you lament in A
if we were nothing
but peccadillos
of God?
102 Marie-Jos Viseur

Vouloir, exiger . . .

Vouloir, exiger . . .
malgr quen trve de soi-mme, on sache que
rien narrivera, ne viendra rassasier lattente.
malgr la mer qui rcuse le rivage, le soleil qui,
jamais, ne rejoindra la lune
malgr le cheval ail qui refuse de vous prendre
en croupe
Vouloir, exiger . . .
que, jamais, la terre ne vous emprisonne que, toujours un ciel
vacillant dastres soit festival vos
veilles

Vouloir, exiger . . .
que la mort vous tienne la main
pour vous conduire Dieu

******

Infime et infinie distance . . .

Infime et infinie distance entre deux tres quand la

Secrte, ngligeant lun, emmne lautre vers lnigmatique
traverse, la fuite en aval.
Impitoyable instant qui coupe en deux la trame, dans le
sens du vivre ensemble.

Toute la fatigue de ce temps porter seul, dsormais,

jusquau seuil de dilapidation.

(La vie me fouille jusquau cri)

 Marie-Jos Viseur 103

To want, to demand . . .

To want, to demand . . .
though, in a truce with yourself, you know that
nothing will happen, nothing to satisfy your expectations.
though the sea continues to challenge the coast, though the sun
never will meet the moon
though the winged horse refuses to let you ride
pillion
To want, to demand . . .
that, never, will earth emprison you, that,
always, a sky shimmering with stars will light your festive
vigils

To want, to demand . . .
that death will hold your hand
and lead you to God

******

Minute and infinite distance . . .

Minute and infinite distance between two beings when the Secret One,
overlooking the first, leads the other to the enigmatic crossing,
to the flight downstream.
Cruel moment that tears the fabric in two, along the thread of
togetherness.

Deep weariness in carrying alone the weight of Time from now on,
as life begins to waste away.
104 Marie-Jos Viseur

Ils entrrent en posie

Ils entrrent en Posie

ils portaient lample vtement de lin
confr
par la pense acquise
Ils franchirent le porche
engags dans la lumire crue

leur rencontre, les mots mergeaient,

oiseaux souples greffs aux vents

Ils entrrent en Posie,

nus sous le nouveau culte

Les rejoindrai-je un jour,

par la poterne?

(La vie me fouille jusquau cri)

******

Eternit de ce moment . . .

Eternit de ce moment o la vie se tient immobile.

Heureux celui qui consent ses propres ternits,
aux immensits que son tre recle.
Celui qui sattarde o le vent samarre, pour que
se repose le voyageur du vent.

Croire lternit du soi pendant la trve que le

temps lui accorde.

(Festin dimaginaire)
 Marie-Jos Viseur 105

They Entered Poetry

They entered Poetry

wearing the ample linen robes
conferred
by knowledge

They crossed the portal

and stepped into the pale light

words emerged to greet them,

supple as birds riding the winds

They entered Poetry

naked in their new cult

Will I be joining them one day,

through the back gate?

******

The moment life remains . . .

The moment life remains motionless lasts an eternity.

Happy he who accepts his own eternities,
the immensities deep within himself.
He who lingers where the wind has its moorings, so
to give the traveler respite from the wind.

While Time grants a truce, we must believe

in the eternity of the self.
106 Marie-Jos Viseur

Solitude

Solitude
lieu o loiseau ne libre
ni son chant
ni son vol
larbre dilapide ses feuilles
le temps miette les horizons

Entre les battants rabattus de labsence,

ltre amput de soi,
enferm dans sa prcarit,
a dsappris partage,
parole en ciboire
le lacis des langages
Solitude
loiseau en deuil de ses ailes

(Indit 99, February 1996)

******
Ne parle pas . . .

Ne parle pas
il y a dj tant de mots
emmitoufls dans le silence
tant de choses, alentour,
qui nous interpellent,
tant dinstants bourdonnants
en la ruche

Ne parle pas . . .
il sera temps de le dire,
ce bonheur,
quand il aura gliss dans la lgende

(Indit 117, December 1997, later included in Nulle part amarre)

 Marie-Jos Viseur 107

Solitude

Solitude
a place where the bird releases
neither song
nor flight
where the tree squanders its leaves
and time crumbles our horizons

Behind the closed doors of absence,

severed from the self,
locked in our fragility,
we un-learn the sharing,
the chalice of words
the weaving of languages

Solitude
a bird mourning for its wings

******
Dont speak . . .

Dont speak
there are so many words already
bundled up in silence
so many things around,
calling us,
so many moments humming
inside the hive

Dont speak
there will be a time for telling
this happiness
after it slides into legend
108 Marie-Jos Viseur

Il faut si peu . . .

Il faut si peu pour aider sourire

un arbre constell doiseaux
le soleil fracassant la vitre
un ciel si bleu quil blanchit les nuages
les premires jonquilles balbutiant le printemps
dans le pr du voisin, le poulain, la pouliche
jouant saimer damour tendre,
ce visage denfant quon prendrait pour un ange,
un regard qui se cherche dans un autre regard

il faut si peu pour aider survivre.

******

Ne meurt-on pas un peu . . .

Ne meurt-on pas un peu

chaque jour?
cette moindre joie
dallumer le soleil,
attiser un dsir,
lisser une motion
en amont, en aval,
au secret de sa source?
Ne meurt-on pas un peu
cette moindre envie
de purifier une aube,
dsincruster lcorce,
peindre les crpuscules,
chevaucher des fantasmes?
Ne meurt-on pas un peu
se dire
que le doute et la foi
nont plus grande importance?

(Nulle part amarre)

 Marie-Jos Viseur 109

It takes very little. . . .

It takes very little to help bring out a smile

a constellation of birds on a tree
sun crashing through the window pane
a sky so blue it whitens the clouds
the first jonquils in a murmur of spring
in a nearby meadow, filly and foal playing
a game of tender love,
a childs face like an angels
a gaze seeking the mirror of another gaze

it takes very little to help one survive.

******

Dont we die a little . . .

Dont we die a little

each day?
when our joy becomes less
at lighting up the sun,
at kindling a desire,
at smoothing out emotions
upstream, downstream,
to their most secret spring?
Dont we die a little
when our eagerness fades
at celebrating dawn,
at scaling off treebark,
at painting twilights,
and riding fantasies?
Dont we die a little
when we tell ourselves
doubting and believing
have lost their importance?

Lucienne Desnoues
(1921)

Lucienne Desnoues was born in Saint-Gratien, a small community in the

French department of Val-dOise, north of Paris. Not far from her birth-
place, Roissy-en-France is today the site of the Charles de Gaulle interna-
tional airport.
When she recounts her childhood memories, Lucienne Desnoues likes
to evoke the metamorphosis of the former village of Roissy, with its quaint
church, its birds and farm animals, its golden fields. Today, Roissys birds
are of the supersonic kind, the wheatfields have hardened into an im-
placable layer of tarmac, and pagan gods seem to reign over what used
to be a quiet country parish. In her foreword to Anthologie personnelle,
Desnoues asks: What has become of angels in the skies of this new
Roissy?
Although she comes from a rural background and claims a family of
artisans and farmers, Lucienne Desnoues also lived in Paris and worked
as a legal secretary until her marriage to Belgian poet and playwright
Jean Mogin in 1947. Belgium welcomed me warmly, states Desnoues,
and continues to do so. Jean Mogin was the son of another renowned
Belgian poet, Georges Mogin, who chose to sign his works under the
pseudonym Norge.
Lucienne Desnoues has two daughters and four grandchildren, and
after Jean Mogins death in 1986, she moved back to France and now
lives in a village in Haute Provence. She continues to write poetry and
short stories, and some of her poems have been set to music. Desnoues
has also appeared in televised programs in France and Belgium. She has
earned literary prizes in both countries, and her books have been pref-
aced by prominent writers.
112 Lucienne Desnoues

In reminiscing about her past, Lucienne Desnoues wondered what be-

came of angels, but she also added: And where is Pegasus? thus allud-
ing to todays poetry caught in the tarmac of the intellect. By contrast,
Desnoues decided to continue writing poetry with a goose quill in or-
der to meet, nourish and enchant peoples souls. She compares herself
to the old Roissy church: Against abstractions, excesses and unpredict-
able whims of the times, I will remain firmly attached to my foundations
and framework. To those who would judge her old-fashioned, she retorts
that disregarding trends and imperatives is her way of being modern, of
moving with the times.
Colette, one of Frances most renowned twentieth-century writers, cor-
responded with Lucienne Desnoues, whom she addressed as a great
poet, while Alain Bosquet describes Desnoues as a radiant poet . . .who
can touch upon the tragic without dissolving into despair. Critic Pascale
Haubruge sees in Desnoues a woman of wonders whose poetry is as
discreet and as necessary as air itself.
Perhaps it is Belgian poet Marcel Thiry who, in his preface to Les Ors,
best defines the essence of Lucienne Desnouess writings: It is love,
says Thiry, love that is being transferred to all her surroundings. Ac-
cording to Thiry, Desnouess world glows with the reflections of this love:
humble tasks, the Lares Spirits, ancestors, . . . , the small divinities of
holidays, markets, meals . . . Less frequently, but with great, albeit dis-
creet, fervor, Lucienne Desnoues expresses her amorous love, as in the
delightful Husband and Wife, or, more nostalgically, in poems dedicated
to the memory of her husband.
Lucienne Desnoues is one of the relatively few writers who, through
her background, her family ties and her life experiences, can truly claim to
belong to the twin cultures of France and Francophone Belgium.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Jardin dlivr. Paris: Raisons dtre, 1947.
Les Racines. Paris: Raisons dtre, 1952.
La Frache. Paris: Gallimard, 1959.
Les Ors. Paris: Seghers, 1966.
La Plume doie. Bruxelles; Jacques Antoine, 1971.
 Lucienne Desnoues 113

Le Compotier. Paris: Editions Ouvrires, 1982.

Quatrains pour crier avec les hiboux. Cercy-la-Tour (France): Grard
Oberl, 1984.
LHerbier naf. Cercy-la-Tour: Grard Oberl, 1994.
Anthologie personnelle. Arles (France): Actes Sud, 1998.
Un obscur paradis. Cercy-la-Tour: Grard Oberl, 1998.

Short Stories
Toute la pomme de terre. Paris: Mercure de France, 1978.
LOrgue sauvage et autres contes de Nol. Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine,
1980.

Essay
Travail et mobile potiques, in Bulletin de lAcadmie Royale de
Langue et de Littrature franaises, Bruxelles, 1962.

Recordings
Mes amis, mes amours. (Music by Hlne Martin, sung by Hlne Mar-
tin.) Disques du Cavalier, 1968.
La Cerise de Montmorency.(Music by Isae Disenhaus, sung by Jeanine
Disenhaus.) Bruxelles: Disques Pavane, 1981.

Musical Adaption
Cantate Sylvestre. (Music by Henry Sauguet, based on La Frache), 1974.
114 Lucienne Desnoues

Crmonie du flan

Je prpare un dessert de fte. Cest lhiver

Et dans cette heure o lon me croirait seule
Mentoure un cnacle daeules.
Le temps couvert, le feu couvert
Eclairent la recette sur la table,
Exacte, et les ingrdients indiscutables.

La cuiller est de bois et le moule est de cuivre.

Je casse un premier oeuf dans le bol blanc.
Mon oeuvre se nommera flan.
Mes aeules, puis-je poursuivre?
Et sinclinant les dames ont souri
Qui vcurent sous les Franois, sous les Henri.

Les jaunes doeufs bats, le lait simplet rayonnent.

Le sucre est dun grain fort civilis.
La vanille des alizs
Reluit, subtile ngrillonne.
Je dose le chaud, le soupon de sel,
Dun doigt trs familier, dun coeur trs solennel.

Achvera ma tche, en grand secret, le four.

Puis je dmoulerai loeuvre qui tremble
Et nous ladmirerons ensemble,
Dames qui mescortez toujours,
Touchant dternel mes moindres minutes
Et qui sous les Le Nain, sous les Chardin vctes.

(Les Ors)
 Lucienne Desnoues 115

Ceremony of the Flan

Ill make a festive dessert on this winter day.

And while you may think I am here alone,
A dozen grandmothers are with me at home.
Skies are cloudy, the fire is bright
Casting its light on the table,
Recipe, ingredients, all indisputable.

The spoon is made of wood, the mold is of copper.

In a pure white bowl, the first egg I break;
Flan is the name of the delight I bake.
May I proceed now, grandmothers?
The ladies smile and bow gently,
For they lived under kings named Franois or Henri.

Cheerful yolks, genteel milk are all aglow;

Sugar is of a most civilized grain,
And with the vanilla, lustrous little negress,
In wafts an island breeze, subtle as a caress.
I add a hint of salt, adjust the heat;
Practiced is my hand, solemn my heartbeat.

Secretly the oven finishes the baking.

The masterpiece is ready to unmold;
It quivers, admired by the ladies of old
Who always escort me, bringing
Wisps of the Eternal to my minutes, a sign
That they lived in Le Nains or Chardins time.
116 Lucienne Desnoues

Les Devoirs

Lenfant qui fait ses devoirs

Aime la table concrte
O le lgume sapprte
Pour les soupires du soir.
Repoussant la cressonnette,
Le cerfeuil et le pois vert,
Aux secrets de lunivers
Son coude fait place nette.

Tous les feux des Temps convergent

Vers ce chantier si menu
Quclaire aussi loignon nu
Ou lopale de lasperge.
Archimde, Valry,
Quel beau plan datterrissage
Que ce coin de nappe sage
Ombrag de cleri!

Un thorme superbe
Extrait dinsondables nuits
Moins terriblement reluit
Sous le frais des fines-herbes.
Et si lenfant svertue,
Pris de frayeur, Pascal,
Un rconfort amical
Lui vient des bonnes laitues.

(Les Ors)
 Lucienne Desnoues 117

Homework

To do his homework, any child

Will claim the kitchen table best.
This is where vegetables rest
Until soup is prepared at night.
With his elbow pushing aside
Chervil, green peas and watercress,
He can clear a most perfect site
For unveiling cosmic secrets.

All the torches of Time converge

Toward this most humble workshop,
Also enlightened by shallots
Or opaline asparagus.
Archimedes and Valry,
What a fine place for your landing
On this table so inviting,
Softly shaded by celery!

A theorem of great impress,

Coming from the depths of darkness,
Appears much less formidable
When refreshed by vegetables!
If the answers nowhere in sight,
The child, seized with Pascalian fright,
Will receive comfort and solace
Nearby from kind-hearted lettuce.
118 Lucienne Desnoues

Les poux

En ces demeures dor, dacajou, de velours,

Lorsque nous nous rendons, habills jusqu lme,
de roides dners que les grands vins enflamment,
Le protocole nous spare, mon Amour.

Assise au lieu prcis quun bristol exigea,

Je te vois par-del des hectares de table,
De fleurs au coeur serr, de cristaux redoutables.
Mais dans lair une fine piste court dj.

Je te vois travers des parcs, des roseraies,

Des chasses, des cheptels, travers le Prou,
Mais dans lair comme au bois sous les automnes roux,
Une prcise piste en silence se fraie.

Cest un chemin priv terriblement sauvage.

Il chappera mme aux regards vigilants
De ces anges vtus de noir, gants de blanc,
Qui font glisser des cieux les mets et les breuvages.

Oui, voisin, vos propos sur lArt me passionnent.

Oui, je vous suis. Labstrait, oui, o nous mne-t-il?
Mais je quitte souvent vos raidillons subtils
Pour mon lger sentier de biche et de lionne.

(Les Ors, also in Anthologie personnelle)

 Lucienne Desnoues 119

Husband and Wife

To houses of velvet, gold, precious woods, sometimes

We go, elegantly dressed to our very souls.
We attend stiff dinners, ablaze with vintage wines,
But we are kept apart, my Love, by Protocol.

I sit exactly where my place card prescribes

And see you from afar, miles of tables away,
Beyond saddened bouquets and fearsome chandeliers.
Yet, in the air, slowly emerges a pathway.

I see you from afar, through parks and rose gardens,

Through hunting grounds, through herds, even beyond Peru.
Yet, in the air, as through a forest in autumn,
A trail silently forms, going from me to you.

It is a secret path, well hidden in the wild,

That is sure to escape the most vigilant gaze
Of these angels in formal black and gloves of white
Who serve heavenly viands and nectars with grace.

Yes, Sir, what you say about Art is sublime.

Yes, indeed. Abstraction? And they call it progress?
But often I escape from your rocky hillside,
To reach my smooth trail fit for doe and lioness.
120 Lucienne Desnoues

Hibou et permanence

Ce muezzin plumeux, de sa voix qui dfaille,

Recommande: Noubliez pas
Quautour du monde, tout instant, sans une faille,
On passe de vie trpas.

******

Lesprance

Vous, hiboux, tnbreux hiboux, ne voyez pas,

Bien que fils des forts, que les forts sont vertes.
Comptez-vous comme nous sur lclair du trpas
Pour faire du rel lentire dcouverte?

******

Les soleils et le hibou

Que redis-tu sur ce faible thme,

Fauve qui tout soleil est interdit?
Demandes-tu de connatre Midi,
Ou bien que lon taime, que lon taime?

(Quatrains pour crier avec les hiboux)

 Lucienne Desnoues 121

Owl and Permanence

The feathery muezzin, in his faltering voice,

Summons us, lest we forget,
That everywhere on earth, without fail, any time,
Life is resolved in Death.

******

Hope

You, owls, birds of darkness, you, owls, who cannot see

That forests are green, though youre sons of the forest,
Do you hope as we do that when Deaths lightning strikes
You will then discover the true Reality?

******

Suns and the Owl

What is it you repeat in monotone,

Wild bird forbidden to see the sunshine:
Do you beg to know Middays light,
Or just to be loved, to be loved?
122 Lucienne Desnoues

La canne jalouse

Jrme tait encore vert

Bien quil se soutnt dune canne.
Que lon sen merveille ou que lon en ricane,
Il allait fort souvent voir la feuille lenvers
Tant avec Jeanne quavec Anne.

Un jour quaux bras dAnne ou Francine,

sous la fougre il foltrait,
Ayant plant sa canne au seuil de la fort,
Il loublia. Et la voil qui senracine
Et se vt de feuillage frais.

Lorsquon est en bois darbre, Dieu,

Faire le poireau humilie.
Et puis, jalouse de Francine, ou dEmilie,
A son matre, la canne exprimait un adieu
De manire, avouez, jolie!

Lasse des passions humaines,

Elle retourne au vgtal,
Redevient bnier, buis, cytise ou santal.
Et plus vert que jamais, Jrme se promne
Avec Emilie ou Chantal,

Ou Mlisande, ou Climne . . .

Indit (Unpublished)
 Lucienne Desnoues 123

A Jealous Cane

Jerome was quite fit for his years,

Although he would lean on a cane.
Whether he was a cause for wonderment or jeers,
He much enjoyed watching the underside of leaves
Sometimes with Ann, sometimes with Jane.

One day, when in a shady lane,

He frolicked with Ann or Francine,
After planting his cane at the edge of the woods,
He left it there. Lo and behold, the cane took root
And soon was dressed in boughs of green.

When youre born of tree wood, dear God,

Sticking around is a disgrace.
And now, jealous of Ann, of Emily or Grace,
The cane can bid adieu at last to its master
In a way, Id say, quite proper.

Weary of all human passions,

It returns to vegetal state,
Revives as sandalwood, lime, oak or ebony,
While, greener than ever, Jerome still promenades
with Chantal or with Emily,

Or Melisande or Melanie . . .

Ccile Miguel
(1921)

Gilly, in the province of Hainaut, is Ccile Miguels birthplace. Since her

father owned a printing company, as the author says, from early child-
hood she was steeped in words, surrounded by books and brochures. As
a result, she soon became an insatiable reader.
After her graduation from the lyce, she began working for her father,
correcting galley proofs. In 1945 she married poet Andr Miguel and the
couple moved to southern France, where they would reside for nearly
twenty years. Ccile began to paint and draw, and in 1949 her art was
exhibited for the first time in Lucerne, Switzerland, along with works by
Picasso and Miro. In France, the Miguels made friends with a number of
artists and writers who encouraged Ccile in her artistic endeavors. Poet
Jacques Prvert pays homage to her painting in Soleil de mars (March
Sun), a poem that portrays the Provence landscape falling in love with
painter Ccile Miguel, who was born in March. (This poem appears in
Prverts La Pluie et le beau temps published by Gallimard Editions in
1955.)
In the 70s, while she continued drawing and painting, she began writ-
ing in collaboration with her husband Andr. Together they would create
many poems and plays as well as a novel. Ccile later published twelve
books of her own, between 1985 and 1997. Most of her work includes
prose poems of an oneiric nature. Some of her texts (Au creux des
apparences, or Hlices dinstants among others) consist of pomes
graphis, or graphed poems, an innovative form, an example of which
can be seen in the following pages. In other books she includes what she
calls graphic compositions. These are somewhat different from the
graphed poems, yet they also involve unusual aesthetic configurations of
words and sentences. Even in some of the texts that may be considered
126 Ccile Miguel

free verse poems per se, the page layout and typography frequently form
patterns that replace conventional punctuation, creating their own subtle
connotations.
Ccile Miguels poetry can be classified as surrealist, or, as poet Jacques-
Grard Linze suggests, a gentle fire passing from dadaism to surrealism.
Her poetry is almost always related to dreams. Critic Jean-Luc Wauthier
writes: Did she really have these dreams? It does not matter. The main
point is that they exist so that we, the readers, can explore and appropri-
ate them as we would, for instance, the paintings of Yves Tanguy.
At the present time, Ccile and Andr Miguel live in the small town of
Ligny in their native province of Hainaut. She continues to paint, draw
and make collages composed of colored paper, words and pictures, which
are exhibited in France and in Belgium, while she now concentrates more
and more on writing, constantly exploring new forms and renewing her
creativity.
Jean Rousselot, among other poets and editors, sees a close relation-
ship between Ccile Miguels pictural productions and her poems. He
observes that her very visual dreams are not only conditioned by psy-
chological factors, but also are the expression of her ontological, meta-
physical and artistic questioning.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Caravelles du sommeil. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles, 1985.
Au cheval fou. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1987.
Du ct de lombre mditante. Gilly: Cap Horn, 1989.
Au creux des apparences. Chtelineau (Belgium): Le Taillis Pr, 1989.
Facis-Escargot franchissant les monts du sommeil. Gilly: Cap Horn,
1990.
Au royaume dombre. Paris: La Bruyre, 1990.
La Nuit des questions. Paris: La Bruyre, 1990.
LUnivers sengouffre. Gilly: Cap Horn, 1992.
Hlices dinstants.Alenon (France): Gravos Press, 1992.
Le livre des dambulations. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1993.
 Ccile Miguel 127

Dans la maison de Hlderlin. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1995.

Papyrus, jardin de mots. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1997.

******

In collaboration with Andr Miguel

(A selection)

Poetry
Loeil dans la bouche. Paris: Laffont, 1978.
Dans lautre scne. Chtelineau: Le Taillis Pr, 1984.
Ore. Mortemart (France): Rougerie, 1988.

Novel
Le Ver de lenfer. Bruxelles: Le Cri, 1982.

Plays
Thtre. (8 plays). Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1984.
128 Ccile Miguel

22 mars

Nous sommes vtues de manire identique. Pantalon de velours, pull

blanc. Je lui tiens le coude pour la guider. Comme elle me prcde, on
croirait que cest elle qui me guide. Les yeux derrire des verres sombres,
mince, fragile, elle monte le sentier escarp, les regards constamment
tourns vers le ciel quelle semble scruter. droite, me dit-elle, il y a
deux sommets pas trs hauts, une agrable valle. Tout au fond, je croyais
voir des maisons, un village, mais non, ce ne sont que des coquilles vides.
gauche, deux sommets beaucoup plus hauts. Entre eux, un gouffre
norme, sombre. Cest l, je le sais, que, le soir, se couche le soleil. En
me parlant, elle tient toujours les yeux tourns vers le ciel. Avant, quand
je passais ici, il y avait toujours un grand doigt qui me montrait lune ou
lautre direction que je devais prendre, tandis que depuis que je vois par
lintrieur de ma tte, tout est devenu si beau, si rel, plus vrai! Elle se
lance sur la pente du gouffre quelle dvale et me crie: Le coeur du soleil!
Le coeur du soleil!

******

3 avril

Nuit obscure. Cependant je mavance sous les palmiers du Japon. Des

froissements, des craquements, des battements dailes, quelques cris
doiseaux et soudain un prodigieux remue-mnage. Les branches plient,
les masses feuillues sagitent, plus sombres, plus noires mme que le noir.
Sont-elles habites par de grands oiseaux? Jentends aussi des pas. On
marche prs de moi. Une silhouette transparente se dessine dans le noir.
Une main lgre sest pose sur mon paule. Ecoute la voix de la nuit,
ai-je entendu, chuchot tout prs de mon oreille comme si ctait la main
qui avait parl.

(Facis-Escargot franchissant les monts du sommeil)

 Ccile Miguel 129

March 22

We are dressed exactly alike. Velvet trousers, a white pullover. I hold her
elbow so as to guide her, but since she walks ahead of me, it seems she is
the guide. Thin and frail, with her eyes behind dark lenses, she goes up
the steep path, constantly looking up towards the sky as if to scrutinize it.
To the right, she says, there are two peaks, not very high, and a pleas-
ant valley. Way in the distance I thought I could see houses, a village, but
no...they are only empty shells. To the left, two much higher peaks and
between them an enormous, dark chasm. That is where the sun goes to
rest at night, Im sure of it. As she speaks, she continues to look towards
the sky. Before, each time I passed through here, there used to be a large
finger pointing to the direction I should go, but now since I can see only
whats inside my head, everything has become so beautiful and so real, so
very true! She rushes towards the chasm, races down the slope and cries
out to me: The heart of the sun! The heart of the sun!

******

April 3

A dark night. Yet I move forward under the Japanese palm trees. Some
rustling and crackling sounds, the flutter of wings, a few bird cries, and
suddenly a tremendous commotion. Branches bend, leafy masses are
tossed about, more somber, more black even than black. Do large birds
nest here? I also hear footsteps. Someone is walking by my side. A trans-
parent silhouette emerges from the darkness. Lightly, a hand presses on
my shoulder. Listen to the nights voice. I heard these words whispered
very close to my ear, as though the hand itself had spoken.
130 Ccile Miguel

5 novembre

Elle est debout derrire la longue table, les mains poses sur un coffret.
Comme les trois personnes qui me prcdent, je me penche vers elle et
lui dis: Il sagit dun mdaillon rond en ivoire, cercl et dcor de fils dor
en arabesque. Je me dirige ensuite vers le piano blanc, stri de sillons
noirs, tapote sur quelques touches, puis mattarde regarder les affreuses
potiches. Intrusion bruyante dune quinzaine de femmes, dhommes,
denfants bavards, rieurs. Chevelures et yeux sombres. Ils sont rests en
groupe serr prs de la porte dentre. Nos anctres arabes sont tous l,
chargs de leurs bagages main, me dit A. Grands et petits nont quun
parapluie noir, rouge ou or la main. Je mtonne: Bagages? Des
parapluies? Elle a raison, il faut tre prcis, dit soudain en franais
correct le vtran qui se trouve tout coup ct de nous. Un parapluie,
cest un panache, un ornement de voyage, un vestige de grandeur! Il
sort du sien un sac entrouvert quil me tend. Jy vois de petits coussinets
de plantes sches de ton ambr. Souverain contre les douleurs. Je me
suis souvenu que tu souffres sans cesse, ceci est un secret de ma fabrica-
tion. Il a repris place parmi les autres quil domine dune tte. Eux, prs
de lentre, nous deux, lautre extrmit de la pice, silencieusement,
amicalement, nous nous regardons.
(Facis-Escargot franchissant les monts du sommeil)
 Ccile Miguel 131

November 5

She stands behind the long table, her hands resting on a small chest. Just
like the three people preceding me, I lean towards her and say: Its about
a round ivory medallion, framed and trimmed with gold arabesques.
Then I walk up to a white piano streaked with black ridges, thump out a
little tune, then dawdle about, looking at some hideous crockery vessels.
Suddenly about fifteen women, men and children come barging in noisily,
all chatting and laughing. Their hair and eyes are dark. They gather in a
cluster near the entrance door. Our Arab ancestors are all here, carrying
their hand luggage, says A. Adults and children alike have nothing in
their hands but an umbrella, black, red or golden. I am surprised: Their
luggage? Just umbrellas? She is right, we must make it more clear,
suddenly says in perfect French the old man who just appeared next to us.
The umbrella is for panache, a travel ornament, a vestige of former
grandeur! From his own umbrella he pulls out a half-open bag and hands
it to me. Inside I see small pillows of dried plants, the color of amber. A
sure remedy for pain. I remembered that you are in constant pain. This is
a secret cure I invented. He then goes back to the others and stands out,
taller by a head. And they, near the entrance, and we two, across the
room, silently, but in a friendly way, stare at one another.
132 Ccile Miguel

Loeil sonde

..........................................
le centre du jardin sest largi
pnombre et lumire
alternent en successives vagues
vol plan dun faucon
il voile par instants le soleil
il ny a pas de vent
nous observons les gracieuses volutions ondulatoires
de minces bandelettes de papiers colors

serpentins pomes
calligraphie dazur
arc-en-ciel danse noire
cerf-volant des pupilles
les yeux quand
de la sous la langue
pluie un E
pleurent tremble
filaments
dcoupures
espace territoire
loeil
sonde

(Le Livre des dambulations, excerpt)

 Ccile Miguel 133

The Eye Explores

..........................................
the gardens center is now enlarged
semi-darkness and light
alternate in successive waves
a falcon hovers above
at times hiding the sun
there is no wind
we watch the graceful gyrations
of small strips of colored paper

serpentine poems
calligraphy of blue
rainbow black dance
kite of the pupils
the eyes when
of the under ones tongue
rain an E
cry trembles
filaments
cutouts
space territory
the eye
explores
134 Ccile Miguel

Lunique meuble...

Lunique meuble, une haute commode en bois fruitier, bien cir contraste
singulirement avec la dsolante vtust de cette maison en ruine, ouverte
tous les vents. Le tiroir suprieur, de moindre importance que les quatre
autres, est vide. Le deuxime, coinc de biais, rsiste. Vides et sentant la
naphtaline, le troisime et le quatrime. Le fond du dernier est garni de
papier-peint finement ray rouge-jaune-vert. Aprs bien des tentatives, le
deuxime tiroir cde et glisse par -coups. Une poupe tte de porcelaine
y dort sur des rognures de papiers colors. Elle sourit batement. Sa
paupire gauche nest ferme qu demi. Robe en satin brillant rouge
sang petit col de dentelle crme. Sa jambe droite, dbote au genou,
plus longue que lautre, a perdu sa chaussette blanche et son soulier noir,
bride boutonne. Une lgante aumnire en velours pourpre enferme
une bible tranche dore, relie en peau, grave aux initiales M.W. Dune
belle criture nerveuse, sur la page de garde: Heureux anniversaire ma
fiance chrie. le 1er juin 1913.

******
Paysage assoupi...

Paysage assoupi, estomp dans une brume surgie dun mystrieux puits
nocturne. Collines, rochers, vgtation en lthargie rvent, peut-tre en
commun, quils lvitent dans un grand oeuf, au centre du cosmos. De
temps en temps, seul, un ail, hsitant, pointille cette mousse vaporeuse.
Les prs seront-ils encore verts?

(Dans la maison de Hlderlin)

 Ccile Miguel 135

The only piece of furniture...

The only piece of furniture is a well-polished fruitwood highboy, in sharp

contrast with the sorry state of the house now in ruins and open to the
four winds. The upper drawer, smaller than the other four, is empty. The
second, jammed at an angle, cannot be pulled out. The third and fourth
drawers are empty and smell of mothballs. The last one is lined with
wallpaper finely striped in red, yellow and green. After many attempts,
the second drawer gives and slides out jerkily. On a layer of colorful paper
scraps a doll lies sleeping. Her porcelain face bears a blissful smile, and
her left eyelid is only partially closed. She is wearing a blood-red dress of
shiny satin with an off-white lace collar. Her right leg, disjointed at the
knee, is longer than the other, and missing are one white sock and one
black button shoe. Next to the doll, an elegant pouch of crimson velvet
contains a gilt-edged Bible, bound in leather and inscribed with the initials
M.W. On the flyleaf, in fine and spirited handwriting: Happy birthday to
my darling fiancee. June 1, 1913.

******

A sleepy landscape...

A sleepy landscape, blurred by the mist emerging from some mysterious

nocturnal well. Hills, rocks, lethargic plants join, perhaps, in a dream
where they levitate inside a large egg in the center of the cosmos. From
time to time, a lone winged creature hesitatingly speckles this vaporous
foam. Will the meadows ever again be green?
136 Ccile Miguel

Pome graphi
A graphed poem by Ccile Miguel
(Published in the review LEnjeu des Signes)
 Ccile Miguel 137

Composition graphique
A graphic composition by Ccile Miguel
(Dans la maison de Hlderlin)
138 Ccile Miguel

Espadrilles dinsolence

Assis sur le rebord de la margelle du puits, la chevelure en bataille, gavroche,

rieur, il chante: Ce matin, le ciel, chauss despadrilles dinsolence, narguait
la mer qui clopinait, reculons, sur bquilles. Soudain, vieilli, grave,
songeur: Mystre et secret dun visage, lorsque les pleurs succdent au
rire, a-t-il larmoy, en sloignant, tte basse, dos vot.

*****

Comptines enchantes

Elle entend: la ptite boutique, on vend du kali-baba, et de la saucisse

. . . Elle entend, lentement rythm: Jentre dedans, je sors dehors. . .
Et aussi: lordinaire, sans bouger, sans rire, sans parler . . . Ensuite,
allgrement: Mon ptit prince, ce nest pas toi que jaime . . . Ou: Les
araignes sortent le dimanche . . . Elle entend, naf: Jai trois amies au
bois; elles sont belles toutes les trois . . . Et, scand: Amstram gram pic
et pic et colgram . . ., psalmodi: En revenant du trs grand bois, jai
rencontr mon grand-papa . . . Lointains chos. Comptines du souvenir.
Voix fraches, aux timbres clairs, ingnus. Irne, Rene, Gilberte, Claire,
Augusta, Edith, Marguerite, Victoria. Vos cris, jeux de cache-cache, colin-
maillard, sauts la corde, rondes, palets et vos rires, vos sautes dhumeur.
Rsurgentes images dannes dinsouciance heureuse. Je vous imagine,
fillettes-fes, agenant un jardin langlaise, color, mystrieux. Disposant
au gr de votre fantaisie plantes rares, arbustes, conifres, merveilleuses
fleurs profusion. Jardin mouvant, sonore, prcieux mirage, dcor.
Hommage lenfance vivace, vivante. Et je vous entends encore: . . . il
me disait toujours comme a: Atchoum atchoum atchoum la la . . .

(Papyrus, jardin de mots)

 Ccile Miguel 139

Impertinent Espadrilles

Sitting on the wells curb, his hair all disheveled, the little rascal laughs
and sings: This morning, the sky put on its impertinent espadrilles and
made fun of the sea limping backwards on crutches. Suddenly he is old,
grave and pensive. How secret and mysterious is ones face, he whim-
pers, when tears follow laughter. He walks away, stooped, his eyes to
the ground.

******

Counting Rhymes Magic

She hears: In this tiny little shop they sell kali-baba, and they sell lolli-
pops . . . Then she hears in slow rhythm: I go inside, I come outside
. . . and No, no, no, as usual, no moving, no laughing, no talking . . .
Next, in allegro: My sweet prince, youre not the one I love . . . Or else:
Spiders, spiders, coming out on Sunday morning . . . Now, a nave
tune: I have three friends in the forest. Tell me who is the prettiest . . ..
Then, in staccato: Am stram gram, picky picky colly gram . . ., or
psalmodizing: As I came back from the great big woods, I ran into Mr.
Puss-in-Boots . . . Echoes from long ago; a remembrance of counting
rhymes. Young voices so clear and true: Irene, Renee, Gilda, Claire, Au-
gusta, Edith, Marguerite, Victoria. Your joyous cries, games of hide-and-
seek and blind mans buff, jumping rope, ring round the rosie, hopscotch,
laughter, ups and downs...Resurgent images of years of carefree happi-
ness. I can imagine you, little girl-fairies, designing English style gardens
full of color and mystery. Selecting according to your fancy, rare plants,
bushes, evergreens, and a profusion of marvelous flowers. A garden full
of sounds and motions, a precious mirage, a decor. Homage to child-
hood, so lively, so much alive. And I can still hear your singsong: This is
nothing to sneeze at: kerchoo choo choo, and that is that . . .
140 Ccile Miguel

Au-del

Dtroites maisons, colles les unes aux autres, bordent un long ruban de
route. Le muse gallo-romain, vivement clair par le soleil, est perch en
haut de lescarpement, derrire les habitations. On y accde par des
marches tailles dans la roche. De la terrasse du muse, ils sont plusieurs
attendre que se dessinent dans larc-en-ciel les lettres composant un
mot, ouvrant la vie secrte de lau-del du langage. Les extrmits de
larc se rejoignent. Cercle charg de chiffres, il vire en spirale qui samenuise
jusqu ce que ne subsiste quun point lumineux. Comme un oiseau soli-
taire, inaccessible, mystrieux.

******

Fiction

Emballages, pluchures doignons, journaux froisss jonchent le sol de la

pice. Les portes des placards bent. Des toiles daraignes, poussireuses,
accumules, poissent le tout. O trouver du lait pour le chaton blanc et
blond poils longs, trs gracieux, qui ronronne au creux de son bras?
Tout ce quelle touche, sur les tagres ou dans les armoires, est enrob
de toiles daraignes collantes, en couches lastiques, filantes, qui adhrent
aux doigts. Comment parviendrai-je nourrir ce chat? se dsole-t-elle.
Mais le petit chat est fictif, comme vous, voyons. Cest la voix froide,
mtallique, implacable dun long robot, pas plus pais quune feuille de
papier qui, maniant adroitement le tuyau dun appareil nettoyeur, fait
chambre nette en un clin doeil. Il braque le tuyau vers elle. Impossible de
fuir. Va-t-elle tre aspire, elle aussi?

(Papyrus, jardin de mots)

 Ccile Miguel 141

Beyond

Narrow houses, huddled together, line a long stretch of road. The Gallo-
Roman Museum, under a bright sun, perches atop a hill, behind the houses.
Steps carved in the rock lead up to it. On the Museums terrace a group of
people are watching letters form in the rainbow, waiting for the word that
will reveal the secret life beyond language. The ends of the rainbow join.
It becomes a circle covered with numerals revolving in spirals that grow
smaller and smaller until only one point of light remains. Like a solitary
bird, inacessible, mysterious.

******

Fiction

Empty cartons, onion peels, crumpled newspapers are strewn over the
floor. Cupboard doors are wide open. Everything is sticky with cobwebs
and accumulated dust. In her arms, purring, is a graceful long-haired white
and beige kitten. Where will she find milk for her? Everything she touches
on shelves or in the cabinets is covered with cobwebs, layers of elastic
threads that stretch and cling to her fingers like glue. How can I ever
manage to feed this cat? she complains. Oh, come now, this kitten is
fictitious like you! This implacable metallic voice comes from a lanky
robot, as thin as a sheet of paper. He deftly manipulates a vacuum cleaner
and, quick as a wink, he leaves the room spotless. Now he aims the
suction hose at her. Getting away will be impossible. Will she be sucked
in, too?

Claire Lejeune
(1926)

Claire Lejeune has led an extraordinary life. Until the age of thirty-three,
as she says, she seemed destined to spend her days as an obscure provin-
cial housewife. However, today, she enjoys international acclaim as an
intellectual writer and poet. She is the administrative secretary of the
Interdisciplinary Center for Philosophical Studies at the University of Mons-
Hainaut, a member of the Acadmie Royale de Langue et de Littrature
franaises, and the author of many books in which she consciously weaves
together philosophy and poetry.
Born in Havr, near Mons, she was the oldest of four daughters; her
father was a traveling salesman and her mother a housewife. Because her
mothers health required extensive hospitalization, Claires studies in a
commercial program at a lyce in Mons were interrupted. When she was
sixteen, she left school to care for her younger sisters and manage the
household. Her mothers death a few years later would haunt her through-
out her early adult life.
The author married in 1948 and became the mother of four children,
one of whom died in infancy. In order to continue her education, she
attended night classes and soon began teaching typing and shorthand in
a secondary school. Meanwhile, she secretly wrote poems that were to
remain unpublished.
In January 1960, Lejeune experienced what she recounts in her writ-
ing as a revelation, as compelling as a mystical call although unrelated
to religion. In Le Livre de la soeur she explains this epiphany as an
enlarging of the psyche: The I that writes itself, does not come from my
father or from my mother. It conceived itself on January 9, 1960 at 11:00
a.m. It came from a short-circuit between my life and Life.
144 Claire Lejeune

The experience of 1960 was to change Lejeunes life. A true autodidact,

she read avidly and educated herself more completely than she could have
done in a formal setting. As a result of her interdisciplinary interests, she
founded in Geneva, Switzerland, two scholarly journals that soon acquired
international recognition and are still in existence today. At the university
of Mons, she was instrumental in establishing an interdisciplinary center
for philosophical studies. Her leadership has also been responsible for the
organization of many colloquia in different European countries.
Another turning point in Lejeunes career occurred in 1975 after she
participated in a conference on La Femme et lEcriture (Woman and
Writing) in Qubec. This was to be the first of many visits with Qubcois
writers. Lejeune recalls that, as a result of this meeting, her personality
evolved from a solitary state to a state of solidarity. From these expe-
riences, she adds, was born my first poetic essay, LAtelier (The Work-
shop). Poetic essay is the term Lejeune favors in describing her prose
works, which indeed proceed from both genres, just as her formal poems
are traversed by strong philosophical currents. Following the Qubec
meetings, the primary focus of Lejeunes own work has been to promote
writing by women. Asked about her position on feminism, Lejeune denies
being an activist, but concedes that her writings support womens struggle
to get out of the patriarchal ghetto.
In the broadest sense, Lejeunes entire literary production may be con-
sidered autobiographical. Because her books published after 1972 belong
to the category of poetic essay, our selections are drawn from the col-
lections of poetry per se. The conciseness of Lejeunes early style has
been described as aphoristic. Moreover, it is rich in oxymorons, a rhetori-
cal figure that illustrates the authors sense of the union of opposites, or
what she calls the dynamics of analogy. Thus, it is not surprising that
spiritual androgyny is an important tenet of her philosophy.
A final subject of meditation for Lejeune is the theme of death, treated
with multiple connotations. In her texts, physical death often evokes the
loss of her mother; spiritual death represents an appeal to those enclosed
in a life of servitude and self-sacrifice; finally, in the Jungian sense, death
of the former self announces a psychic rebirth and renewal. As Belgian
writer Marc Quaghebeur observes: Poetry is what allowed the author to
re-engender herself. Indeed, at the end of Mmoire de rien, Lejeune
herself writes: I was expelled from this book on the morning of June 30,
1972. And in the last pages of Le Livre de la soeur, she continues:
While I was giving birth to this book, the book gave birth to a new
woman . . .
 Claire Lejeune 145

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
La Gangue et le Feu. Bruxelles: Phantomas, 1963.
Le Pourpre. Bruxelles; Le Cormier, 1966.
La Geste. Paris: Jos Corti, 1966.
Le Dernier Testament. Lausanne (Switzerland): Rencontres, 1969.
Elle. Bruxelles; Le Cormier, 1969.
Mmoire de rien. Bruxelles; Le Cormier, 1972.
Mmoire de rien (and other excerpts from all of the above). Bruxelles;
Labor, 1994.

Essays
LAtelier. Bruxelles: Le Cormier, 1979; Montral: LHexagone, 1992.
LOeil de la lettre. Bruxelles; Le Cormier, 1984.
Age potique, ge politique. Montral: LHexagone, 1987.
Le Livre de la soeur. Montral: LHexagone, 1992; co-edition with La-
bor (Bruxelles), 1993.
Le Livre de la mre. Avin/Hannut (Belgium): Luce Wilquin, 1998.

Play
Ariane et Don Juan ou Le Dsastre. Bruxelles: LAmbedui, 1997.

Journals
Cahiers Internationaux du Symbolisme. (Founded in Geneva in 1962).
Rseaux, Revue interdisciplinaire de philosophie morale et politique.
(Founded in Geneva in 1965).

Literary Prizes
Prix Canada-Communaut franaise de Belgique, 1984.
Prix Flix Denayer de lAcadmie Royale de Belgique, 1995.
Claire Lejeune has also authored articles in Belgium and abroad that are
too numerous to include in this selected bibliography.
146 Claire Lejeune

La mort, jen parle

La mort, jen parle

Comme je parlerais de pesetas ou de dollars,
Moi qui nai jamais mis le pied en Amrique,
Moi qui porte une Espagne vierge en mon sang
Comme un got de grenade clate,
Moi qui nai jamais mang de grenade . . .

Je parle de la mort
Comme je dcline mon nom;
Cest une trs vieille habitude,
Cest la mort, quand on en parle . . .

Mais il y a celle dont on ne parle pas

Parce quelle est nue et quon ne peut pas lhabiller.
La mort enfonce comme un poing dans loreiller
Et qui est le dernier visage de ma mre.

Et celle qui spanouit au dedans,

Maspire, mabsorbe, se nourrit de moi
Et qui est mon autre Vie.

La mort dont on ne parle pas.

(La Gangue et le Feu)

 Claire Lejeune 147

Death, I Speak of It

Death, I speak of it
Just as I would speak of dollars and pesetas
Though I have never set foot in America,
Though in my blood there flows a virgin Spain
Like the flavor of a ripe pomegranate,
Though I have never tasted pomegranate . . .

I speak of death
As I pronounce my name;
It is a very old habit,
It is deathly to speak of it . . .

Yet there is a kind that no one speaks of

Because it is naked and cannot be clothed.
Death sunk like a fist in a pillow:
The last look on my mothers face.

Then there is a kind that blossoms inside,

Breathes me in, absorbs me, feeds on me,
The kind that is my other Life.

The kind of death that no one speaks of.

148 Claire Lejeune

Je me btis . . .

Je me btis pour pouvoir me dtruire

ou linverse
au gr de mon humeur

le chne en moi
cest toi
le gui prospre
sucer un sang si gnreux

quand je prends mon grand air

je deviens druide
si je me regarde oprer
je pouffe

toujours un personnage
bourreau
victime
juge
avocat
tmoin
prtre

si je pouvais tre
tous la fois
je serais ce que je suis

chacun son tour

se campe
alors
je ne passe plus
je dure

Je ne sais comment on fait lhumour

quand lacteur bouffera lauteur et le spectateur
peut-tre ventr
le bouffon livrera-t-il mon rire

pour la tragdie
distinguer les personnages /. . .
 Claire Lejeune 149

I build myself . . .

I build myself in order to destroy myself

or the reverse
it depends on my mood

this oak tree in me

is you
the mistletoe thrives
as it sucks such bountiful blood

when I put on airs

I become a druid
and if I watch myself perform
I burst out laughing

forever playing a part

hangman
victim
judge
advocate
witness
priest

if I could be
all of them at once
then I would be what I am

when each in turn

acts his piece
then
I am no longer passing
I endure

I do not know how to make merry

when the actor ingests author and spectator
perhaps if he is ripped open
the jester will release my laughter

on the tragic stage

characters must be set apart /. . .
150 Claire Lejeune

/...
pour le rire
quils se confondent
quils se trompent
ainsi quils soient tous vrais
leur distinction ntant
que prtention de mon esprit

perdre la distinction

secourir lassassin
punir la victime
condamner le juge
dposer le tmoin

quon les soulage deux-mmes

ici lavocat devient inutile

le prtre aussi
on ne peut pas les convertir
quon les ligote dos dos
et quils se ptrifient
ce tournant de mon histoire

(Le Pourpre)
 Claire Lejeune 151

/...
on the comic stage
let them become one
let them make mistakes
then they will all be true
for their differences
exist only in my mind

all distinctions must be lost

the assassin succored

the victim punished
the judge condemned
the witness deposed

let them be delivered of themselves

here the advocate is not needed

neither is the priest
they cannot be converted
let them be tied back to back
let them be petrified
at this point in my story
152 Claire Lejeune

Etre dite

Etre dite
que la parole me prcde
mvide
se tire de moi
que je marc-boute contre elle
souveraine
et que je lui rsiste
quelle me disperse
que je sois la pulpe des mots
le pouls du langage

mengager dans la rose

me perdre dans lirrigation du ptale

tout habiter
que soit dit le tnu
le frle
et quau-del la mer memporte

(Le Pourpre)
 Claire Lejeune 153

Let Me Be Spoken

Let me be spoken
let the Word usher me in
empty me
be pulled out of me
let me brace myself against
its sovereignty
and grapple with it
let it scatter me
let me become the pulp of speech
the pulse of language

let me find my way into the rose

and lose myself like dew on a petal

le me dwell in all things

let minuteness be told
and frailty
and let me be swept away by the tide
154 Claire Lejeune

Scories

Avant midi la mort nous poursuit; aprs midi elle nous accompagne.
La haine cest la soif daimer.
Pass et futur, les grandes ailes de la peur, nos gants alibis.

Crer cest lever le nant sa propre puissance.

Laffirmation est une ngation terme.
Coupable dinnocence.

(La Geste)
******

Je quitte le deuil

Je quitte le deuil. Jen ai fini de me pleurer. Je ntais rien que le signe

de qui je suis.
Si javais eu la vocation de crature, jaurais appel Dieu ce sens profond
de moi, je me serais perdue en lui, jaurais t ravie de me soumettre lui,
de trouver en lui ma raison de mourir . . . tant voue crer, cette raison
de mourir, en moi sest change en raison de vivre.

Je me souviens dune effroyable lutte. Puis dun silence infini qui fut
trou par mon propre vagissement.
Alors il ny eut plus autour de moi la puissance du pre, ni comme
oppresseur, ni comme protecteur, mais au centre de moi la probabilit du
verbe.
Dans une pense unique javais compris le pre et conu le fils.

Ce moi qui jusque l avait t couvert par une puissance extrieure,

brusquement se dcouvrait et devenait responsable dune puissance
intrieure soi.

Les tnbres ntaient plus en moi mais autour de moi qui devenait
pleine de sens.

Je portais la libert. Jtais dsormais responsable delle.

(La Geste, excerpts)

 Claire Lejeune 155

Scoria

Before noon death is behind us in hot pursuit. After noon death walks
by our side.
What is hatred, but a thirst for love?

Past and future, wide wings of fear, our gigantic alibis.

To create is to elevate nothingness to its own power.
The affirmative is the negative on the installment plan.

Guilty of being innocent . . .

******

In Mourning No More

In mourning no more. I have ceased crying over myself. I used to be

nothing but the sign of who I truly am.
If my vocation were to be a creature, this deep meaning of the self, I
would call it God, and I would lose myself in him, delighted to submit to
him, to find in him my reason for dying . . . But since my destiny is to
create, this reason for dying has become for me a reason for living.
I remember a frightful struggle. Then infinite silence finally broken by
my own wailing.
Then around me the fathers rule was no more, either as an oppressor
or as a protector. In the center of my being, only the potentiality of the
Word.
In one single thought I had understood the father and conceived the
son.

My self that until then had been subjected to an outside power, sud-
denly discovered itself and became responsible for its own inner power.
No longer was darkness within me, but around me as I became full of
meaning.
I was carrying freedom. From then on it would be my responsibility.
156 Claire Lejeune

Au commencement est la faim

Au commencement est la faim,

blanche.

tre cest pouvoir demander.

Prire cure de toute sa haine de la charit,
lave de tout soupon, acquitte de sa honte.

Prire lgitime.
Je suis l, ne de toi, malgr tout.

Donne-moi du pain!
Non, donne-moi nimporte quoi cest de ton geste,
cest du don que jai besoin dabord.
Nimporte quoi, pourvu que tu donnes!

Si le corps existe malgr tout, il ne peut vivre de son encre.

Je ne sais pas encore de quoi jai besoin en premier pour vivre.

Dair et deau sucre et sale, ou les deux la fois.

Baptise-moi de ton souffle, de ta salive.

De la coupe de nos mains celle de nos bouches: tout le possible envisag.

Le baiser, cest la chance irise, la prire exauce.

Vivre serait sengager dans le baiser sans fond, le baiser continu dont on
ne revient jamais.

Cest dans lpuisement que nous avons lieu.

(Le Dernier Testament)

 Claire Lejeune 157

In the Beginning There Is Hunger

In the beginning there is hunger,

all white.

To be is to be able to ask.
A prayer cleansed of all its hatred for charity,
washed of all suspicion, acquitted of its shame.

A legitimate prayer.
There I am, born from you after all.

Give me some bread!

No, give me anything at all: it is your gesture,
your gift I need first.
Anything at all, as long as you give!

All the same if the body exists, it cannot live by ink alone.

I do not yet know what I need first and foremost in order to live.
Air and sugar water, or salt water, or both at once.

Baptize me with your breath, your saliva.

From the cup of our hands to the cup of our mouths:

every possibility is envisioned.

A kiss is luck iridescent, a prayer answered.

To live would be to engage in a bottomless kiss,

a continuous kiss from which there is no return.

Only in doing our utmost do we exist.

158 Claire Lejeune

De la Provence lArdenne: de la tuile lardoise . . .

Le voyage nest pas la distance parcourue entre un point de dpart et

un point darrive. Cest la mise en circuit de soi partir dune position
devenue invivable, vers une destination inconnue. Cette distance-l ne se
parcourt pas mais se laisse prouverse meurt et sengendreen anneaux
fondant les sites entre eux. Ainsi le voyage est-il gnration, rvlation
continue du commerce secret de lespace et du temps: instance spirale o
je nous vis en mourir.

(Mmoire de rien)
******

Moi, je fais du bon pain . . .

Moi, je fais du bon pain et de la bonne soupe, Monsieur! Quand il ny

aura plus rien dhumain trouver dans vos galaxies, vous serez bien con-
tent de les partager! La posie soupe populaire? Il ny a que celle qui
creuse qui puisse devenir celle qui nourrit! Nulle tendresse dans la carte
du ciel. Ceux qui en reviennent peuvent en tmoigner. Quand on est
terrien et quon frquente les astres, il ne faut pas mpriser les vers de
terre.

(Loeil de la lettre)
 Claire Lejeune 159

From Provence to the Ardennes: from Tile Roof to Slate Roof

A journey is not the distance covered between one point of departure

and one point of arrival. It is a circuitous route from a position become
unbearable, toward an unknown destination. That particular distance is
not one to be travelled; it is to be experiencedas it fades and revivesin
rings fusing places together. Thus a journey is a generating process, a
continuous revelation of secret relationships between space and time: a
spiraling force where I live our lives to the death!

******

I, Sir, Bake Good Bread

I, Sir, bake good bread and make good soup! When you can find
nothing human left in your galaxies, youll be very happy to sample my
cooking! Poetry as soup kitchen? Only the kind that digs deep can be
really nourishing! Not a single sign of love on the heavens map, as those
who have been there can testify. Even when you are an earthling and
keep company with the stars, it wont do to look down on worms.

Rene Lematre
(1926)

Rene Lematre defines poetry as a form of spiritual intoxication com-

bined with craftsmanship: one must delve deep into the idea . . . find the
appropriate word and put it in its proper placeperhaps not where it
normally belongs, but where it will most effectively serve the poem.
Born in Ransart, near the city of Charleroi, Lematre still lives today in
the same area: in the industrial town of Marcinelle, located in Le Pays
Noir,or Black country, so called because its main industry used to be
coal mining.
After completing a course in classical humanities, Lematre attended a
secretarial school and led an active career as a business secretary. She
also holds a degree in library science and has worked as an archivist. With
her husband, Roger Delhaxhe, she founded an important center for docu-
mentation on the life of coal miners and other industrial workers of the
region. In addition to her social work, Lematre conducts a monthly po-
etry program in Charleroi, LApritif des Potes, a society she founded
in 1993 with the collaboration of writer Liliane Wouters and friends in
the field of drama. Each of the societys meetings is devoted either to a
particular author who reads and discusses his or her works, or to the
commemoration of special events in the poetic world. Lematre also finds
the time to organize art exhibits and craft shows.
Rene Lematre says that she has been a writer all her life. Her career
began when she contributed short stories to various magazines. Later, in
the 60s, she turned to poetry, but did not publish her first collection until
1980. In describing two of the thematic elements of her poetry, she
elaborates: water is an element that fascinates me . . . night is a cocoon;
I experience night as physical comfort, softness . . . Her first six collec-
tions focus largely on sea and wind. As its epigraph suggests, Intermit-
162 Rene Lematre

tences depicts the poets metaphorical journey by train. With Luxuriance

des eaux, Lematre returns to the theme of the various aspects of water:
river, ocean, lake, pond, rain. Her most recent publication to date, Mangez
. . . ceci est la nuit, reveals her fascination with nocturnal moods. The
title, borrowed from poet Vra Feyder, literally means Eat . . . this is the
night. Lematre is now preparing a series of poems dedicated to the
memory of her late husband, the man she loved for fifty years.
Poetry, in the words of Rene Lematre, requires hard work, much
lexical and stylistic research. Writing is both pleasure and suffering she
says, they are intermingled, and I find my freedom in their conjunction.
In the same vein, critic Louis Piters sees in her poetry a re-creation of
the self through symbiosis with her surroundings.
 Rene Lematre 163

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Comme une rage de vent. Paris: Saint-Germain des Prs, 1980.
Peyriac de mer. cloche-pied, cherche-ide. Chez lauteur, 1980.
Les Anneaux de sable. Chez lauteur, 1983.
Instants-tanns. Chez lauteur, 1984.
Eclisses. Chez lauteur, 1985.
Conjoncture du corps et de la mer. Chez lauteur, 1986.
Intermittences. La Hulpe (Belgium): Editions du G.R.I.L., 1992.
Luxuriance des eaux. Bruxelles: Le Non-Dit, 1992.
Mangez . . . ceci est la nuit. Soumagne (Belgium): Ttras Lyre, 1996.
164 Rene Lematre

Sur la terre blanche . . .

Sur la terre blanche des campagnes

les feux de novembre sallumaient.
Il fallait bien se rsigner lhiver,
au brame du cerf lgarement
de la biche notre modification.
Nous coulions vers demain
vers un autre nous-mme
en essayant de dsapprendre
nos gestes coutumiers. Pour nous prsenter
nouveaux sur un chemin inconnu
combl de douleurs. Nous tentions
le dtachement nous allions vers
une mergence mais cest lombre
qui cueillait notre devenir.

******

Lenfant a regard le printemps

Lenfant a regard le printemps

dclencher des bris de soleil
sur les eaux morceles
et la soie des jeunes avoines.
Il a mouill de cris
les vents cartels
et rveill les yeux teints
dun couple la recherche
de ses feux et du visage
dun autre enfant
dchir par dautres vents
il y a bien longtemps.

(Intermittences)
 Rene Lematre 165

Over the White Countryside

Over the white countryside

November fires were burning.
We had to resign ourselves to winter,
to the deers bellow to the does
disquiet to our own transformation.
We were flowing toward tomorrow
and toward another self,
trying to unlearn
our customary ways. So that we would
arrive new on unfamiliar ground
fraught with many pains. We tried
to look detached hoping for
a fresh start but it was shadows
that would harvest our becoming.
******

The Child Watched Spring

The child watched spring

showering shards of sun
over splintered streams,
over the silk of young oat fields.
His joyous cries went splashing
against the tattered breeze
and put a spark in the weary eyes
of a couple searching for the embers
of their inner fire and for the face
of another child
torn by other breezes
a long, long time ago.
166 Rene Lematre

Nous avons perdu le contact

Nous avons perdu le contact

des herbes et des vents.
Nous bivouaquons dans linstant
sur une trajectoire aux courbes
lourdes et nos yeux
parvenus au dtachement
regardent trangement
nos corps tellement appris.
Nos rves tendus
comme des fleurs dortie
reintent la gravitation
des bauches.

(Intermittences)
******
Elle, ouverte

Elle, ouverte,
lui, tendu
tous deux partis
pour le plaisir
sous leau qui gifle
et laboure
dans un instant
sans paroi.
Lui, source
elle, pivoine.
Spendides dans leur nudit
et leur extase.

(Luxuriance des eaux)

 Rene Lematre 167

We Have Lost Touch

We have lost touch

with grasses and winds.
We bivouac in the here and now
on a course that bends
sharply and our eyes
have an outsiders look
as strangely they watch
our bodies so well learned.
Our dreams, tense
as the blooms of nettles,
disrupt the orbit
of things to come.
******
She, receptive

She, receptive,
he, tense
both on their way
to their pleasure
under the slaps and
furrows of water
in a moment
unrestrained.
He, a source,
she, a peony.
Splendid in their nudity
and in their ecstasy.
168 Rene Lematre

Tu mavais dit

Tu mavais dit
que la pluie mouillait
mais quoi bon te croire.
Lautre jour aussi
tu mas dit que tu maimais.

Lautre jour aussi

tu mas dit que tu maimais
mais la pluie a cess
jai vu passer dans tes yeux
la couleur dun autre jupon.

(Luxuriance des eaux)

 Rene Lematre 169

You Did Tell Me

You did tell me

that rain is wet
but why should I believe you?
Also the other day
you said you loved me.

Also the other day

you said you loved me
but when the rain stopped,
I saw passing in your eyes
the color of another skirt.
170 Rene Lematre

Jhabitais des oiseaux

Jhabitais des oiseaux

des aubes des sources.
Jhabitais des choses
non finies des choses errantes.
des passages des sables.
Tu es venu

avec la pluie sur ton visage

nue et crue
et ce bruit de rame et de chute
au bord de mon bivouac.

Tu fus de feu
dans la drive
qui nous joignit.

Jai bu la pluie
sur ton visage
mais je nai pas jur
de ntre plus vagabonde.
******
Pays mien

De leau partout
avec un peu de terre
et des feux pour les mes.
Un vent immense
et des palmes dplies.
Cest le pays des errances
celui des usures
et des chemins de nulle part
o la parole angoisse le jour.

L,
lternit tremble
et lhomme devient
aussi grand que Dieu.

(Luxuriance des eaux)

 Rene Lematre 171

I Lived among Birds

I lived among birds

dawns and springs.
I lived among things
unfinished errant things
passages sands.
You came

with raindrops on your face

pure and plain
with a sound of oars and waterfall
at the edge of my bivouac.

You were of fire

as our ramblings
merged.

I drank the rain

off your face
but I did not promise
never to roam again.
******
This Land of Mine

Water everywhere
with just a little earth
and fires for the souls.
An immense wind
and unfurled palms.
This is a country for ramblings
for wearing out
for roads that lead nowhere
and for words that distress the day.

There,
eternity trembles
and man grows
as tall as God.
172 Rene Lematre

Jai fui les lieux du soleil

Jai fui les lieux du soleil.
Pourquoi les aimerais-je?
Parce quils sont joie
dites-vous.

Mais moi
je tiens ma joie des tanires,
des ombres,
des creux,
jattire sur moi
les branches,
je me faufile dans les pampres,
je rampe dans les bls
devenus gris.

Jaime les lieux

magiques soudain
par la seule puissance
de la nuit.
******
Terre drobe

Terre drobe
voil que la source
devient nudit
et que larbre
traverse lombre.
Voil que leau
encre le feuillage
des jonquilles.
Voil que la parole
jete sur une pierre
circonscrit le temps.
Voil que le vent
efface la parole
et que le regard
efface le vent.
Il nexiste donc rien?
(Mangez . . . ceci est la nuit)
 Rene Lematre 173

I Fled from Sunny Places

I fled from sunny places.
Why should I like them?
Because they bring joy,
you say.

But I
find my joys underground,
in shadows,
in hollows,
covering myself
with branches,
sneaking into vineyards,
crawling among wheat fields
turned grey.

I like places
suddenly made magic
just by the spell
of night.
******
Secretive Land

Secretive land
now the source
becomes nudity
now the tree
moves through shadows.
Now the water
pours ink on the leaves
of jonquils.
Now words
cast upon a stone
circumscribe time.
Now the wind
erases the words
and the gaze
erases the wind.

Does nothing then exist?

174 Rene Lematre

Etait-ce nuit dopium. . . .

Etait-ce nuit dopium ou de chanvre indien?

Nuit dArabie ouverte sur chteau en Espagne?
Seulement nuit dAmsterdam des bars vin
et des bordes diaboliques le long des quais
dors.
Nuit de taverne plus chaude que soleil
de Provence. Nuit des alcools blancs
des cafs noirs nuit transparente
aux couleurs de Rembrandt armes affranchis.
Nuit de glace nuit de brume nuit de haute
mer dans les draps du vent. Nuit de fuite
sur les bruyres dchires nuit de soie
o lespoir est sans raison. Nuit fragile
do sort laube au visage dagonie.
Nuit dAmsterdam et les soifs qui sentrechoquent
dans les maisons qui flottent et les cuivres qui brillent
dans la profondeur des cabarets.

Et dans tous ces dserts nos pas qui remontent

vers les sables connus.

(Mangez . . . ceci est la nuit)

 Rene Lematre 175

Was it an opium night . . .

Was it an opium night or an Indian hemp night?

An Arabian night over a castle in Spain?
Just an Amsterdam night wine bars
and devilish sprees along the golden
quays.
A tavern night warmer than the sun
of Provence. A night of white alcohol
and black coffee a transparent night
painted by Rembrandt night of bold aromas.
A night of ice night of mist night of high
seas draped in wind. A night for fleeing
in tattered heather fields a night of silk
when hope is senseless. A fragile night
whence an anguished dawn is born.
An Amsterdam night and the clinking of thirsts
aboard floating houses and the brass rails shining
from the depths of cabarets.

And in the midst of these deserts our footsteps find their way
back to familiar sands.
176 Rene Lematre

Voici que le corps nexiste plus

Voici que le corps nexiste plus

quil ne rveillera plus mon sang
la nuit le jour
et toutes les autres nuits

voici que je me roule dans une fort

de visages

mme si
mon amour
ne croit plus la joie
la piste ne conduit plus
au feu
lpe sest rfugie dans lobscur.

Labsurde est que je reste

debout et que je retourne
dun pas presque lger
vers les livres et les choses
que nous avons aims.

Indit (Unpublished)
 Rene Lematre 177

Now the Body Exists No More

Now the body exists no more

it will no more wake my senses
by night by day
and all the nights to come

now I wrap myself in a forest

of faces

even if
my love
no longer believes in happiness
no more does the trail lead
to a burning fire
the sword has taken refuge in darkness.

How absurd that I remain

standing and return
in steps nearly carefree
to the books and the things
together we have loved.

Ariane Franois-Demeester
(1929)

Ariane Demeester was born in Courtrai, which is the French name for
Kortrijk, a city in the province of West Flanders. When she was four years
old, she accompanied her parents to what was then the Belgian Congo.
The Congo was to become her home for a total of forty-four years (her
father had been a pioneer in the Katanga region since 1923).
Ariane Demeester was educated in the Likasi and Lubumbashi schools.
Later she taught mathematics and history in a Likasi high school. She
also served for some years as director of the Likasi public library. She
became Ariane Franois-Demeester through her marriage in 1950, and
she is the mother of three children.
In 1978, she returned permanently to Belgium and now lives in Brus-
sels, but she is still very much attached to the country of her younger
years, and travels frequently to Katanga, where she has many friends.
Ariane Franois-Demeesters career as a writer and artist developed
fully after her return to Belgium. She is a poet, a short story writer, an
essayist, and has also authored a novel. She is interested in painting and
photography and has produced works in these areas, however she is
known primarily for her wood sculptures. Her fascination for this art
form undoubtedly originated in Africa. Her wood sculptures are particu-
larly distinctive in that they are constructed only with the most basic tra-
ditional tools. She has held many exhibits of wood sculptures in Belgium.
Her poems, short stories and articles have appeared in various peri-
odicals; she is a frequent contributor of editorials for Plumes Romanes, a
literary magazine for which she is an administrative secretary. As of 1999,
she has published a total of ten books, including six collections of poetry.
In her review of Ariane Franois-Demeesters Mots et Sang des femmes
(1998), writer France Bastia states that these poems are exceptionally
180 Ariane Franois-Demeester

powerful and beautiful . . . ., a fiery hymn to Words, Woman and Life . . .

They leave the reader in a state of grace. Bastia also emphasizes the
many passages inspired by the poets life in Africa. Earlier collections as
well evoke the authors longing for Africa; one instance can be seen in the
poem Tides seeded . . ., where she writes of her double exile, and
recounts fond memories of both her official native land (my blood)
and her adopted country (my kingdom). Another salient theme in her
poetry is the mystery surrounding the creative process, the mystery of
words, to which she refers as little souls or ladybugs on a dewdrop.
 Ariane Franois-Demeester 181

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Flammes jetes au vent. Ottignies-Louvain-la-Neuve (Belgium): Dieu-
Brichart, 1981.
la lisire de mes forts. Ottignies-Louvain-la-Neuve: Dieu-Brichart,
1984.
Mots sans propritaire. Ottignies-Louvain-la-Neuve; Dieu-Brichart, 1988.
Encorbellements. Ottignies-Louvain-la-Neuve: Dieu-Brichart, 1988.
Hors-doeuvre pour lt. Puymeras (France): Znon, 1997.
Mots et sang des femmes. Bruxelles: Le G.E.A.I. bleu, 1998.

Short Stories
Sept Contes africains. Bruxelles: Ed. Lutrin, 1982, 1987.
Un marchand pas comme les autres, La Revue Gnrale no. 1
(Jan.1989).
Nuits de Nol et chat siamois, La Revue Gnrale no. 12 (Dec.1989).
Les deux Anglais, La Revue Gnrale no. 2 (Feb. 1992).
Les Lettres, La Revue Gnrale no. 1 (Jan. 1993).
182 Ariane Franois-Demeester

Ma tte lourde . . .
ma tte lourde du bruit des temptes
sest blottie au creux dor
de tes aisselles
mes discours au galop de fauve
ont ralenti leur course
vers les paraboles fanfaronnes
je nai plus traqu lombre
en des lieux o lon se trompe de sourire
tu as invit les oiseaux
aux battements davril
et jai cru la paix de la lumire
de la frontire des pays sans connivence
tu mas loigne
la mort y a parfois des gestes de tendresse
******
Arbre dor . . .

arbre dor et divoire bruni

lombre musele tes pieds
est ma prsence sur la colline
que ta racine fouaille
eau de la rivire qui sinsinue
dans la faille et abreuve
la montagne et la roche prcaire
je suis le jeu lenticulaire
dans le reflet fatigu

soleil dont les ftes animent

les territoires obscurs
et les carrefours oublis
cest moi le ciel aux nuages transis
dun deuil venu dailleurs
rappelle-toi

( la lisire de mes forts)

 Ariane Franois-Demeester 183

My head filled . . .
My head filled with the sounds of tempest
found refuge in the golden vale
of your embrace
my wild galloping speeches
have slowed their race
toward boastful parables
I have ceased hunting shadows
where smiles are misunderstood
You welcomed the birds
with their springtime flutter
and I believed in the peace light brings
you made me keep my distance
from lands without compassion
sometimes Death there can have loving ways

******

Tree of gold . . .
Tree of gold and burnished ivory
the muzzled shadow at your feet
bears out my presence on the hill
where your relentless roots forage
river water that filters
through the cracks to relieve
the parched mountain and its precarious rock
I am only a mirage
reflected in your weary stream
sun whose feasts bring life
to obscure territories
and forgotten crossroads
I am the sky laden with clouds
of sorrows come from elsewhere

Remember
184 Ariane Franois-Demeester

Quelle mmoire agence les signes

Quelle mmoire agence les signes,
grave le dessin des lettres
dont je ne sais ni la provenance ni laboutissement?
La vague inscrit lcume,
dfinit le galet.
Le vent imprime le dsert,
pulvrise la pluie ou encore achve la courbe de larbre.
Le fleuve modle la trace des alluvions, dtermine
lembouchure.
Version prcise de mouvements cisels,
interprtation prvue dans lalchimie des origines.
Mais qui conduit mon doigt et choisit les syllabes?
Gestes secrets dun voyageur qui mhabite et mannexe.
Dois-je dplorer ou rire?
******

Mares ensemences . . .
Mares ensemences dintervalles incertains,
plaines lentes, si lentes aux pis enrubanns de murmures,
ciels couchs sur les arbres soumis,
paroles de fables aux baisers des grands-mres flamandes.
Mon sang.

Magie tatoue lombre de la joue,

savane aux portes entrouvertes sur les tam-tams,
fleuve lov dans la mlope du voyageur,
langage de pierres roul par le clapotis.
Mon royaume.
Dans le brouillard du double exil,
des flches vers la sortie. Va.
La route convient qui na plus de demeure.
Et le peuple des frres, qui est-il?
Et qui suis-je moi, rescape involontaire des carrefours.
(Mots sans propritaire)
 Ariane Franois-Demeester 185

What secret memory . . .

What secret memory rules the concurrence of signs,
the tracing of pen strokes,
and whose origin or end I cannot know?
Waves inscribe the ocean with their foam,
mold pebbles on the beach.
Wind leaves its mark on the desert,
pulverizes the rain, refines a trees curve.
Rivers shape the path of sediments, fashion
inlets to the sea.
All, in the precision of finely carved motions,
as anticipated by primal alchemies.
But who guides my finger and selects syllables?
Mysterious gestures of a traveler in me, possessing me.
Should I be resentful or amused?
******

Tides seeded . . .
Tides seeded with uncertain breaks,
languid plains, languid fields wreathed in murmurs,
skies lying low above submissive trees,
storybook words in a Flemish grandmothers kiss.
My blood.

Magic tattoed on a shaded cheek,

savannahs doors opening to the tom-tom beat,
river nestled in a travelers chant,
language of rocks in the lapping of waves.
My kingdom.
In the mists of my double exile,
arrows point the way out. Go.
The road is for those who now have no home.
What people will I call my brothers?
And who am I, unwittingly rescued from the crossroads?
186 Ariane Franois-Demeester

Souffler sur les mots

Souffler sur les mots

comme sur des mains engourdies
les vtir dun duvet doiseau de mer
et les voir senvoler
dans le vent qui se hisse
sur de prodigieux ocans

l les images pourpres

passent les sentiers de lhorizon
captent la dmesure des votes

il suffit de conqurir un rve

pour dposer le soleil dans
les oyats dun visage

******

Comme de petites mes . . .

Comme de petites mes

les mots volettent
au coin des rues
et sengouffrent par la fentre

un lac topaze
sinscrit sur la feuille
et doucement
les petites mes rpandent
les grains du nnuphar

(Encorbellements)
 Ariane Franois-Demeester 187

To blow ones breath . . .

To blow ones breath upon words

as if upon hands numbed by cold,
to clothe them in seabird down
and watch them fly
in the wind rising
above prodigious oceans

there images of crimson

beyond the horizons lanes
capture the arched immensity

The conquest of a dream

is enough for the sun to illumine
the sandreeds on a face
******

Just Like Little Souls

Just like little souls

words flutter here and there
around the corner
then rush in through the window

a topaz lake
is inscribed on the page
then softly
the little souls scatter
seeds from a waterlily
188 Ariane Franois-Demeester

Les autos circulent

Les autos circulent

les immeubles se garent sous les nuages
ou sous les nons de lautomne
et moi je vais entre les murs du silence
que seul mon pas drange
je compte les pierres dans la drive du temps
les visages fatigus entre dindiffrentes ombres

les heures passent sous les astres que les astronomes

recensent comme le peuple dune bourgade
o les coqs appellent laube nouvelle
les heures vertes pleines du bourgeon des millnaires
les heures au ventre rond que les miroirs refltent impavides
les heures avec un masque blanc
qui coulent entre deux horizons

longs voyages la croise des rues

tours de roue dans la pluie
et le monde des archipels solitaires

longs voyages prs du peuple centr sur son image

prs des vergers successifs croulant dambre
prs des mares aux flancs de sel

les autos circulent

et les pierres deviennent langage
dans la course des pas

(Indit, no.117, December 1997)

 Ariane Franois-Demeester 189

Traffic Is Moving

Traffic is moving
buildings take shelter under the clouds
or under autumns neon lights
and I walk between walls of silence
that only my steps disturb
I count stones in the drifting of time
and weary faces among listless shadows

hours are passing under stars astronomers count

like census takers in a village
where roosters summon a new dawn
green hours sprouting through the millennia
pregnant hours reflected in impassive mirrors
hours wearing a mask of white
as they stream between two horizons

long journeys to the crossroads

wheels turning in a rainstorm
in a world of solitary archipelagos

long journeys to a people absorbed in its own image

to successive orchards heavy with amber fruit
to the salt cliffs of ocean tides

traffic is moving
and stones turn to language
as busy steps press on
190 Ariane Franois-Demeester

Les mots sont coccinelles . . .

Les mots sont coccinelles sur la goutte de rose,

libellules, chardonnerets,
matous au regard faux,
panthres endormies sur le sable,
rhinocros dans la valle o la boue roule
sur le rivage des marais,
pigs par les marchands daphrodisiaques
mais libres encore de boire encore
les nuages et la cime des arbres rids,
gnous que les soldats menacent dune mitrailleuse,
mais lgers capables encore de courir encore sur
les plateaux aux longues chevelures,
mon Afrique o paissent mes mots.

Pays magique que le coeur en ses moments

dabandon appelle au rythme de ses battements,
images tisses aux ramures tristes dun conifre
plus sombres que lagonie
quand lhiver tue les jours . . . . .

(Mots et sang des femmes, excerpt)

 Ariane Franois-Demeester 191

Words are ladybugs . . .

Words are ladybugs on a dew drop,

damsel flies, goldfinches,
tomcats with a sly look in their eyes,
panthers asleep on the sand,
rhinos in a valley where mud
flows down the banks of marshes,
stalked by sellers of love potions,
but still free to drink again
from the clouds over wrinkled treetops,
gnus the soldiers threaten with machine guns,
but still nimble still able to run again
on the plateaus long tresses
my Africa, pasture for my words

Magic land that, in its lonely moments,

my heart calls in rhythm with its beats,
images woven in a pines drab branches,
more somber than death
when winter kills the day . . .
192 Ariane Franois-Demeester

Le verbe rpond
Le verbe rpond,

premier balbutiement de leau,

premire palpitation du vgtal,
premier clat du diamant,

un un, elle les reprend ces mots

qui sont elle,
elle les ramasse, les enduit dune cire dabeille attidie,
ou les lave dans une cascade si frache entre les galets
sous le rire des voyageurs.
....................................

le pome se construit
avec arcades de glycines,
coules de polyenthas, tangs que
les nymphas claboussent de nacre,
myriades de mots glans dans le trsor de Golconde
comme coups de pinceau sur la toile de Seurat,
elle les inspecte, les observe qui
se font beaux et charmeurs,
les retourne sur toutes les coutures,
les soupse avec des gards de pharmacien,
le jour sur les toits flambe,
les villages lacustres laccueillent. /. . .
 Ariane Franois-Demeester 193

The Word Responds

The Word responds

first rippling of water,

first stirring of grasses
first sparkling of diamonds

one by one, she recovers these words

that are her own,
she collects them, polishes them with tepid beeswax,
or washes them in a cool cascade among pebbles
as the travelers laugh.
...................................... ...

. . . the poem takes shape

with arcades of wisteria
cascades of polyenthas, ponds
splashed by pearly lotus blossoms
myriads of words gleaned from Golcondas treasures
like brush strokes on a Seurat canvas.
She inspects them, studies them as
they make themselves beautiful and alluring
she looks them over and over,
appraises them with the vigilance of a chemist.
On rooftops daylight is blazing,
welcomed by villagers on the lake shore. /. . .
194 Ariane Franois-Demeester

/. . .
ils sont rugueux telle la meulire
ou polis, cantilnes dores sur tranche,
fissurs ou dun seul tenant, oblisques au soleil,
effmins dans leurs atours de petit marquis,
uss comme les jeans de ltudiante,
du terroir ou dailleurs, mal vus du prcieux ridicule,
androgynes peut-tre,
oui androgynes, cela importe peu.
Elle est le prtre gyptien que R protge
en contenant le cosmos,
elle est vestale au milieu des symboles,
........................................
ils sont elle,
ils sont elle,
les mots.

(Mots et sang des femmes, excerpts)

 Ariane Franois-Demeester 195

/. . .
Words are as rough as burrstone,
or polished like gilt-edged hymnals,
fissured or whole, obelisks in the sun,
effeminate in their fops finery,
worn like a students blue jeans;
they come from the heartland or elsewhere, despised by snobs,
androgynous perhaps,
yes androgynous, it matters little.
She is the Egyptian priest whom R protects
as he holds the cosmos in check;
she is a Vestal among symbols
........................................
they are hers,
the words,
they are hers.

Madeleine Biefnot
(1930)

Although she was born in Brussels, since early childhood Madeleine Biefnot
has lived in Hainaut, close to the French border. Her home today is in the
town of Sirault.
Biefnot describes herself as a discreet poet, as she lives alone and
avoids literary circles. However, her friends are poets as well, and she is
fond of music, especially Messiaen and Bartok, and even jazz, for she
regards all music as related to the music of Nature.
Although Madeleine Biefnot does not consider herself a partisan of
any established literary movement, her poetry bears the indisputable mark
of surrealism. Two of her publishers, Montbliard (in La Louvire) and
Phantomas (Paris/Brussels) have continually supported Surrealist authors.
Moreover, although distinct from French Surrealism, the Belgian Surreal-
ists, whose originality is embodied in the paintings of Magritte, were es-
pecially prominent in the province of Hainaut.
Madeleine Biefnots relatively few published poems have appeared in
book form or in avant-garde reviews. However, the author has written
many pieces, which she admits are known only by a few friends. In her
view, poetry is long, exacting work, the constant and solitary coming
and going of critical thought.
In 1978, Madeleine Biefnot published five booklets of poems assembled
under the title E pericoloso sporgersi. She recounts how she came to
choose the title during a train ride to see her publisher. At the time, this
Italian phrase appeared on a multilingual sign displayed inside interna-
tional railroad cars, warning passengers not to lean out the window.
Madeleine Biefnot comments that it is indeed dangerous to lean out of
train windows, but equally dangerous to lean outside the letter of a poem,
thus stating her belief that poetry is not to be explained or interpreted;
198 Madeleine Biefnot

rather, it must be taken at its word. The letter of the poem, a key
expression of particular interest to the translator, reaffirms Mallarms
assertion that a poem is made of words, not ideas.
In their Anthology of Belgian Poetry, editors Bosquet and Wouters
observe in Biefnots style a prefiguration of what will become known as
minimalism, and compare her poems to some of the short forms found
in the works of the French poets Char and Guillevic. Biefnots art is
described as emphasizing the terrifying aspect of all poems . . . She
exacerbates the mystery . . . making things appear more and more
strange. The peculiar world of Madeleine Biefnot, according to poet and
publisher Marc Imberechts, is a world in motion . . . Whoever cares to
look at its multiple facets and become personally involved will discover
everyday realities there, as well as other realities . . . This unusual oneiric
quality in Biefnots unconventional poems is perhaps their most salient
characteristic.
 Madeleine Biefnot 199

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
LArbre ttes. La Louvire (Belgium): Montbliard, 1955.
20 pomes masqus dos. La Louvire: Montbliard, 1956.
Le Tunnel, suivi de La Naissance du Cerf. Bruxelles: Phantomas, 1958.
Le Tournoi. Lige (Belgium): Odradek, 1977.
E pericoloso sporgersi. Hombourg (Belgium): Aux Mandres de la Gulp,
1978.
Trois espaces du dedans, in Appel au Jour. Bruxelles: Amnesty Inter-
national Ed., 1983.
200 Madeleine Biefnot

Il est venu. . . .

Il est venu sur un bateau jaune

avec sa charge dles et de vagues

Il courait sur les vents

Il dort dans mon coeur

Je suis nue
Pour laimer je nai
quune robe dair et de feuilles

mais laube ma touche

doiseaux.
******

LElment

Il souriait dans le sureau

Entre laube et lpine
je lai surpris
Jai tir ma maison au vent
ouvert grande porte

Je me souviens de sa
petite valise dosier vert

Il a vers sur le sable

lzard et coquillages avec
le ciel avec
la vague avec
les galets avec
le coeur de locan

(LArbre ttes)
 Madeleine Biefnot 201

He came . . .

He came on a yellow ship

laden with islands and waves

He ran with the wind

He sleeps in my heart

I am nude
All I have for loving him
is a dress of air and leaves

but dawn has graced me

with birds.
******

Elemental

He smiled amid the elderberries

I surprised him
between lark and spur
I pulled my house into the wind
and opened wide my door

I still remember his

small case of green wicker

He spilled onto the sand

a lizard and seashells with
the skies with
the waves with
pebbles with
the heart of the ocean
202 Madeleine Biefnot

Il y a des jours

Il y a des jours o je nose te regarder

de peur quau couteau de tes yeux
je ne me fende
et que les perles minutieuses de mon rve
ne roulent sous les tables
au pied de ces dormeurs livides
qui violent les comtes

(20 pomes masqus dos)

******
Le merle

Le merle sur la branche du pcher croit au printemps

La pquerette croit et salue
Les primevres sattendrissent parce quelles ont une feuille de plus

une feuille de plus!

Nous avons sem le sel

Sous le tilleul les feuilles de lautre anne persistent
Nous avons trs froid lun et lautre
Une toile cherche une toile vers le berger
Mais nous avons sem le sel

(Le Tunnel)
 Madeleine Biefnot 203

There Are Days

There are days when I dare not look at you

for fear the knife in your eyes
will split me in two
and the delicate pearls of my dream
will roll under the tables
at the feet of the pale sleepers
who violate comets
******

The Blackbird

The blackbird in the peachtree believes in spring

The daisy believes and makes a bow
Primroses turn sentimental because they grew one more leaf

One more leaf!

We have sown the salt

Under the limetree last years leaves remain
We are both so very cold
A star is searching for the shepherds star
But we have sown the salt
204 Madeleine Biefnot

Quand nous aurons pass le tunnel

Quand nous aurons pass le tunnel

devant la mer de cristal
tu diras me prenant la main
voici le paradis

Lange habite l

Tu me demandes qui est lange?

Celui que nous faisons ensemble
en nous aimant.

(Le Tunnel)
******

Le Cerf

Le Cerf est mon Seigneur

Une fort me spare de Lui

Je ne puis Laimer qu la trace

et bnis la neige qui le sait

Inacessible cependant lazur

que Son pied griffe

(La Naissance du Cerf)

 Madeleine Biefnot 205

After We Come out of the Tunnel

After we come out of the tunnel

facing a crystal sea
you will hold my hand and say
this is paradise

The angel lives here.

You ask me, who is the angel?

It is the one we invent
in the love we share.
******

The Stag

The Stag is my Lord

A forest keeps me from Him

I can love only the trace of Him

and bless the snow for knowing it

Yet inaccessible remains the azure

that His foot grazes
206 Madeleine Biefnot

La Rose

1
Les femmes ont jet du riz sur la robe blanche
Deux ramiers battaient leur voie
Le pasteur a bni les anneaux sur le velours

Le visage sest fix sur le voile

a dit le verset
comme deux toiles crpitaient dans leur nimbe
Des enfants et des feuilles la porte
attendaient le souffle dargent

2
Ma mre entrait dans ses habits de veuve
Elle portait le sautoir de corne noire
et lodeur des mauves lodeur des mauves

Le temps est revenu tandis que les hirondelles . . .

Lodeur est revenue
laster qui dit mieux que la soif et la source

3
la porte attendaient des enfants et des feuilles
la parole dargent

Ma soeur blanche
ayant reu sa bague reu le livre
entre deux eaux

marcha lgre en elle-mme

vers la Rose

(La Naissance du Cerf)

 Madeleine Biefnot 207

The Rose

1
Women threw rice on her gown of white
Two doves flew in to lead the way
The pastor blessed the rings laid on velvet

With gaze fixed on the veil

he recited the verse
as two stars crackled in their haloes
Children and leaves at the door
were waiting for the silver breath

2
My mother was dressed in her widows crape
Wearing a pendant of black onyx
and the scent of mallows the scent of mallows

Time has now returned although the swallows . . .

The scent has returned
the aster more eloquent than thirst or spring

3
At the door children and leaves were waiting
for the silver Word

My sister all in white

received her ring received the book
Poised between two pathways

She turned lightheartedly

toward the Rose
208 Madeleine Biefnot

Icare
Pigeon, le commodore
Grce est lexcellence de lair, ses tendons
Perfection larc prcis des nues, sa chute
Joint-il
le ciel aux chatons de laube
il
poisson dans le bocal bleu du dfi
senchante
(Unpublished, 1974)
******

Au bord de la ville
Mme si je voyageais au Kamtchatka en Bosnie en Islande
aux portes du gulf-stream
dans un dsert de millepertuis
de splendeurs de diamants de soies sauvages
rien ne me ferait oublier
la grce dune petite fille qui saute la corde
ses cheveux volent comme des jonquilles
ou de fiancs bleus
En dpit des passants absorbs
Du merle rptiteur dans sa cour exigu

Tant coule simple la sant

La probit La draison des chambres nues
La bonne propret du chat
Le fou chien noir qui gambade au matin
porteur du rve de ses matres
La ville carillone au beffroi

Je mesure ma petitesse
aux toiles aux gographies
lchevin qui se pavane
Discours plein de vellits
(E pericoloso sporgersi, excerpt)
 Madeleine Biefnot 209

Icarus
Pigeon, commodore
His tendons, grace in the airs perfection
His fall, flawless in the cloudsprecise arch
Joining
the sky to the catkins of dawn
he
a fish in the blue bowl of defiance
is spellbound
******
At the Edge of Town

Even if I traveled to Kamchatka, Iceland, Bosnia,

to the gates of the Gulfstream
or to a desert of primroses,
of splendors, of diamonds, of fine silks,
nothing could make me forget
the grace of a little girl jumping rope
her hair flying up like jonquils
or the grace of blue lovers
Despite self-absorbed passers-by
And an insistent crow in the narrow yard
So simple this flow of health
Honesty The senselessness of bare rooms
The cats fine cleanliness
The playful black dog that gambols in the morning
carrying his masters dreams

The city chimes forth in the belfry

I measure my insignificance
by the stars, by geography
By the alderman who struts about
Dispensing platitudes
210 Madeleine Biefnot

Au bord du champ

Jtais assise au bord du champ

dans un bouquet de marguerites
Ces fleurs quon habille de blanc
Je parlais Et lautomne
est sorti de lt
Comme un objet difficile

Un enfant chantait
Peut-tre y a-t-il une source
dans la voix dun enfant?

o le temps pourrait boire

ceux qui ne savent attendre
ou qui parlent trop vite
******

Au bord de la fort

Ds laube sveille le myosotis

Il regarde le coeur de la fort

A la lisire trempe la source Et

des oiseaux confus cherchent leur vocale et palpitent
Chants luthiers

Vient le jour
Un rayon dor le prcde de branche en branche
(excerpt)

(E pericoloso sporgersi, excerpts)

 Madeleine Biefnot 211

At the Edge of the Field

I was sitting at the edge of the field

in a cluster of daisies
Those flowers that always wear white
I was speaking When autumn
made its way out of summer
Like a cumbersome object

A child was singing

Is there a wellspring
in a childs voice?

a spring where Time might come and drink

those who cannot wait
or those who rush to speak
******

At the Edge of the Forest

At daybreak the forget-me-not awakens

and looks into the heart of the forest

At the edge of the wood shimmers a spring A

confusion of birds, aquiver, rehearse their chords,
A tuning of violins

Then comes daylight

led from branch to branch by a golden ray

Nicole Houssa
(19301959)

Shortly before her 29th birthday, Nicole Houssa was the victim of a tragic
motorcycle accident that put a brutal end to a most promising life. Her
poetry, however, survives and has won acclaim and several honors in
Belgium.
Nicole Houssa was born in Herstal, an industrial suburb of Lige. She
received a doctorate in Romance philology from the University of Lige
and became an assistant to Professor Fernand Desonay, a highly respected
scholar in the Romance Language Department.
Nicole Houssa founded a literary society in Lige where beginning
writers met and exchanged ideas. In addition to her teaching duties at the
university, she published poems and essays in French and Belgian jour-
nals. She was exceptionally productive for so young a scholar.
Only one collection of her poems, Comme un collier bris, was pub-
lished in book formposthumouslythanks to the efforts of Professor
Desonay, writers, and others who wanted to pay homage to the memory
of their colleague. French poet Jean Cocteau authored the preface to the
collection. Of the 250 or so poems found among her papers, only 66
appear in Comme un collier bris. The editors refrained from making
any corrections, wishing to present Nicole Houssa in a spontaneous state
of creation, as the pure emergence of a song interrupted in the middle of
a chorus.
What strikes us most about her poems is the haunting presence of
death, sometimes viewed as a mysterious lady, sometimes embodied in
a spider, sometimes evoked through the image of Ophelia . . . and even
meeting with its own demise when devoured by free wolves.
Many of those who knew Nicole have wondered whether she had a
premonition of her own tragic fate. Certainly, her poetry would suggest
214 Nicole Houssa

this sentiment. However, death is only one of the somber motifs she
favors; others include the meaninglessness of life, solitude, and disillu-
sionment. Surprisingly, according to her friends, in everyday life she was
a vibrant, energetic woman, not a nostalgic dreamer.
In his introduction to some unpublished poems of Houssas for the
review Marche Romane, her friend and colleague Louis Rouche observes
that Nicole often intimates that real communication is rare. Houssas use
of the vocative you, to refer to her other self, appears to underscore the
spiritual solitude characteristic of her work. In other cases, the vocative
you addresses someone absent, as in It is raining on my dawn.
Rouche attributes to Nicole Houssa a Freudian-related death instinct
that would explain her feeling of isolation and her longing for impossible
dreams. He emphasizes, however, that just as Le Bateau ivre cannot
be considered Rimbauds biography, neither is Houssas message limited
to an outpouring of personal disillusionment. Rather, her poetry expresses
a certain world view, which we might relate to existentialist thought.
Houssas world appears to be ruled by the absurd, where Good and Evil
confront each other at the gambling table.
The following selections illustrate the great diversity of style in Nicole
Houssas poetry, from the fairly classical to the liberated, yet always
bursting with highly unusual, boldly disturbing images.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Pomes indits de Nicole Houssa, Le Flambeau no. 42 (1959). Intro-
duction by Marianne Stoumon.
Comme un collier bris. Bruxelles: Editions des Artistes, 1960, 1962.
Introduction by Fernand Desonay; preface by Jean Cocteau.
Pomes indits de Nicole Houssa, Marche Romane, vol. 24, no. 3 (1974).
Introduction by Louis Rouche.
Pomes Choisis. Paris/Bruxelles: LAudiothque, no date.

Short Stories
Epithalame. Lige: Ecritures, no. 59 (1959).
Conte provenal. Lige: Marche Romane, vol. 59, no. 4 (1959).
Loiseau de limpossible. Bruxelles: Audace, no.26 (1960).
 Nicole Houssa 215

Essays and Articles

Le Souci de lexpression chez Colette. Bruxelles: Acadmie Royale de
Langue et de Littrature franaises, 1958.
Au pays de Colette. Bruxelles: Marginales, no. 69 (1959).
Balzac et Colette. Paris: Revue dHistoire Littraire de la France (Jan
March 1960).
Nicole Houssa has also published short texts, critical articles, and poems
in at least fourteen different journals and reviews in France and in
Belgium.
216 Nicole Houssa

Ophlia

Morte, couleur daube, tu ten vas, les pieds joints

Dans le lit du ruisseau qui lentement te berce.
tes cheveux pars saccrochent les toiles
Et dans tes larges yeux se mirent les abeilles.
Tes bras faits pour bercer ont forme de corolle
Mais tu ne berces plus que les blancs nnuphars.
Parmi tant de blancheur ton sein candide merge
Enserr dherbes deau, de lianes, de fruits.

Tu es fruit, tu es fleur, tu es chair, tu es morte . . .

O vas-tu, fille dhomme, et quel destin te mne?
Vers quel rivage trange emportes-tu ton corps?
quel sire inhumain te destinent les dieux?

Ce que je sais est peu. Je sais que tu es morte

Et que tu vas l-bas, au fil de la rivire
Une rivire trange o ton ombre se fond
Parmi les cailloux ronds et les poissons aveugles
Emportant sur ton coeur, et qui chante la lune,
Tel un bijou dmail, un crapaud bagu dor.
******
Il pleut sur laube

Ta main frle ma main comme une pluie dt

Je dors au long de ton absence.
Tige de lamier blanc do sourd un fruit dor
Topaze droite sur sa lance.

Au-del des rideaux de lin que lair bleuit

Le merle dit sa chanson vaine
Calqu sur la lumire un visage de nuit
Promesse dune aube sereine.

Je me rveille au jour que je voudrais brlant

Bigarr comme ton image.
Mais je mveille toi blanc sur un rideau blanc
Mon rve choue ton rivage.

(Comme un collier bris)

 Nicole Houssa 217

Ophelia

Your cheeks as pale as dawn, your feet modestly joined,

In death you float gently, lulled by the rivers flow.
Your disheveled tresses are sprinkled with stars
And your eyes open-wide mirror the flight of bees.
Your arms, meant for cradling, have a corolla shape,
But pale waterlilies are all you cradle now.
From so much whiteness, your chaste breast emerges,
Strewn with river grasses, lianas and with fruits.

You are flower and fruit, you are flesh, you are dead . . .
Where go you, daughter of man? And what rules your fate?
To what strange shore do you take this body of yours?
To what inhuman sire are the gods leading you?

So little do I know. But I know you are dead,

And youre going away, carried by the river,
A strange river where your shadow mingles
With rounded pebbles and blind fish from the deep.
Upon your heart is poised, like an enamelled jewel,
A moonstruck toad, wearing a band of gold.
******
It Is Raining on My Dawn

Your hand touches mine like a summer rain,

As I sleep throughout your absence.
A gold fruit rises from a stem of white lamium,
Topaz poised erect on a lance.

Outside the fresh curtains, tinted blue by the skies,

The blackbird sings in vain.
The face of darkness pales in the glow of sunrise,
A promise of serene dawn.

I awake to a day I wish blazing with light,

Many-hued, as your image soars.
But I wake to you, white against curtains of white,
And my dream founders on your shores.
218 Nicole Houssa

La Veuve noire

Arachn, ple fe de lune,

Sur ton camail dargent glisse leau des roses
Et dans le jade de ton oeil
Senchsse un gnome indiffrent.

Ta toile folle et blonde hsite autour de toi,

Se fait soie, mol nuage, air dopium, doux leurre
Tendu, tide, entre rose et feuille.

Ta patte frmissante esquisse un ballet mort,

Ballet de la mort dune fleur,
De la mort du passant perdu.

Cette trace dor gris sur la rose assoiffe,

Ce nest quune me sans contours,
Lme dun fol frelon que tu as trop aim
******
Narcisse crpuscule

Ombre et lumire
Corps drap de blanc dans le soleil
Corps drap de noir son ct
Yeux de lumire gris ou verts
Gris vert de lac
Yeux dombre qui sont dans les tiens
Leur volent leur couleur
Leur prennent leurs penses

Mon ombre, ta lumire

Je ne suis quun reflet de statue candide

Lautre face, le double, lombre
Le second visage oubli de Janus
Epris de son image dor

Ta lumire, mon ombre

Et rien que le vide alentour
Le vide et le soleil
Et mon amour
Pris au coeur dun miroir sans tain.

(Comme un collier bris)

 Nicole Houssa 219

Black Widow

Arachne, pale moon fairy,

Dew drops roll off your silvery camail,
While in the jade of your eye
A gnome watches, unconcerned.

Your giddy, blond web flutters about,

Becomes silk, soft cloud, opium smoke, sweet lure,
Snugly stretched between rose and leaf.

A dance of death begins in quivering motions,

Ballet of death for a flower,
Death for the straying passer-by.

This gold and grey trace on the thirsty rose

Is merely a soul that lost its contours,
The soul of a foolish hornet too dearly loved.
******
Twilight Narcissus

Shadow and light

Body draped in white in the sun,
Body draped in black by its side.
Eyes of light, grey or green,
Grey and green as a lake,
Shadowy eyes that penetrate yours,
Stealing their color,
Taking away their thoughts.

My shadow, your light

I am just the reflection of a naive statue,

The other side, the double, the shadow,
The forgotten second face of Janus
In love with his golden image.

Your light, my shadow,

And nothing around us but void,
Void and sun
And my love
Caught at the heart of a two-way mirror.
220 Nicole Houssa

Madame Ma Mort

Cours-y donc, mais cours-y

Au carnaval des loups francs!
Madame la Mort
Madame la morte
Ma dame aurole de sang.

Et pendant ce temps-l . . .

Je longerai doucement les rues douces

Je dcouvrirai la petite place
En forme de coeur
O rve un banc vert sous un marronnier
Je pousserai doucement la barrire
Entirement repeinte en vert
Dun tout petit jardin imaginaire.

Et si pendant ce temps-l
Madame la Mort
Madame la morte
Les loups francs te dvoraient?

Nous claterions de rire

Le banc et moi
Et la barrire
Et le jardin teint de sang

Ma dame aurole de coeurs . . .

(Comme un collier bris)

 Nicole Houssa 221

Milady Death

Hurry and run, its time to go

To the free wolves carnival!
Milady Death
Milady dead
Lady with blood on your halo.

But meanwhile . . .

Ill walk softly along gentle streets

Ill discover the little park
Shaped like a heart
Where a green bench dreams under the chestnut trees
Gently Ill push open the gate
Freshly painted green
To enter the wee garden of my fancy.

What if meanwhile,
Milady Death
Milady dead,
The free wolves should devour you?

We would burst out laughing,

The bench and I,
The gate as well
And the garden tinted with blood

Lady with hearts on your halo . . .

222 Nicole Houssa

Hiroglyphes sur leau vive

Laube, laube
Et jai trac la joie
Sur laile de lalouette
Et jai saisi le visage des songes
Pour le dresser sur le soleil
Et jai suivi le contour de mon rve
Bleu sur le bleu lav du ciel.

Mon alouette fugitive

Qui te saoules de rayons dor
Porte mon cri ren trois fois
Vers les domaines impossibles
Vers le soleil inaccessible
O nexpirent plus les attentes . . .

Jaurais tant souhait dtre

Fille du soleil et de la joie
Mais jai pos mon empreinte
Furtive, indlbile
Sur la page de leffroi.
******

Vesper

Longue, infiniment longue est ma longue journe.

Ny a-t-il pas quelquun qui me la tuera?
Regarde, le jour point. Quand reviendra la lune?
Jai besoin de son oeil, jaune comme un soleil.
La lune est ma montagne o je btis ma hutte.
Le jour est ma passion. Je le transpercerai
Et de la plaie ouverte sourdra la nuit sereine
Obscure comme le sang dune seiche empale.

(Comme un collier bris)

 Nicole Houssa 223

Hieroglyphics on the Stream

Dawn, dawn,
And I imprinted joy
Upon the larks wings,
And I seized the face of Dream,
Lifted it toward the sun,
And I followed the contour of my hope
Blue, against the skys limpid blue.

My fugitive lark,
Enraptured by golden rays,
Carry my call, three times reborn,
To the realms of the Absolute,
To the unattainable sun
Where waiting is never in vain . . .

How I wish I could have been

A daughter of sun and of joy,
But I made my imprint,
Furtive, indelible,
On a page filled with dread.
******

Vesper

Long, infinitely long, is my long day.

Is there no one who can kill time for me?
Look, daybreak is coming. When will the moon return?
I need its eye, as yellow as the sun.
The moon is my mountain where I build my shelter.
The day is my torment. I will pierce it through,
And from its gaping wound a serene night will surge,
Dark as the blood from an impaled squid.
224 Nicole Houssa

La fille autre moi

Hlas! jai donc vcu ailleurs
Toujours ailleurs et quelquun dautre
Un quelquun dautre intemporel,
Ni plus triste, ni plus heureux
Que celui captur dans les mailles des Heures?
Hlas! jai donc vcu ainsi
Dtache, dissoute, aimante
Par un ailleurs, par le futur, par limpossible . . .
Hlas! jai donc vcu si peu
Dans le vrai soleil du prsent
Ne prenant de lair qui passait
Quassez pour regretter, dsirer, oublier,
Chercher de moi le vain oubli dans le projet?
Jai oubli de vivre pour attendre,
Quter, vouloir, dsesprer,
Pour rver ce qui serait
Si jtais ailleurs, quelquun dautre
Et prs dun tre diffrent.
Lailleurs, enfin, stait rincarn
Dans un visage, dans un rire
Et javais cru toucher le port,
Lattache, enfin, lheure prsente,
Le but de mon rve sans digues.
Mais le masque or et bleu a chu
Dans le nant des souvenirs.
Continuerai-je donc vivre
Ailleurs toujours, et quelquun dautre,
Jamais prsente o je me crois?
Las! chaque fois que je surprends mon ombre
Au miroir blanc du Temps compt
Jai peur, je me dtourne et je menfuis
Vers le refuge de nulle part et dailleurs
Seule, toujours seule,
Triste, lasse ou sereine,
Le sourire du Rien sur les lvres.
(Comme un collier bris)
 Nicole Houssa 225

The Girl My Other Self

Alas! I must have been living elsewhere
Always elsewhere as someone else,
Someone other, intemporal,
No sadder, no happier
Than the one captured in the nets of Time?
Alas! So I have lived this way,
Detached, dissolved, magnetized
By an elsewhere, the future, the impossible . . .
Alas! So I lived so little
In the real sun of the present,
Only breathing the passing air
Just enough to regret, to desire, to forget,
In a futile effort to forget who I am . . .
I forgot to live for waiting,
For seeking, wanting, despairing,
For dreaming of how it would be
To live elsewhere as someone else
Part of a different person.
Elsewhere, at last, was embodied
In a face, in a joyous smile,
And I thought I had reached my haven,
My moorings, the present hour,
My boundless dream come true at last.
But the gold and blue mask soon fell
Into the well of memories . . .
Will I keep on living this way,
Always elsewhere and someone else,
Never present where I seem to be?
Alas! Each time I surprise my shadow
In the white mirror of recorded Time,
I am afraid, I turn away, I flee,
Seeking refuge nowhere, elsewhere,
Alone, always alone,
Sad, weary, or serene,
A smile of Nothingness on my lips.

Liliane Wouters
(1930)

Liliane Wouters, like other well known Belgian writers such as Verhaeren,
Gevers, Ghelderode, Lilar, and Willems, is a representative of two cul-
tures. Brought up and educated in the two national languages of her
native country, she is completely bilingual, and her bi-cultural background
has been a constant source of enrichment in all her work.
Born in Ixelles, today she lives in Mont-sur-Marchienne in the province
of Hainaut. She attended catholic schools. A graduate of the Ecole Normale
of Gijzegen, Liliane Wouters taught for thirty years, primarily in a school
operated by nuns. Although the author soon distanced herself from reli-
gion, her poetry remains suffused with what might be described as agnos-
tic mysticism. Or, in the words of Alain Bosquet, she combines an ancient
mystique with the vicissitudes of the flesh.
Wouterss literary talent was revealed early, as she was just seven years
old when she penned her first text in verse; at thirteen, she wrote and
directed several plays to be performed by her classmates. Later her real
poems immediately caught the attention of established writers. After pub-
lishing three volumes of poetry between 1954 and 1966, Wouters be-
came more and more involved in the writing and production of plays.
Seventeen years would pass before a new collection of poems appeared.
Today Wouters is one of the major playwrights in Belgium. Her plays
have been produced in translation in several European countries and in
New York. Some of her dramatic works have also been adapted to the
screen.
In 1985 Liliane Wouters was elected to the Acadmie Royale de
Langue et de Littrature franaises, and she is a member of the
Acadmie europenne de posie as well. She has received numerous
awards in Belgium, France and Germany for her poetry, her plays, and
228 Liliane Wouters

her translations from the Dutch, including the Grand Prix da la Maison de
Posie (Paris, 1989) and the Prix Montaigne of the F.V.S. Foundation
(Hamburg, 1995).
Her interest in poetry and drama extends to related fields, and she is
the editor and commentator of several poetic anthologies, including the
monumental Un sicle de posie belge de langue franaise co-authored
with Alain Bosquet. She also translates poems and plays from different
periods of Dutch, or Flemish, literature.
Wouterss poetry is unequivocably lyrical, a quality often shunned by
the esthetes of modernity. Wouters has no qualms admitting Lyrique je
suis, je reste / peu me chaut votre ddain (I am and will remain lyrical /
your disdain leaves me untouched). In his preface to Tous les chemins
conduisent la mer, academician Jean Tordeur explores the evolution
of Wouters style throughout the years, an evolution particularly notice-
able in the collection of new poems included in LAlos, a series of texts
first published under the title Etat provisoire (subject to revision). LAlos
represents Wouterss return to poetry after a long period devoted to other
genres. Tordeur remarks that the aloe in the title alludes to the slow
maturation of the fruit of this plant, at the same time it suggests the
discovery of a soothing balm, as the poet comes to terms with her own
destiny.
Literary critic Edith Mora aptly observes that Liliane Wouters accom-
plishes an extraordinary feat: she writes in free verse while observing the
rules of classical prosody. There is indeed nothing traditional in what her
poems tell us, or how they express it. In rediscovering the true craft of
poetry, Liliane Wouters proves that there is more to a real poem than
line by line typography.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
La Marche force. Bruxelles: Editions des Artistes, 1954. Prix Rene
Vivien. Prix Polak de lAcadmie Royale de Belgique. Prix Scriptores
Catholici. Prix de la Nuit de la Posie.
Le Bois sec. Paris: Gallimard, 1960. Prix Triennal de Posie.
Le Gel. Paris: Seghers, 1966. Prix Louise Lab.
LAlos. Paris: Luneau-Ascot, 1983. (Includes poems from the preceding
three collections and a large number of new poems)
Parenthse. St-Laurent du Pont (France): Atelier dArt, 1984.
 Liliane Wouters 229

Journal du scribe. Luxembourg: Simoncini, 1986; Bruxelles: Les

Eperonniers, 1990.
Tous les chemins conduisent la mer. Bruxelles: Les Eperonniers, 1997.
(Includes a selection of poemssome in a revised versionfrom the
other collections)

Anthologies
Panorama de la posie franaise de Belgique. Bruxelles: Jacques
Antoine, 1976.
Terres dcarts. Bruxelles: Editions Universitaires, 1980. (In collabora-
tion with Andr Miguel)
a rime et a rame. Bruxelles: Labor, 1985.
La Posie francophone de Belgique (4 volumes). Bruxelles: Editions de
lAcadmie Royale de Langue et de Littrature franaises, 1985-
1992. (In collaboration with Alain Bosquet)

Plays
La Salle des profs. Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1983; Labor, 1994.
Prix Andr Praga de lAcadmie Royale de Belgique.
LEquateur, suivi de Vies et Morts de Mademoiselle Shakespeare.
Bruxelles: Les Eperonniers, 1984.
The Lives and Deaths of Miss Shakespeare. (Trans. A-M. Glasheen), in
Gay Plays, An International Anthology. New York: Ubu Reper-
tory Theater Publications, 1989.
Charlotte ou La nuit mexicaine. Bruxelles: Les Eperonniers, 1989. Prix
du Conseil de la Communaut franaise.
Charlotte or Mexican Night (Trans. A.M. Glasheen) in The Key to Your
Aborted Dreams. New York: Peter Lang, 1998.
Le Jour du Narval. Bruxelles: Les Eperonniers, 1991. Prix Charles
Plisnier.

Translations and Editions

Guido Gezelle. Paris: Seghers, 1965.
Reynart le Goupil. Bruxelles: La Renaissance du Livre, 1974.
230 Liliane Wouters

Double

Dieu, le diable. Double face

Dun mme visage, deux
Profils dont lun lautre efface.
Ct cendre, ct feu.

Lequel a, sur mon argile,

Imprim sa marque? Jai
Tantt le plaisir fragile,
Tantt le chagrin lger.

Mais point de misricorde

Car jaime ce jeu cruel:
Toujours marcher sur la corde,
Toujours vider un duel.

Je suis glace, je suis braise.

Le front pench sous deux poids,
Comment donc pourrais-je, laise,
Distinguer le chaud du froid?

Vous qui portez votre tte

Droite, et faite dun seul bloc,
Sachez bien ce que vous tes,
Sable, sel, poussire ou roc.

Pour moi, je nai qu me taire,

Qu me demander mon nom.
Cerveau double et solitaire,
Je dis oui mais pense non.

Dieu, le diable me convient

Ensemble. Je reste coi.
Lequel mnera ma vie?
Ils rgnent tous deux sur moi.

(Le Bois sec, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)

 Liliane Wouters 231

Double

God, the devil. Double vision

Of the same face, and therefore two
Profiles that cancel each other.
One side is ash, one side is fire.

Which of the two stamped with his seal

My body of clay, I wonder?
Sometimes fragile is my pleasure,
Sometimes my grief is light to bear.

But I shall not ask for mercy

For I like the game, though cruel:
Always walking the high wire,
Always engaging in some duel.

I am ice, Im glowing embers,

Two loads weigh upon my shoulders,
How could I possibly with ease
Distinguish between cold and heat?

And you, holding your head up high,

Your head fashioned all in one block,
Find out what you really are,
Whether sand, salt, dust or rock.

As for me, I must hold my tongue,

And wonder which is my true name.
Double and solitary brain,
When I say right, Im thinking wrong.

God, the devil, beckon to me

Together. What am I to do?
Which of the two governs my life
Since both reign over me alike?
232 Liliane Wouters

Rien nexiste
Rien nexiste. Pain, mensonge
Nourricier du songe corps.
Et le ver frileux qui ronge
Tes saisonsmensonge encor.

Rien nest concret. Oeil, image,

Miroir du mirage mer.
De lhorizon ligne sage,
Trahison. Trompeurs amers.
Sous le ciel et sur la terre
Tant de choses. Rien de sr.
Rien de pur, sauf le mystre.
Rien de vrai, sinon lobscur.
Niez vos mains, votre bouche,
Leau, le vent, le jour, la nuit.
Tout ce que je vois, je touche,
Tout ce que je tiens me fuit.

(Le Gel, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)

******

Quatre mille jours . . .

Quatre mille jours,
Quatre mille nuits,
Nous avons partag le lit, la table,
Bu aux mmes fontaines, tir leau des mmes puits
Et leau ntait pas toujours claire mais
Transparentes taient nos mains.
Nos mains, nos yeux et notre cur commun.
O est-il prsent? Il a cess de battre.
Quatre mille levers de lune, quatre
Mille nuits sans savoir ce que veut dire seul.
prsent je le sais. Je me trouve lextrme
Pointe de mon chagrin, o lon nest plus que soi,
Dsesprment soi enferm en soi-mme.
(LAlos, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)
 Liliane Wouters 233

Nothing Exists
Nothing exists. Bread is a lie
That nourishes a body-dream.
And the shivery worm gnawing
At your seasonsanother lie.

Nothing is concrete. Eye, image,

Mirror of an ocean-mirage.
And the horizons gentle line,
Treason. Bitter deceptions all.
Under the heavens and on earth
So many things. Yet nothing sure.
Nothing pure except mystery.
Nothing true but obscurity.
Deny your hands, deny your mouth,
Deny water, wind, night and day.
All that I see, all that I touch,
All that I hold escapes from me.

******

Four Thousand Days

Four thousand days,
Four thousand days, four thousand nights,
We shared a bed, shared a table,
Drank from the same springs, drew from the same wells
And the water was not always clear but
Transparent were our hands.
Our hands, our eyes, our heart in common.
Where is it now? It beats no more.
Four thousand times the moon has risen, four
Thousand nights not knowing the word alone.
But now I know. I stand at the very peak
Of my sorrow, where one is oneself only,
So desperately one, locked up within oneself.
234 Liliane Wouters

On sen vient seul . . .

On sen vient seul et lon sen va de mme.

On sendort seul dans un lit partag.
On mange seul le pain de ses pomes.
Seul avec soi on se trouve tranger.

Seul rver que gravite lespace,

Seul sentir son moi de chair, de sang,
Seul vouloir garder linstant qui passe,
Seul passer sans se vouloir passant.

******

Au bout de lamour . . .

Au bout de lamour il y a lamour.

Au bout du dsir il ny a rien.
Lamour na ni commencement ni fin.
Il ne nat pas, il ressuscite.
Il ne rencontre pas, il reconnat.
Il se rveille comme aprs un songe
Dont la mmoire aurait perdu les clefs.
Il se rveille les yeux clairs
Et prt vivre sa journe.
Mais le dsir insomniaque meurt laube
Aprs avoir lutt toute la nuit.

Parfois lamour et le dsir dorment ensemble.

En ces nuits-l on voit la lune et le soleil.

(LAlos, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)

 Liliane Wouters 235

You come alone . . .

You come alone and likewise you leave.

You sleep alone although the bed is shared.
You eat alone the bread of your poems.
Alone with yourself, you become a stranger.

Alone to dream that space is gravitating,

Alone to feel your flesh and blood,
Alone to wish passing moments would last,
Alone to pass on, yet not want your passing.

******

At the end of love . . .

At the end of love there is love.

At the end of desire there is nothing.
Love has no beginning and no end.
It is not born, it is reborn.
It does not meet, it recognizes.
It wakes up as if from a dream
Whose keys were lost by memory.
It wakes up, bright-eyed,
Ready to live through its day.
But sleepless desire dies at dawn
After struggling the long night through.

Sometimes love and desire sleep together.

On those nights, one can see both moon and sun.
236 Liliane Wouters

Que reste-t-il . . . ?
Que reste-t-il de ton passage, Ulysse?
Un vieux chant grec auquel nous avons bu.
Ulysse! Jaurais tout aussi bien pu
Dire Csar, Hannibal. Le temps glisse
Lentement sur les rails de leurs exploits,
Tramway nomm non pas Dsir mais Nebel.
Nebel und Nacht. Quid du renom? Jai froid
Jusque dans ma charpente. Mon bel
Oranger sest dj fltri. Tout passe.
Tout est pass. Nous sommes encor l
Comme y furent Csar, Ulysse et la
Reine, laquelle tait-ce? Tout sefface.
(Scoule, disait lautre avec raison.)
Et moi je dis: de ton passage, Ulysse
(Ou bien Dupont), que reste-t-il? Saisons
Dantan, avec ou sans leurs neiges, lisses
Les traits dUlysse (ou de Durand). Sappho
Ne nous a laiss quun peu dherbe et Jeanne
Qui fut pucelle rien que cendre. Il faut
Clore ici, ne plus trop penser, Liliane.
Je sais. Mais je vois que mes jours sen vont
Et que jirai bientt dans le cortge
Des Csars, des Ulysses, des Dupont
Prposs dantan chercher les neiges.

******

Les pierres . . .
Les pierres ont des sicles pour dfendre
leur bloc puissant.
Moi jai quelques saisons pour faire entendre
mon faible accent.
Larbre tmoin de mes jours, de mes rves,
me survivra.
Quand je serai priv de sol, de sve,
il fleurira.
(LAlos, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)
 Liliane Wouters 237

What then is left . . . ?

What then is left of your passage, Ulysses?
Some old Greek poem of which we drank our share.
Ulysses! I might just as well have
Named Caesar or Hannibal. Time glides away
Slowly on the rails of their fame,
A streetcar named not Desire, but Nebel.
Nebel und Nacht. What of their glory? A cold wind
Chills me to the bone. My lovely
Orange tree is already gone. Everything passes on.
Everything has passed. But we are here still,
Just as they once were, Caesar, Ulysses and
The Queen. Which queen was it? Everything fades away.
(Flows on, as someone rightly used to say).
Now I shall ask: of your passing here, Ulysses
(or John Doe), what then is left? Seasons
Of yesteryear with or without their snows, perhaps
Ulyssess taunts (or Joe Blows). Of Sappho
There remains just a small patch of grass, and of Joan
The virgin warrior, nothing but ashes. You must
Close now, Liliane, and stop thinking so much.
I know, but I see my own days disappear
And soon I will be joining Ulysses
In the parade, with the Caesars and the Joneses,
All bound to search for snows of yesteryear.
******

Rocks . . .
Rocks withstand centuries
as a powerful block.
I have but few seasons
to raise my feeble voice.

The tree that shared my days, my dreams,

will bloom after Im gone.
When earth and sap are denied me,
the tree will still live on.
238 Liliane Wouters

Ma mre . . .

Ma mre, dans ton ventre,

tu formais mon masque de mort.

Au centre de toi, jour par jour,

chaque battement de ton cur,
chaque flux de ton sang
coutait un silence
do je serai absent.

Chaque souffle de ton haleine

prparait mon dernier soupir.

Et, dans la chaleur de ton corps,

avant le froid,
tu polissais mes os.

******

Il faut savoir . . .

Il faut savoir
tout perdre, mme soi
mme le souvenir de soi. Il faut
quitter le lieu, sortir du temps,
jeter le vtement prcaire,
ter les six membranes, accepter
que la septime avec le grain pourrisse,
que leau du fleuve tout recouvre,
que le soleil sche cette eau,
que le vent du dsert efface
sa trace sur le sable.

(Journal du scribe, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)

 Liliane Wouters 239

Mother . . .

Mother, within your womb

you were sculpting my death mask.

Deep within you, day by day,

every beat of your heart,
every pulse of your blood
listened to a stillness
a foreboding of my absence.

Even your every breath

foretold my last sigh.

And in your bodys warm abode,

long before cold would come,
you polished up my bones.
******

We must learn . . .

We must learn how

to lose everything, even ourselves
even the memory of the self. We must
leave space, exit from time,
discard our precarious vestment,
remove the six membranes, accept
that the seventh shall spoil with the grain,
that the river water shall engulf all,
that the sun shall dry up this water,
that the desert wind shall erase
its trace in the sand.
240 Liliane Wouters

Pour vivre . . .

Pour vivre, il faut planter un arbre, il faut

faire un enfant, btir une maison.

Jai seulement regard leau

qui passe en nous disant que tout scoule.

Jai seulement cherch le feu

qui brle en nous disant que tout steint.

Jai seulement suivi le vent

qui fuit en nous disant que tout se perd.

Je nai rien sem dans la terre

qui reste en nous disant: je vous attends.

******

Mon matre . . .

Mon matre est le peseur de mots.

Il me dit: rien ne vaut la page blanche.
Lencre salit le papyrus.

Matre, cest vrai.

Je sais que mes rouleaux seront poussire,
que mes crits seffaceront.

Pourtant mon rle est de nommer les choses,

quelles durent un jour ou bien mille ans.

Je nomme, donc je suis.

Les nommant, je me dis que rien nexiste

mais je crois exister.

(Journal du scribe, also in Tous les chemins conduisent la mer)

 Liliane Wouters 241

To live . . .

To live, one must plant a tree,

beget a child, build a house.

All I did was watch the water

that flows, telling us all things pass.

All I did was search for the fire

that burns, telling us all things die.

All I did was follow the wind

that flies, telling us all soon is lost.

Nothing have I sown in the earth

that remains, telling us: Ill wait for you.
******

My master . . .

My master is a weigher of words.

He tells me: nothing surpasses a blank page.
Ink soils papyrus.

Master, it is true.
I know my scrolls will turn to dust,
my writings will be erased.

Still, my job is to name things,

whether they last one day or one thousand years.

I name, therefore I am.

Naming them, I tell myself nothing exists,

but I believe that I exist.

Franoise Delcarte
(19361966)

Franoise Delcarte was born in Peruwelz (Hainaut) where she lived with
her mother, a brother, and her father who was a surgeon. After she gradu-
ated from the State Normal School in Tournai with a major in literature,
she served for some twenty years as a teachers assistant in two different
high schools, although she never actually practiced the teaching profes-
sion per se. She also worked in a bookstore for some time. In 1978,
Delcarte was seriously injured in a car accident and lost her sight in one
eye. Soon afterwards, she ceased her professional activities and lived on
a modest disability pension.
Meanwhile Franoise Delcarte had been writing poems, and two col-
lections of poetry were published in Paris in close succession, in 1967
and 1969. She did not publish again for more than two decades. Finally,
in 1995, at the initiative of the prominent Belgian writer Pierre Mertens,
a third volume of her poetry appeared in print. Perhaps this publication
would have rekindled Delcartes creativity if she had not fallen ill with
cancer in the same year. She died in the spring of 1996, leaving, it is
believed, a number of poems that may eventually be published posthu-
mously. Delcartes literary output may be modest, but its significance can-
not be measured by the number of printed pages. In an obituary, journal-
ist Pierre Maury states that In the literary world of the last thirty years,
Delcartes voice is among those that count, and will continue to count.
In her private life, Franoise Delcarte seems to have experienced peri-
ods of great distress and instability, even though, as her friends recall, she
had an engaging personality. In a memorial to Delcarte, poet Liliane
Wouters observes that Delcarte loved Bach, Kafka, the moors, black
humor and white writing . . . she was profoundly mystical although she
claimed to be a non-believer . . .
244 Franoise Delcarte

Her poetry has been described as a constant tension between de-

struction and reconstruction, and most critics emphasize the prevailing
use of the first person in her poems. This I, however, does not merely
signal a preoccupation with the self, but can more often be seen as a
projection of the plural we, thus entering the realm of the universal.
Delcartes poetry is rich with passion and complexity, giving voice to a
lucid and sensitive perception of life. She often alludes to childhood in her
writings, as if it were still an integral part of her adult being.
Dominant leitmotifs in her verse include water and fire, essential ele-
ments represented in various forms. Unquestionably, Delcarte has a way
with words. Her unusual imagery is psychologically revealing, derived
so it seemsfrom very personal patterns of similarities and contrasts.
For Delcarte, poetry is not found in objects or events themselves, but
in the way they are perceived and felt. Maury recalls how much Franoise
Delcarte admired the French poet Ren Char and how, like him, she
achieved a sort of asceticism of expression, how she moved forward,
sustained by the redeeming force of love. As Delcarte herself wrote in
one of her poems: Je minculpe damourI am guilty of love.
 Franoise Delcarte 245

Bibliography

Poetry
Infinitif. Paris: Seghers, 1967. Prix Polak de lAcadmie Royale de
Belgique, 1968.
Sables. Paris: Seghers, 1969.
Leve dun corps doubli sur un corps de mmoire. Le Roeulx (Bel-
gium): Talus dApproche, 1995.
246 Franoise Delcarte

Je me souviens de moi

Je me souviens de moi. Dans lhistoire dun jour.

De mots ma dcharge.

Tout un temps scoulait en moi, de grand naufrage,

Qui rejoignait jadis,
Perdu dans mes dlires.
Un temps pour dpasser. Un temps pour me dcrotre,
Un temps de grande aubaine, natre de mes mots.

Et me voici, vacante.

Tout un soleil survit, qui pliait tant hier.

Jai charge dabriter.

Mais dj, cest lhistoire fatigue dautres mots.

******

Brise-lames des heures

Brise-lames des heures,

Evidence, et tendresse.
Je me suis rencontre mi-temps des annes.

Tu as fait foule en moi.

Je ne gurirai plus.

(Infinitif)
 Franoise Delcarte 247

I Remember Myself

I remember myself. All in one days story.

Words that set me free.

A whole span of time flowed through me, a great shipwreck;

It led back to the past,
Lost in my mad ramblings.
A time for surpassing. A time for humbling myself,
A time of good fortune, to be born from my words.

And here I am, vacant.

A whole sun survives, that yesterday sank low.

Sheltering is my task.

But already this is the weary tale of other words.

******

Breakwaters . . .

Breakwaters of time,
Evidence, tenderness.
I met myself halfway between the years.

You became a crowd in me.

I will never be healed.

248 Franoise Delcarte

Ici, je ne veux plus. . . .

Ici je ne veux plus que lt, et ses haltes.

Le loisir dun temps chaud,
Lpaule quest le jour.

Te prendre encore la main, venir veiller laube.

Effacer jusquau soir, mabattre, me ddire.

Me pntrer de toi,
Rpondre de ton rire.
Epancher les saisons pour que le jour titube,
Ou pour quil sagenouille.

Je veux que la nuit meure.

Je veux mourir en toi.
Lt aura brl,
Un matin calcin aura long la mer.

Jaurai, moi, pour taimer,

Des taches deau dans les mains,
Et des plaies dherbe sur les lvres.

(Infinitif)
 Franoise Delcarte 249

Here I desire nothing . . .

Here I desire nothing but summer and its respite.

The leisure of warm weather,
The days shoulder to lean on.

To hold your hand once more, to come and wake the dawn.

To erase all till nightfall, to cancel, disown myself.

To be immersed in you,
To vouch for your laughter.
To let the seasons flow until the day staggers
Or falls to its knees.

I want the night to die.

I want to die in you.
Summer will then be ashes,
A charred morning will lie along the shore.

And I, for loving you, will have

My hands flecked with salt spray,
My lips bruised by blades of grass.
250 Franoise Delcarte

Jappartiens ma race

Jappartiens ma race.

Jai vaccin mon sort,

Et tu un un les motifs de me plaire.

Jai pari mes jours,

Vendang mes annes,
Et attir vers moi la plbe des journes.

Mme lombre dun doute ne me suffirait pas.

Dans lagenda du temps, jai not mes mares.

Je peux maventurer,
Mes risques sont bord,
Et jy dors, sous ma peine.

Jai des mts de fortune,

Mais des mots dinsolence.

Le jour, et ses lacunes,

Mes semaines accouples,
Le naufrage dhier dans la baie daujourdhui,
Tout cela qui prit se terre au fond des ports.

Moi, jimagine encore faire ma traverse.

(Infinitif)
 Franoise Delcarte 251

I Am One of My Race

I am one of my race.

I vaccinated fate,
And I killed one by one my reasons for self-love.

I wagered my hours,
Harvested my years,
And drew to me the dreariness of days.

The shadow of a doubt for me would not suffice.

In times agenda, I registered my tides.

Now I can venture forth,
My chances are on board,
And there I sleep, at my own risk.

Though my masts are impaired,

My words are imperious.

The day, and its blank spaces,

My weeks linked together,
Yesterdays shipwreck in todays bay,
Everything bound to die deep in the harbor lies.

And I still imagine I am crossing the sea.

252 Franoise Delcarte

Je voudrais vivre ici

Je voudrais vivre ici,

Parmi les pluies teintes.

Dans un grand va-et-vient de fts et de mare.

Mappauvrir,
tre riche,
Des heures
Creuses je men souviens,
Le temps voulait
Quun btail aille patre,
Que laumne soit accorde.
Le temps voulait que lon souscrive
Au prix quon louait dans les champs
Le restant des mots et des vivres.

Le feu que pourtant jouvre grand,

Sera cendr dannes.

Millsime des jours,

Btis de bois, de pierre,
Je me porte garant du temps qui vous revient,

Et jannule un refrain.

Je vivrai dinterstices.

(Sables)
 Franoise Delcarte 253

I Would Like to Live Here

I would like to live here

Among the faded rains.

In a huge coming and going of forests and tides.

To become poorer,
To be rich,
Idle hours
That I remember well,
The times demanded
That cattle go to pasture,
That alms be dispensed.
The times demanded that we accept
The price for renting in the fields
What was left of words and crops.

Though my fire is opened wide,

The ashes of years are piled high.

Endless sequence of days,

Built of wood, of stone,
I vouch for time that is rightly yours,

And cancel my refrain.

I will live on what lies in-between.

254 Franoise Delcarte

Je parle de gens simples

Je parle de gens simples

Venus faire fortune,
Qui ravaudaient leurs mots,
Leur temps,
Ctait lacune
Courante
Et je disais
Que les heures de nos jours se vendaient,
Et quon sappropriait lavoine,
Les bleuets,
Le temps quil avait fait.

Et quil ne restait plus aucun mot nous dire.

Quelle immense fortune allions-nous dpenser?
Quel jour allais-je omettre?
Et qui men dispensait?

Non.
Je ne ferai pas rcolte,
Mais lavoine
Jaurais d la surprendre,
Au tout petit matin,
Et men faire loffrande.

Jaurai d faire du soleil un temps darmistice.

Pourtant, jai report ma faim,

Je navais dautre vice
Que mon pain quotidien,
Et le rompre me fut le plus grand des supplices.

(Sables)
 Franoise Delcarte 255

I Speak of Simple Folk

I speak of simple folk

Come to make a fortune;
They would mend their words,
Their time,
A commonplace
Hiatus,
And I would say
That the hours of our days were sold
That the harvest had been taken,
The cornflowers,
The prevailing weather.

And that not a single word remained to be told.

What immense fortune were we going to spend?

Which day would be left out?
And then who would decide?

No.
I will harvest nothing,
But I should have caught
The crop
At the very break of day
And made it an offering to myself.

I should have used the sun to make a time for peace.

Still, I deferred my hunger,

I had no other vice
Than my daily bread,
And breaking it was for me the worst of tortures.
256 Franoise Delcarte

Pass le jour . . .

Pass le jour, ce nest droite

Que des champs labours,
Des demeures,
Des terres.

Pas un t na laiss trace

De soleil,
Dombre,
Qui donc efface?

Ici, ce que lon sme est ruine,

Et ce que lon rcolte a faim.

Les heures,
Cest le temps qui les marque,
Ce quon supprime est enfantin,
Le sable joue,
Et lon rprime
Ce quaurait d tre demain.

Pour chaque plage anonyme,

Pour chaque champ derreurs,
Pass le jour,
mare basse,
Mme si cest encore moi qui meurs

Je demande

Que ne soit lapid dans le temps des journes,

Que ce qui fut trs vain.

Et,
Je ne suis pas ne.

(Sables)
 Franoise Delcarte 257

Past this day . . .

Past this day, to the right

Only ploughed fields,
Houses,
Plots of land.

Not one summer has left a trace

Of sun,
Of shade,
Who does the erasing?

Here, what is sown is ruin,

What is harvested is hunger.

Its time
That marks the hours,
What we suppress is childish,
Sand in the hourglass plays out its game,
And what should have been tomorrow
Is constrained.

For every nameless beach,

For each field of errors,
Past this day,
At low tide,
Even if again I am the one who dies,

I ask

That, as day follows day, no stone be thrown

Except at things most vain.

And,
I never was born.
258 Franoise Delcarte

Sur ce tableau

Sur ce tableau,
mettons quil pleuve ou bien quil neige

un enfant dessine mais on ne le voit pas,

il met en couleur
les pains perdus
lodeur de cacao
la chaleur du pole qui ronfle
un sapin
de la rsine.

Mais cest tout aussi bien sa fivre

pareille pour lui de lt
quun dimanche matin
que des raisins
que des noisettes
cest aussi bien le bruit dun cerceau
ou celui dun petit pav lisse
quon appelle paradis

il dessine, il peint

ce tableau il a d le commencer
dans les annes seize cent et des
peu prs lpoque
o Rembrandt peignait des scnes dintrieur
dcalques nigmatiques des barbouillis de lenfant.

Tous deux se font et se sont fait face.

Rien dautre na circul dans lhistoire

que cet change de toile et de papier.
Etrange correspondance
qui ne cesse de susciter le temps pour le crever,
toile ou ballon ou voile qui gonfle
et qui rejette volont des boulettes de papier mch

(Leve dun corps doubli sur un corps de mmoire)

 Franoise Delcarte 259

In This Picture

In this picture
let us suppose it is raining or snowing

a child is drawing but cannot be seen,

he proceeds to color
the French toast
the smell of cocoa
the warmth of the humming stove
a fir tree
some resin.

But it might as well be his fervor

the same for him as a patch of summer
or a Sunday morning
some grapes
or hazelnuts
it might be a hoop rolling
or the sound of a smooth little stone
called paradise

he draws, he paints

this picture, he probably started it

in the year sixteen hundred and some
just about the time
Rembrandt painted indoor scenes
enigmatic decals of the childs daubing.

Both faceand have facedeach other.

Nothing else came up in the story

but this exchange of canvas for paper.
A strange correspondence
that arouses time ceaselessly just to puncture it
whether canvas or balloon or wind-swollen sail
and that throws off at will wads of papier mch.
260 Franoise Delcarte

Etat de suie latente . . .

Etat de suie latente au centre dun foyer

comme pour lenfant le tourniquet
lespace et le temps de confondre
sinon de broyer.

Davant la somnolence
un souvenir tenace argent:
lastronome-enfant que jtais
avait vu se lever une aube
cerf-volant de lune qui montait
en plein coeur dune nuit dt
et comme elle semblait enroue,

son pre la lui avait chante.

(Leve dun corps doubli sur un corps de mmoire)

Soot lies latent . . .

Soot lies latent inside the hearth

as for the child in a turnstile
space and time can be confusing
if not crushing.

From times before drowsiness

a lasting silver memory:
the child-astronomer I was
had watched a dawn rising
a moon-kite climbing high
in the very heart of a summer night
and since she sounded a bit hoarse

her father sang the dawn to her.

 Franoise Delcarte 261


Lucie Spde
(1936)

A native of Brussels, Lucie Spde is proud of her dual cultural heritage,

the legacy of a Franco-Flemish mother and a Walloon father. Yet, her art
crosses cultural boundaries and, as she is fond of saying, she belongs to
the universe.
A thoughtful godfather introduced Lucie Spde to French poetry, reading
Villon, Hugo, Apollinaire, Rimbaud and Baudelaire to her from her early
childhood. However, she did not formally begin writing poetry until 1969,
when she met Jeanine Moulin, a widely known Belgian poet who became
her mentor and friend.
The mother of two sons and a daughter, Spde first wrote stories and
poems for them, and later continued to publish books for children and
adolescents. A number of her works, including plays as well as stories and
poems, have been broadcast in Belgium and other Francophone coun-
tries and have earned her several awards. Lucie Spdes literary career
has been enhanced by her work as a publicity writer and translator. She
also conducts creative writing workshops and poetry readings and is ac-
tive in international Francophone societies.
Although her early collections of poetry tend to portray sensual love
and eroticism, the prevailing mood is one of sadness and revolt. As Spdes
work has evolved, however, it reveals distinct philosophical overtones.
Her recent book of poems, Les Jardins du silence is reminiscent of an
oriental meditation, while Dialogues avec toi, in which the poet speaks
to God in brief, poignant verse, is suffused with mysticism.
Lucie Spdes poems explore a variety of subjects, but the celebration
of life in all its manifestations forms a common thread throughout her
work. Spdes caring attention to each detail in her depiction of the natu-
ral world is reflected in her attention to the rich potentialities of language.
264 Lucie Spde

Many poems play with words and their sonorities, while others have a
whimsical quality all their own. In the same vein, Spde expertly creates
poetic effects with typography alone, as in the poems of Comme on
plonge en la mer or Chansons de loiseau.
The author herself, alluding to the wistful tone characteristic of her
verse, speaks of a day by day conquest over the self, guided by love for
everything that exists on earth. Poet and critic Jacques Charpentreau
has compared Spdes poems to luminous bolts of lightning; they reveal
some unusual or fantastic aspect of our everyday world. Indeed, as Jeanine
Moulin aptly observed, for Lucie, writing is praying. Spdes work is
vitally hopeful. Hope, not as naive optimism, blind to the tragedy and
cruelty of life, but hope, sustained by faith, that represents a conscious
choice to move forward rather than lament, a voice for rejoicing, as
honorary president of the Belgian Academy, Georges Sion, suggests.
 Lucie Spde 265

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Volte-Face. Paris: Grasset, 1973.
Inventaire. Bruxelles: Jacques Antoine, 1974.
La Savourante. Bruxelles: Andr De Rache, 1978.
Comme on plonge en la mer. Spa (Belgium): La Louve,1984.
Eves. Amay (Belgium):LArbre Paroles, 1986.
Chansons de loiseau. Ayeneux (Belgium): Ttras-Lyre, 1993.
Dialogues avec Toi. Lommel (Belgium): Et in Arcadia Ego, 1995.
Les Jardins du silence. Lommel: Et in Arcadia Ego, 1995.
LIle triangulaire. Noeux-les-Mines (France): Ecbolade, 1996.
Ferveurs. Bruxelles: Les Elytres, 1996. (Includes a selection of poems
and prose pieces from previous collections and some new poems)
Chansons de larbre. Rimbach (Germany): En Fort/Im Wald, 1998.
(Trilingual edition in French, German & Dutch)

Short Stories
Furies Douces. Bruxelles; Jacques Antoine, 1984.
La Rencontre, Les Cahiers du Groupe (Belgium), no.26 (1992).
Le Mot, Sapriphage (France), no. 17 (April 1993).
266 Lucie Spde

Etapes
Fut un temps-bien joli temps
o jignorais notre terre:
jtais au chaud en toi, mre.
Fut un temps-bien joli temps
o je ne vis pas la terre:
ton sein fut lhorizon, mre.
Fut un temps-bien joli temps
mes pieds natteignaient pas la terre
du haut de tes genoux, mre.
Fut un temps-bien joli temps
o tte distana terre.
Tu grandis . . . soupirait mre.
Fut un temps-bien joli temps
je neus plus les pieds sur terre.
Tu aimes trop disait mre.
Viendra un temps-bien joli temps
je serai six pieds sous terre.
Je tattends sourit ma mre.
(Volte-Face, also in Ferveurs)
******
Elle se trace . . .
Elle se trace
une jeunesse
elle se peint
une fracheur
et superpose
les beaux mensonges.
Clos de rimmel
tes deux paupires
masque de rose
le temps qui meurt.
Ce soir tattend
en pleine face
la face froide
du miroir.
(La Savourante, also in Ferveurs)
 Lucie Spde 267

Step by Step
There was a timea lovely time-
when I knew nothing of our earth:
I was snug inside you, Mother.
There was a timea lovely time
when I saw nothing of the earth:
your breast was my horizon, Mother.
There was a timea lovely time
when my feet did not reach the ground,
as I sat on your knee, Mother.
There was a timea lovely time
when my head rose far from the ground.
You are growing up, sighed Mother.
There was a timea lovely time
when my feet did not touch the ground.
Youre so much in love, said Mother.
Will come a timea lovely time
Ill be six feet under ground.
Im waiting for you, smiles Mother.
******
She draws . . .
She draws herself
a young face
paints herself
a fresh look
and piles up
the pretty lies.
Enclose your eyelids
with mascara
mask with pink blush
the dying years.
Tonight expect
an icy glare
when face to face
you meet your mirror.
268 Lucie Spde

Croisires

Viens, je suis un bateau, carne gnreuse

aux long flancs rebondis en partance vers toi.

Je suis la golette aile par quatre fois,

la caravelle droit vers tes souples rivages.

Je suis ce corsaire sous patente royale

qui te croise, te court, taborde, te ranonne.

Je suis si tu le veux ton dragueur de souci,

un kayak de peau douce, un bateau de plaisance.

Je suis felouque aigu, chimre aux reins troits,

lclair dune trave qui dchire ta chair.

Je suis la toute simple aux branchages nous

le radeau indolent berant ta quitude.

Et je puis tre aux soirs o lOrient te parle

le sampan qui glisse sur un fleuve dor ple.

Mais passe sur nos corps un lent battement dmes,

grands ventails du ciel nous voici blanches voiles.

(Inventaire, also in Ferveurs)

 Lucie Spde 269

Cruisings

Come, I am a boat with generous hull,

with rounded flanks, bound toward you.

I am the four-sailed schooner,

the caravel headed for your supple shores.

I am the privateer that by royal command

intercepts, pursues, boards and ransoms you.

I am if you wish, your trouble-sweeper,

kayak of lissome skin, vessel of pleasure.

I am the sharp edged felucca, slim hipped fantasy,

a prows flash piercing your flesh.

I am the simple craft of knotted boughs,

the raft adrift lulling you to stillness.

And on nights when the Orient calls you

I can be the sampan gliding on a pale gold river.

Should our bodies be touched by the flutter of souls,

great sweeps of sky would rustle our white sails.
270 Lucie Spde

Aux paumes du potier . . .

Aux paumes du potier

tre
tourbillon des courbes
lignes taraudantes
valse enivre.

Aux paumes du potier

tre
toupie qui slance
forme qui se fond
se cabre
seffondre
se cambre.

Etre
argile
souple et simple
tre
innombrables naissances
tre
aux mains du potier.

(Comme on plonge en la mer)

 Lucie Spde 271

In the Potterss Hands

In the potters hands

to be
whirling curves
piercing lines
a giddy waltz.

In the potters hands

to be
a top that spins forth
a form that dissolves
resists
collapses
arches.

To be
clay
supple and simple
to be
born in countless ways
to be
in the potters hands.
272 Lucie Spde

Univers

tre loiseau sur la branche.

tre la branche sur larbre.
tre larbre sur lherbe.
tre lherbe. Et la fourmi.
tre larbre sur ses racines
tre ses racines dans la terre
tre la terre et sa fournaise.
tre son feu dont tout surgit.

tre loiseau sur la branche.

tre loiseau dans son cri
tre la branche dans le ciel
tre le ciel dans la lumire
tre la lumire dans lespace.

tre lespace en son silence

tre loiseau dans son cri.
tre ce rien, cet infini.

(Chansons de loiseau)
 Lucie Spde 273

Universe

To be the bird on the branch.

To be the branch on the tree.
To be the tree in the grass.
To be grass. And ant.
To be the tree on its roots
to be its roots in the earth
to be the earth and its furnace.
To be its lifegiving fire.

To be the bird on the branch.

to be the bird in its cry
to be the branch in the sky
to be the sky in the light
to be the light deep in space.

To be space in its silence

to be the bird in its cry.
To be atom, infinity.
274 Lucie Spde

LIrrsistible

Attire vers Toi

Et non par Toi
Comme leau par le soleil
comme leau qui retourne au nuage
et sen revient au sol
en incessant voyage.
******

Yahv

Au-del des doctrines, des rites et des frontires

je Te nommerai
lInnomm
le Sans Visage
aux mille visages
la Face de tous les possibles
et de toute ralit.

le Sans nom je Te nommerai

le Nom sans nombre
le Un et le Multiple
le Simple et le Contradictoire

Celui en qui tout se rejoint

sunit sharmonise existe

lInnommable, lIncommensurable
je Te nommerai.

(Dialogues avec Toi, also in Ferveurs)

 Lucie Spde 275

Irresistible

Attracted toward Thee

not by Thee
like water toward the sun
like water returning to the cloud
and coming back to earth
in a journey without end.
******

Yahve

Beyond doctrines, rites and frontiers

I shall name Thee
The Unnamed
The Faceless One
of a thousand faces
the Face of all possibilities
and of every reality.

Nameless I shall name Thee

Name without number
the One and the Manifold
the Simple and the Contradictory

He in whom all things are joined

unite harmonize exist

the Unnamable the Immeasurable

I shall name Thee.
276 Lucie Spde

Le Vide

Cest une pense

qui passe
comme dans le ciel
passe une nue
rose ou cendre.

Regarde-la
qui seffiloche
se disperse

regarde
lair
pourtant invisible
labsorber.

Deviens ainsi
le nuage
le vent
lespace
illimit

******

LEquilibre

Sveiller
bulle
pose
sur un cerceau

fragilit
sur le mobile
sur linstable
sur lquilibre
sur le point de se rompre.

Perfection lgre et transitoire

danser
bulle
sur un cerceau.

(Les Jardins du silence)

 Lucie Spde 277

Emptiness

It is just a thought
passing
as in the sky
passes a cloud
pink or ashen

Watch it
fray
and scatter

Watch
the invisible
air
absorb it.

Try to become
cloud
wind
or space
limitless

******

Equilibrium

To awaken
as a bubble
resting
on a hoop

fragility poised
on mobility
on instability
on balance
ready to break.

Perfectly light and transitory

dancing
as a bubble
on a hoop.
278 Lucie Spde

Fakir

Femme
musique
sinueuse

Femme
faiseuse
de charmes

Femme
rythme
fascinant

Femme
fakir
en attente
de serpent.
******

Circ

Femme lanneau
Circ silencieuse
magicienne des nacres
des cercles et des creux
femme firmament terrier et onde.

Femme passeuse de soleils

semeuse de songes
leveuse
dastres blouis.

Femme enfantant la fivre

sage-femme des reins.

Femme reine
le temps
dun cierge
qui steint.

(LIle triangulaire)
 Lucie Spde 279

Fakir

Woman
sinuous
music

Woman
caster
of spells

Woman
captivating
rhythm

Woman
fakir
awaiting
the serpent.
******

Circe

Woman of rings
silent Circe
sorceress of pearls
of circles and hollows
woman firmament burrow and wave.

Woman ferrying suns

sowing dreams
summoning
dazzled stars

Woman begetting fervors

midwife to desire.

Woman queen
the span
of a candle
burning.
280 Lucie Spde

Il est la branche
Elle est la fleur
Linverse parfois aussi.

Ils sont le fruit.

(Harmonie)
******

Pareille larbre
laisser passer le vent
prendre plaisir ses caresses
aimer son propre balancement
Et si le vent se fait tornade
ployer tre souple
pour laisser
passer le vent.

(Bien-tre)
******

Ce fut un t de framboise et de mirabelle

un t dentente dore
comme un abricot.

Nos branches ployaient

sous des fruits de tendresse
des fringales soudaines
me jetaient dans tes bras.

Aujourdhui nous savons

loin des fausses promesses
que le Ciel est aussi
un jardin dici-bas.

(A la belle saison)

(Chansons de larbre)
 Lucie Spde 281

He is the branch
She is the blossom
Or the reverse as fits their mood.

They are the fruit.

(Harmony)

******

Like the tree

let the wind pass by

enjoy its caress

love your own swaying.

And if the wind becomes tempest

yield be supple

and let
the wind pass by.

(Well-Being)
******

It was a summer of berries and plums

a summer of harmony golden
as an apricot.

Our branches gave way

beneath the fruits of love
sudden cravings
drove me into your arms.

Today we understand
looking back on false promises
that Heaven may be
a garden on Earth.

(Midsummer)

Anne-Marie Derse
(1938)

The Belgian province of Namur is home for Anne-Marie Derse who was
born in the little town of Franire and now resides in Gembloux.
She was only two years old when Belgium became involved in World
War II. While her father was a prisoner of war, she and her mother and
brother took refuge in southern France for several months, as did many
other families who feared the occupation. After returning to Belgium,
Anne-Marie lived for some time with her maternal grandparents. She
likes to recall her life of freedom exploring the countryside; she also
remembers fondly the stories of love and adventure her grandmother
used to tell her.
Later, as a student in Namurs Lyce Royal, her literary and artistic
interests developed rapidly. She describes herself as a tall, athletic adoles-
cent, very much fascinated by poetry, drama and music. Her theatrical
performances earned her several awards. After her graduation from the
Namur Academy of Fine Arts in 1959, she married Robert Bouttefeux
and soon the couple settled in the town of Gembloux. They had four
children, two daughters and twin sons.
Anne-Marie Derses poetic career began at last, again, and forever,
as she puts it, when, in 1977, she met poet Andre Sodenkamp who was
to become her dear friend and mentor. From then on, as Derse affirms,
My writing thrived like a plant suddenly freed from its earthen prison.
Over the years, Derse published several volumes of poetry in Belgium
and in France, contributed texts to various anthologies and collective
works, including some childrens books. She is a regular contributor to
literary reviews and frequently participates in poetic activities. It was at
the Lige Biennial Poetry Colloquium, in 1988, that she met Franco-
Belgian writer and editor Alain Bosquet, who was to became her mentor
284 Anne-Marie Derse

from then on. Commenting on Derses poetry, he writes: Sensuality,

instinctive opposition between being and non-being . . . love that needs
spirituality, and spirituality that cannot survive without incarnation . . .
There is no soft-heartedness in her verse, and no hint of dry intellectual-
ism . . .
Derse has received five literary awards for her poetry, both in France
and in Belgium. Several of her poems have been translated into German
and English. As of this writing, Derse is preparing a new collection
entitled Le Miel noir (Black Honey). If her poetry is so mysterious,
writes critic Frdric Kiesel, it is paradoxically because it is simple. Noth-
ing is more direct or more transparent than Anne-Marie Derses words,
and yet they present us with an enigma: the very enigma of life itself, a
sudden, free, joyful, terrified message of love.
 Anne-Marie Derse 285

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Nue sous un manteau de paroles. Bruxelles: Maison Internationale de la
Posie, 1980.
Un Pays de miroirs. Ottignies-Louvain-la-Neuve (Belgium): Dieu- Brichart,
1982.
Visage vol loiseau. Ottignies-Louvain-la-Neuve: Dieu-Brichart, 1985.
La Nuit souvre lorage. Paris: Le Cherche-Midi, 1990.
Le Secret des portes fermes. Paris: Belfond, 1994.
Le Miel noir. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles, 1999.

Anne-Marie Derse has published many poems in literary periodicals and

in the following anthologies:

Bosquet, Alain & Liliane Wouters, eds.: La Posie Francophone de

Belgique, vol. IV. Bruxelles, 1992.
Deforges, Rgine, ed.: Pomes de Femmes. Paris, 1993.
Lorraine, Bernard, ed.: Les Transports potiques. Paris, 1994.
Bosquet, Alain, ed.: Anthologie de la Posie Franaise Contemporaine.
Paris, 1994.
Charpentreau, Jacques, ed.: La Ville des Potes. Paris, 1997.
286 Anne-Marie Derse

Messieurs,

Vous mavez condamne par contumace.

Le couperet est tomb.
Vous mavez rpudie,
coupable de ne pas marcher
aux pas de vos rites ancestraux.
Pourtant, Messieurs, je suis
la favorite de lherbe
qui clabousse de chaleur
mes douceurs secrtes.
Jai pour le vent
des faiblesses damante.
Nue, jaurais pu vous parler
de mes vallons,
de mes chemins ombreux,
de mes jambes qui emprisonnent,
de mes bras qui se tendent.
Mes lvres, Messieurs, auraient
pu vous dire des mots de silence.
Je ne vous parlerai
que de mes tristesses.
Vous ne saurez rien de mes danses de minuit.

(Nue sous un manteau de paroles)

 Anne-Marie Derse 287

Gentlemen:

You have condemned me in absentia.

The fateful blade has come down.
You repudiated me,
guilty of not walking
in step with your ancestral rites.
And yet, gentlemen, I am
favored by the grass
that splashes its warmth
on my secret splendor.
Toward the wind I feel
a lovers indulgence.
Naked, I could have told you
about my valleys,
my shaded pathways,
my legs that can imprison,
my arms that can embrace.
My lips, gentlemen, could
have told you words of silence.
I will speak to you
only of my sorrows.
You will know nothing of my midnight dancing.
288 Anne-Marie Derse

Fille de janvier

Fille des ordinateurs,

fille dacier
avec tes dix-sept ans
dessins sur tes lvres,
tous les hasards tattendent.

Fille de janvier,
ma secrte neige,
tu devines tous les gestes.
Hier na plus sa place.
Tu rves darbres barbels
et tu sais que la libert
na pas dodeur.

Tu te glisses
dans lhypnose du bruit.
Tes longues divinits
de cuivre et de paillettes,
avec des yeux denfants,
rythment lamour.

Le printemps est sur toi

comme un chuchotement.

(Un pays de miroirs)

 Anne-Marie Derse 289

Januarys Daughter

Daughter of computers,
girl of steel
with your seventeen years
etched on your lips,
every risk awaits you.

Januarys daughter,
my secret snow,
you foresee every gesture.
Yesterday has lost its place.
You dream of barbed wire trees
and you know that freedom
gives off no scent.

You slip into

the hypnosis of sounds.
Your tall goddesses
of copper and tinsel
have the eyes of a child
and the rhythms of love.

Spring is all over you

like a soft whisper.
290 Anne-Marie Derse

Ma posie, ma double

Le versant gauche
de ton corps
celui qui est lombre
de la lampe
ruisselle dor bruni.
Une partie de ton sourire
est nigme savante.
Dans quel sabbat mythologique
as-tu libr tes gestes?

Tout ce ct de toi
me fait peur.
Il avoue ce que la clart nie,
la course des doigts
dans le vertige des courbes,
le voyage des lvres
longues haltes.

Je ferme les yeux pour mieux te voir.

Seule la nuit connat
les secrets de lor sur ta peau.

Lautre versant de ton corps,

tout en lignes claires
dsarme et rassure.
Protg dinnocence,
il offre une main qui apaise
plus quelle ne caresse.

Ma posie, ma double,
je vais crire avec mon ct clair,
mes dsirs dombre.

(Un Pays de miroirs)

 Anne-Marie Derse 291

Poetry, My Other Self

On the left side

of your body
the side shaded
by the lamp
dark gold rivulets are streaming.
Part of your smile
is a clever enigma.
What spell, what witchcraft
has released such freedom in you?

This side of you

frightens me.
It admits what the light denies,
the progress of fingers
in dizzying curves,
the journey of lips
with lingering pauses.

I close my eyes to better see you.

Only night can know
the secrets of this gold on your skin.

The other side of your body,

etched in clear lines,
is calm and reassuring.
Protected by its innocence,
it extends a hand that soothes
more than it caresses.

My poetry, my other self,

I will write from the side of light,
about my shadowy desires.
292 Anne-Marie Derse

Le rve du crateur
De mes mains, mieux que dun ventre,
sortira une statue
dorage et damour.
Faonne dans un rve dargile,
elle jaillira veine de douceur,
terre femme que le feu durcira.
Mes doigts toucheront son me
avant que son corps ne sachve.
De mille caresses lisses
surgiront tant de rires sauvages.
Ses lvres me donneront la soif
et dj la douleur.
Ses seins seront doux sous la joue,
son ventre gardera le secret
de mon passage.
Lentement,
je glisserai le long de son corps
pour natre delle enfin.
(Un pays de miroirs)
******
Deux oiseaux sans saisons
Si la vie est courte,
peuple de Toi
la mort sera longue,
si peu dcharne
que nos corps seront lents
se dshabituer des douceurs.
Nous trouverons des grottes
o nous nicherons
comme deux oiseaux sans saisons.
Un jour nous reviendrons
boire la surface
un peu deau claire.
(Visage vol loiseau)
 Anne-Marie Derse 293

The Creators Dream

Not from a womb, but out of my hands,
a statue will be born
made of storm and love.
Fashioned in a dream of clay,
it will emerge streaked with gentle veins,
an earth-woman that fire will harden.
My fingers will touch her soul
before her body is complete.
From a thousand soft caresses
many wild joys will arise.
From her lips I will know thirst
and, too soon, suffering.
Her breasts will be sweet on my cheek,
her belly will keep the secret
of my passage.
Slowly,
I will glide along her body
and be born from her at last.
******
Two Birds without Seasons
If life is brief,
filled with your presence,
death will be long,
enough flesh will remain
that our bodies will be slow
to lose their taste for good things.
We will find a cave
there to build a nest
like two birds without seasons.
Some day we will return
to drink from the surface
a mouthful of fresh water.
294 Anne-Marie Derse

Un ciel engross de neige

Un ciel engross de neige

pse jusqu la dchirure.
Sous ses brumes de lait
la terre est fille neuve.
Les fermes,
lourdes termitires
boursouflent le sol.

Dans le matin peine ouvert,

le vent soulve de lgers fantmes.
Un dsert de vagues blanches
efface lhorizon.

Balafre de sillons parallles,

la route dnonce notre passage.
Les phares poursuivent
un essaim dor.

Nous sommes prisonniers

dun immense cocon
qui cdera lentement
sous la pousse du temps.

******

Pour ma fille

Je tai tenue, mon trangre,

dans un pige de chair
pour que tu rinventes le monde,
pour que tu naisses forte
de toutes mes faiblesses,
mon rocher sur lequel
je me brise.

(Visage vol loiseau)

 Anne-Marie Derse 295

A Sky Pregnant with Snow

A sky pregnant with snow

full to bursting.
Under its milky veils
earth is born anew.
Farm houses,
like massive anthills,
raise blisters on the ground.

In the morning twilight,

the wind releases airy phantoms.
A desert of white waves
blots out the horizon.

Scarred by parallel furrows,

the road betrays our passage.
Headlights pursue
a swarm of golden flakes.

We remain prisoners
in an immense cocoon
that will slowly give way
as time presses on.
******

To My Daughter

I have held you, little stranger,

deep in a trap of flesh
so that you might reinvent the world,
so that you might emerge strong
from all my weaknesses,
you, my rock, on which
I founder.
296 Anne-Marie Derse

La femme
La femme se couche pour lamour,
pour lenfant et la mort.
Le reste du temps,
elle est debout
avec sur les lvres
la mlodie
du charmeur de serpents.
Elle est debout devant
le train qui part,
devant la porte ferme,
devant un feu
quelle est seule voir.
Ses mains se crispent,
les miroirs se dforment.
Elle regarde les femmes
grosses denfants
qui entranent vers ce feu
un peu de chair tendre.
(Visage vol loiseau)
******
Les quatre portes
Jai ouvert la premire porte.
Mes lvres, rouges de lenvie de mordre,
ont risqu un sourire.
Quand jai ouvert la deuxime porte,
les parfums volaient comme des tourneaux.
Ils entonnrent un chant de bienvenue.
La troisime porte ouverte,
nos fantasmes sortirent de terre.
Ils formrent sur le mur
une chenille qui nous ftait.
Quand tu as ouvert la quatrime porte,
nous ne formions plus quune ombre.
(La nuit souvre lorage)
 Anne-Marie Derse 297

Woman
Woman lies down for love,
for childbirth and death.
The rest of the time,
she stands,
the snake charmers
melody
hovering on her lips.
She stands, facing
a departing train,
facing a door closing,
facing a fire
she alone can see.
Her hands are clenched tight,
Mirrors distort all reflections.
She watches women
heavy with child
who draw to this fire
a bit of tender flesh.
******

Four Doors
I opened the first door.
My lips, red in their yearning to bite,
ventured a smile.
When I opened the second door,
fragrances flew up like blackbirds
and sang a song of welcome.
Once the third door was opened,
our fantasies sprang up from nowhere,
lined up on the wall,
in a festive parade.
When you opened the fourth door,
our shadows became one.
298 Anne-Marie Derse

La nuit souvre lorage

La nuit souvre lorage,

accouplement mauve,
boursouflure.

Le ciel charg
comme un bateau marchand
jette lancre.
Le danger plus lourd
chaque instant
distille une moiteur
de serre.

Miroitante de mercure,
la valle des sept Meuses
souffle la brume
par ses narines grises.

La valle a rejoint la nuit,

deux femelles humides
que lorage pntre.

Et moi, debout,
dans le vent anxieux,
jespre la dchirure.

(La nuit souvre lorage)

 Anne-Marie Derse 299

Night Opens up to the Storm

Night opens up to the storm,

a purple intercourse,
tumescence.

The sky, laden

like a merchant ship,
drops anchor.
Alarm, more oppressive
with each moment,
distills the dampness
of a greenhouse.

Shimmer of mercury,
the vale of the Seven Rivers
blows streaks of mist
through its grey nostrils.

The valley has joined the night,

two moist females
penetrated by the storm.

And I stand there

in the anxious wind,
hoping for the break.
300 Anne-Marie Derse

Jhabite en moi

Jhabite en moi.
Je me tolre.
Un mtre septante-cinq
de faiblesse,
dorgueil,
de luxure.
Je me supporte,
je me caresse,
je me suspecte,
jinvente des lgendes.
Un mtre septante-cinq
de rves,
de mensonges,
de fleurs froisses,
de sexe de service.
Je suis en moi,
jattends ma naissance.

(Le Secret des portes fermes)

 Anne-Marie Derse 301

I Live within Myself

I live within myself.

I tolerate myself.
One meter seventy-five
of weakness,
of pride,
of lust.
I put up with myself,
I flatter myself,
I suspect myself,
I invent legends.
One meter seventy-five
of dreams,
of lies,
of crushed flowers,
of sex on demand.
I exist within myself,
waiting to be born.
302 Anne-Marie Derse

La prire la rose

Je veux tre livre moi-mme,

poings lis, en chemise,
faire amende honorable,
me remettre entre mes mains.
Je maccuse davoir reni
les symboles, les signes,
liguane, ce dieu en armure.
Je ne veux de combat
que le combat du bleu
sa dernire parade
avant la nuit.

Je maccuse davoir remis demain

lamour, le pome, lenfant,
la lettre, le crime parfait
que je devais faire le jour mme.

Je me dclare coupable,
mais je me donne labsolution
avec la prire la rose
rcite sept fois
avant de mendormir.

(Le Secret des portes fermes)

 Anne-Marie Derse 303

A Prayer to the Rose

I want to be delivered to myself,

my wrists bound, wearing a hair shirt,
I want to make amends,
to commit myself to my own hands.

I confess to denying
symbols, signs,
and this armored god, the iguana.
The only battle I desire
is the combat of the blue
in a final thrust and parry
before the fall of night.

I confess to putting off till tomorrow

love, poem, child,
the letter, the perfect crime
that I was to do that very day.

I declare myself guilty,

but I absolve myself
with a prayer to the rose
to be recited seven times
before I go to sleep.

Vra Feyder
(1939)

Vra Feyder was born in Lige shortly before the outbreak of the second
World War. Her mother was a Belgian of Serbian origin, her father a
Jewish immigrant from Poland who died in a nazi concentration camp in
Auschwitz when Vra was still very young. He was a poet and had pub-
lished a volume of verse in French shortly before his arrest. Some forty
years later, Vra Feyder arranged for a new edition of her fathers Reflets,
for which she wrote a preface entitled Le dernier mot (The Last Word).
Although Feyder now lives in Paris, Belgium remains ever present in her
mind. Her essay Lige, which is largely autobiographical, represents a
superb homage to her native city.
Vra Feyder spent her childhood in poverty and anguish, and all her
writings bear the mark of the tragic events of her life. Although she is now
known primarily as a playwright and novelist, her first published works
were poems, starting in 1961. Indeed, all her works are poetic in nature,
for Feyder excels in bringing out the versatility of language. Her imagery
shows a highly developed sensitivity to rhythms and moods, as do the
narrative structures of her novels and the dream-like settings of her plays.
Feyder was awarded several literary prizes for poetry, as well as for a
novel and a number of her plays. Her dramatic productions have received
acclaim in many European countries, in Japan, and in the United States,
where her plays have been staged in the original French or in English
translation. She has also authored radio plays and movie scenarios in
addition to other short prose works.
Vra Feyders poems may be judged difficult because of their highly
unusual images, the transposition of word meanings, the liberated
sometimes ellipticsyntax. Yet, in contrast to this modernism, rhythms
and sonorities are an intrinsic part of her poetry. Her experimentation
306 Vra Feyder

with assonance and alliteration, and sometimes with rhyme, poses a chal-
lenge for the translator and often cannot be reproduced in English. Largely
autobiographical, the last selection presented here is from a 74-paragraph
prose poem dedicated to her mother Elise. The prevailing atmosphere
here, as in most of her other texts, is somber.
Vra Feyder is a great defender of human rights and is particularly
sensitive to human and animal suffering. Thus, the epigraph of her novel
Caldeiras (almost identical to the one in the poetic collections Franche
Tnbre and Le Fond de ltre est froid) reads: To all victims of incar-
ceration, oppression and torture, whether men or beasts.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Ferrer le sombre. Mortemart (France): Rougerie, 1967.
Pays labsence. Paris: Millas-Martin, 1970. Prix Franois Villon.
Passionnaire. Neuchtel (Switzerland): Numaga, 1974. Prix de lAcadmie
Franaise.
Epars. Rosporden (France): Htel Continental, 1984.
Franche tnbre. Rennes (France): Ubacs, 1984.
Petit incinrateur de poche. Ambialet (France): Pierre Laleure, 1987.
Eaux douces, eaux fortes. Rosporden: Htel Continental, 1988.
Pour Elise. Tournai (Belgium): Unimuse, 1988.
La grande nuit apprise par le coeur quelle saigne. Ambialet: Pierre
Laleure, 1993.
Le Fond de ltre est froid. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1995. (Includes a selec-
tion of poems from previous collections, and some new poems).

Short Stories
Un Jaspe our Liza. Ambialet: Pierre Laleure, 1977; Ayeneux (Belgium):
Ttras-Lyre, 1989.
Nul conqurant narrive temps. Villelongue dAude (France): Atelier
du Gu, 1978.
Le Rat, le loup et la fourmi. Paris: Tirsias, 1997.
 Vra Feyder 307

Novels
La Derelitta. Paris: Stock, 1977; Rennes: Ubacs, 1984; Bruxelles: La-
bor, 1994. Prix Rossel (Belgium).
LEvente. Paris: Stock, 1978.
Caldeiras. Paris: Stock, 1982.
La Belle Voyageuse endormie dans la brousse (forthcoming).

Plays
Emballage perdu. Paris: Stock, 1977, 1982. Paris: Actes Sud, 1986,
1994. Prix Vaxelaire (Belgium).
Le Menton du chat. Paris: Actes Sud, 1988.
Le Chant du retour. Paris: Actes Sud, 1989.
Impasse de la Tranquillit. Paris: Actes Sud, 1991.
Piano seul. Paris: Ed. des Quatre Vents, 1995.
Deluso. Paris: Ed. des Quatre Vents, 1995.

Essay
Lige. Paris: Champ Vallon, 1992.
308 Vra Feyder

Dimanche . . .

Dimanche mettre au cachot pour blancheur fastidieuse

Dimanche de rames molles
dhommes dmouls
dune habitude

Dimanche au sourire mat

dyeux tronqus par un sommeil original
o tout se farde pour la peau de semaine
Dimanche
lheure dite daimer
les bras lointains
Dimanche comme lhiver le doute
de survie

Dimanche
un volet se fendille
et cest laube dun temps dvast de son poids
Lennui pince les lvres
la rumeur ses failles

Au long cri de ce jour

loubli part en patience
faisant claquer ses langues

Et terne comme un ongle ras

le mtro se dfile
hachant sa nourriture.

(Ferrer le sombre)
 Vra Feyder 309

Sunday . . .

Sunday: to be put in a dungeon for its blank apathy

Sunday with its limp trains
of people unmolded
from their routine

Sunday with the neutral smile

of eyes dimmed by primal slumber
Sunday when all is made up for next weeks face
Sunday
the time said to be for love
in a faraway embrace
Sunday like winter doubts
its survival

Sunday
a small crack in the shutter
and the dawn of a time divested of its weight
lips are pursed with boredom
flaws, shrunk to mere rumor

In this days lingering cry

oblivion turns to patience
clicking its tongues

And dull as a bitten nail

the subway moves on
chewing its fodder.
310 Vra Feyder

On part pour un pays

On part pour un pays

mais la gare vous suit

On joue ce voyageur
affubl dincertain
qui parle bas
en rvant du tumulte

On fend labsence en deux

sur la vitre o sgoutte
en fourmillante pluie
un bruit
de poussires perles

la vitesse de lobscur
qui use les reflets
on gagne ce rpit
de dormir apatride
en territoire doubli.

(Pays labsence)
 Vra Feyder 311

You Leave the Country

You leave the country

but the train station follows

You play the part of a traveler

decked out in uncertainty
you speak discreetly
while dreaming of excitement

You split absence in two

on the window where a swarming rain
keeps on dripping
with the sound
of dusty pearls

With the speed of darkness

blotting out reflections
you earn some respite:
sleep as an expatriate
in a land without memories.
312 Vra Feyder

Les Potes

Les potes sont bleus

bleu azur
bleu roi
bleu nuit
mais aussi

blancs comme neige

quand ils la battent en mots
qui les prennent la gorge
pris
ainsi
leur propre pige

Les potes sont nuit

dans lentre gris pel
du chien qui se fait loup
au jour dit
par lui
justement
qui sait dire
le peu des choses
qui vont derrance en songe
et lui font
fantassin de fortune
lpaule
un fusil

Le pote bleu chasse la nuit

les grces passagres
et retrouve au matin
de pauvres mots transis
endormis
sur le seuil / . . .
 Vra Feyder 313

Poets

Poets are blue

azure blue
royal blue
midnight blue
but also

white as snow
when its whipped into words
that suddenly grip their throats
and thus
they are caught
in their own snares.

Poets are of the night

in the greyish twilight
when dog and wolf look alike
on the day
set by him
precisely
who can speak
of the frailty of things
that go from roaming to dreaming
and make him
a soldier of fortune
with a gun
on his shoulder.

The blue poet hunts by night

the fleeting graces
and in the morning he finds
humble words frozen
asleep
on his doorstep. / . . .
314 Vra Feyder

/...
Il leur parle dabord
une langue trangre
ceux-l
justement
qui nont jamais parl
me qui vive
de la nue pauvret
dtre sans se nommer

Et le pote bleu
dans le noir animal
de sa vie mphytique
prend lenfant-mot
au mot
et le couche
confiant
au livre blanc
des morts
dont larbre
fait son bois
et du parler
silence L
o il a
de toute ternit
ce que lui seul savait
ses entres.

(Ddicaces, in Le Fond de ltre est froid)

 Vra Feyder 315

/...
First he speaks
in a foreign tongue
to those
precisely
who have never spoken
to any living soul
of the bare misery
of being, yet having no name

And the blue poet

in the coal darkness
of his sulfurous life
takes the child-word
at its word
and lays it down
confidently
in the blank book
of the dead
who give life
to trees,
the book of silent
speech. There
where the poet
from time immemorial
as he alone knew
has been free to enter.
316 Vra Feyder

Pour Elise

Jentends ce qui se dit dans des chambres, en un temps fort lointain

o des femmes entrent et sortent, avec des gestes de tempte et des
remous dhabits, comme sil y avait pril en une demeure dont on ne
verrait rien, du jardin, que les fentres, allumes sur la nuit . . .

Jentends la nuit et cette nuit-l peut-tre bien se drouler sur

plusieurs jours, avec des bruissements dtoffe et de grandes flaques
moires que des oiseaux dchirent . . . Jentends de larges chancrures
se faire tire-daile, et de fins voiles sraphins traner la suite des vents
leurs plaintes effiloches . . .

Jentends quelquun marcher dans une rue lautomne, et des feuilles

mortes lui emboter le pas et le prendre la gorge, sous le col quil relve
et que la pluie dj pingle de ses doigts sans dfaut . . .

Jentends des mots, que lon disait damour autrefois, tomber dans
une sbile quun mendiant tend au ciel dun bleu trop absolu pour lui qui
ny entend goutte cet outremer-l . . .

Jentends une berceuse un peu niaise, comme toutes les berceuses,

endormir un enfant tard venu, et arrondir les bras qui le tiennent au-
dessus dun grand vide do montent du sommeil les vieux marchands de
sable quand, des dserts venus, aux dserts sen retournent . . .

Jentends un escalier rsonner sous un pas que personne nentend

. . . Je lentends et le dis qui veut bien lentendre, mais personne ncoute
et personne nentend . . .
....................................

Jentends celle qui geint attache son lit; jentends les mains qui la
dlivrent et les pas qui senfuient . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
.................................

Jentends Ainsi soit-il en priant de toutes mes forces quil nen soit
pas ainsi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Jentends sa voix, et je lentends chaque jour se rapprocher et me

dire, daussi loin quelle apparaisse: Il faut, ma chrie, me laisser aller o
je veux . . . . . . et o je ne veux pas quelle soit, moi, si je ne puis la
rejoindre.
/...
 Vra Feyder 317

For Elise

I hear what is being said in rooms, some time long ago, as women
stormed in and out with frenzied gestures and a rustling of skirts, as
though danger reigned in a dwelling whose lighted windows were all one
could see from outside in the dark of night . . .

I hear the nightand this particular night may be the onelasting for
several days, with the crinkling sound of cloth and large shimmering puddles
torn by birds . . . I hear wide gashes made by fluttering wings, and fine
seraphic veils sweeping past in the tattered wails of the wind . . .

I hear someone walking along a street on an autumn day, with leaves

falling in his footsteps and gripping him by the throat, as he, with flawless
fingers, turns up his coat collar already pricked by rain . . .

I hear words, formerly said to be of love, falling into the cup that a
beggar holds out towards the sky, a sky too absolutely blue for him who
does not have the slightest notion of what ultramarine may be . . .

I hear a lullaby, somewhat naive like all lullabies, putting to sleep a

late-born child. Curved arms hold her above a great empty space whence,
from the depths of sleep, ancient sandmen rise, come from the desert,
then to the desert returning . . .

I hear in the staircase the sound of steps that nobody else hears . . .
I hear it and say so to whomever wants to hear, but nobody listens and
nobody hears . . .
..........................

I hear her, strapped to her bed, moaning; I hear the hands that free
her and the fleeing footsteps . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I hear So be it as I pray fervently that it will not be so . . .

.........................

I hear her voice, and each day I hear it closer, from as far as she may
be, telling me My darling, you must let me go where I want to go . . .
. . . and where I do not want her to be if I cannot join her.
/...
318 Vra Feyder

/...
L o elle est pourtant.
L o la terre, contre tous ceux quon peut crire,
a le dernier mot, et les arbres qui vivent delle,
sur sa tombe, le dernier souffle
pour le dire.
***
Le vendredi 11 janvier 1985, 11 heures du
matin, au coeur glac de son 92e hiver, Elise
Marie RENSON est morte, seule et silencieuse,
lhpital de Bavire, Lige. Les trains ne
roulaient plus, les routes taient coupes par la
neige et le gel: on navait pas vu cela depuis
un sicle. Toute chaleur avait quitt le monde.

Elle na pas reparu depuis.

(Pour Elise, excerpts)

 Vra Feyder 319

/...
There, where she is nevertheless.
There where the earthagainst all one can say
still has the last word, and the trees that live off her
on her grave, have the last breath
to say it.
***

On Friday, January 11, 1985 at 11 a.m., in

the frigid heart of her 92d winter, Elise died,
alone and silent, in the Hpital de Bavire in Lige.
Railways did not operate, the roads were blocked by
snow and ice: the worst storm in over a century.
The world had lost all its warmth.

It has never been regained since.


Rose-Marie Franois
(1939)

In a postface to Carte dembarquement, commentator Christine Pagnoulle

explains that Rose-Marie Franois is the instrument of her poetry, rather
than the reverse, for she writes when words command her to do so. Her
poems often originate in dreams, where major themes of the collective
unconscious come to the surface.
Rich in discoveries, Rose-Marie Franoiss poetry takes us on a jour-
ney through an imaginary world whose contours remain blurred, yet a
world full of implicit meanings. Although her poetry questions life and
reflects on death, it is never somber, and is occasionally illuminated by
subtle humorous touches.
This extraordinary poet is also a down-to-earth woman, a teacher, a
translator who conducts seminars on literary translation at the University
of Lige and at the Centre europen de traduction littraire in Brus-
sels. She holds a degree in Germanic philology from the University of
Lige. Many of her translations are from the German, although she has
also translated from Dutch and Swedish.
Born in Criquelions, a small village that she situates between green
Flanders and black BorinageBorinage is a coal-mining area of Hainaut,
Rose-Marie Franois now lives in Neupr, near Lige. She and her hus-
band, who is of German origin, have three children, and in their house-
hold both French and German are spoken.
Although Rose-Marie Franois enjoys translating and teaching, she is
primarily a writer. She began writing as a little girl, on sheets of paper
purloined from her fathers desk. In La Cendre, a volume of childhood
memories, we discover that Rose-Marie, at a very early age, became fas-
cinated with wordstheir sound and their evocative physiognomy. Later
she published poems in various periodicals, and her first book appeared
322 Rose-Marie Franois

in Paris in 1971. She is now the author of several collections of poetry in

addition to translations, essays and radioplays. She is also the recipient of
several literary prizes, notably the Prix Charles Plisnier and the Prix Louis
Guillaume for Rpter sa mort, a long prose poem composed in 1988.
Her works have been applauded by many contemporary authors.
Jeanine Moulin calls her a caster of poetic spells, while Gaspard Hons
states that reading Rose-Marie Franoiss poetry is to go on a journey
fraught with risks: one never returns unscathed. Carl Norac judges her to
be a remarkable translator from the German . . . Her interest in Ger-
manic literatures originates from her own attraction to certain themes
. . . her poetry explores the edges of the fantastic, yet does not ignore
reality or the confines of death . . .
Rose-Marie Franois evokes her high school years in the 1950s as a
time of change in Europe, when nations began to establish closer ties
among one another. A new climate of solidarity inspired young people to
seek mutual understanding in a better, gentler world. Thus, Rose-Marie
Franois emphasizes her interest not only in Germanic culture, but in
other cultures as well. She considers herself to be a citizen of Europe
from the Atlantic to the Ural Mountains, from North Cape to the Mediter-
ranean. Her mastery of at least ten languages serves as proof of her
involvement in European history.
On the last page of Rpter sa mort, Rose-Marie Franois poses a
question: What did I mean?a question that perhaps rings more true
when translated literally as What did I want to say? She then suggests a
poetic answer to this question: To bite words. To deceive Death . . . . To
search among columns of salt for the meaning of the word distance . . .
Far from the beach, to acknowledge the autism of a pebble. These poi-
gnant and evocative metaphors are relevant, not only to this particular
book, but to the creative spirit of her entire work.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Girouette sans clocher. Paris: La Grisire, 1971.
Panne de tl. Lige (Belgium): La Fontaine LoinG, 1983.
Emigrations. Lige: La Fontaine LoinG, 1983.
Quartz. Lige: La Fontaine LoinG, 1983.
Carte dembarquement. Bruxelles: Le Cri & Jacques Darras, 1996.
 Rose-Marie Franois 323

Rpter sa mort. Bruxelles; Le Cormier, 1997. Prix Charles Plisnier and

Prix Louis Guillaume.

Narrative
La Cendre. Bruxelles: Les Eperonniers, 1985.

Translations from German

Le Jour aux trousses. (by Ilse Aichinger). Paris: La Diffrence, 1992.
Dfense de lavenir. (Poems and short stories of the 60s). Paris: Livre de
Poche, 1993.
Le foin, la neige et la fin. (Poems by Ilse Aichinger). Bruxelles: Le Courrier
International dEtudes Potiques, 1995.
Pas un jour pour rien. Namur/Amay (Belgium), 1998. One Century of
Austrian Poetry, bilingual edition.

Rose-Marie Franois has authored a large number of articles and has

delivered lectures on the merits of bilingual education and the teaching of
foreign languages through poetry.
324 Rose-Marie Franois

Arrt sur limage

Jirai vers cette ville
arrte dans le coin suprieur gauche
dun soir dt commenant
dont la douceur monte comme une promesse.
Une ville dont on ne sait
si elle est rve, jeu, souvenir ou projet.
La rue serait en pente, aux pavs arrondis,
les arbres seraient gros,
le soleil aux tons passs
laisserait voir son got pour
un prochain lan.
Ce serait en Rhnanie
juste aprs laprs-guerre.
On vendrait du sucre de raisin
dans un distributeur automatique.
Je ne comprendrais pas
tout ce qui se dit
mais je me laisserais flotter dans
mon sourire.
La promenade serait si douce
quon aurait limpression de marcher
moelleusement assis.
Il ny aurait pas de vent:
les blondeurs seraient tresses et rassurantes.
Le temps reprendrait son souffle.
On sentirait dans lair
la chaude tendresse
qui sattarde sur les relais
o lon confond dpart et arrive.
Il y aurait une vierge couronne
sur une colline encore verte,
un ciel mauve de soie irise
et des trottoirs arrondis en terrasses.
On boirait de la bire blanche,
du jus de pomme ptillant,
et le soir tonnant
trouverait des fracheurs matinales
sans quon ny prenne garde. / . . .
 Rose-Marie Franois 325

Freeze Frame
Ill go to this town
standing still in the upper left-hand corner
of an early summer evening
whose gentleness rises like a promise.
No one knows whether this town
is a dream, a game, a memory or a plan.
The street would slope, paved with round cobbles,
the trees would be large,
in the suns faded tones
there would be a hint
of its coming surge.
It would be in Rhineland
just after the postwar years.
Grape sugar would be dispensed
from a vending machine.
I could not understand
all that is said
but Id let myself float along
on a smile.
The stroll would be so smooth
that walking would be like sitting
in velvety comfort.
There would be no wind:
fairness would come in reassuring braids.
Time would breathe again.
We would feel in the air
warm tenderness
lingering at each relay point
where coming and leaving are one.
There would be a crowned virgin
on a hill still green,
a mauve sky of shimmering silk
and walkways curving into terraces.
We would drink some white beer,
some sparkling apple juice,
and this strange evening
would find the cool of dawn
without our noticing. / . . .
326 Rose-Marie Franois

/...
Jessaierais de me faire comprendre
mais pour ne rien gcher
je ne leur dirais pas
que je mappelle
Sarah.
******

Rpons

Lhorizon, vois, sallonge, stire,

immense chien
fidle
au ciel.
Dans les manoirs de mes souvenirs
des virages de langues
des trsors en papier rim.
Pote, tu portes de la fleur la neige,
du cristal au papillon,
du coquillage aux fougres du givre,
toute la dtresse
toute la richesse
toute lefflorescence
dune seule lettre lentement enlumine.

Blanc tout blanc

a capella ton chant, puis,
face la mer moussue
sous les ogives non meurtrires
des vitraux en prires,
la bure du silence
les chapelets dcume
le ciel brouill dtoiles.

(Emigrations)
 Rose-Marie Franois 327

/...
I would try to make them understand me
but not to spoil anything
I would not tell them
I am named
Sarah
******
Anthem

See the horizon spreading, stretching,

an immense dog
loyal
to the sky.
In my memories mansions
byways of languages
treasures of rhymed pages.
Poet, from flower to snow flake,
from quartz to butterfly,
from seashell to ferns of frost,
you bring all the distress
all the riches
all the efflorescence
of a single letter slowly illuminated.

White all white

a capella your song, and then
facing a frothy sea
under peaceful ogives
and stained glass in prayer:
the burlap of silence
the rosaries of foam
a blur of starry skies.
328 Rose-Marie Franois

Splendeur-les-bains

Le fleuve est en crue

Le Grand Htel
ne repeint plus ses volets o
smiette le mthylne.
Au revers de la gloire
le caniche de lantiquaire
sbat sous les arcades
plus de laisse:
lui lespace et lair mouill,
les thermes, les dsertes mosaques,
dor bleut le casino vide.
son matre
une montre ponte
fixe un temps de vermeil
aux initiales belles anglaises.

Parfois un train passe la gare

sans sarrter.
a fait senvoler les corneilles
loin des corniches festonnes
sans que ne sinterrompent
leurs histoires.

Il pleut depuis trois semaines.

Il a grl. Au sol:
de petits chiffons plisss vert tendre
non plus bourgeons point encore feuilles:
des sourires vaincus de chtaigniers.

(Quartz)
 Rose-Marie Franois 329

Splendid-Springs

The flooded river is rising

At the Grand Hotel
the shutters paint is peeling
crumbling away in flakes of blue.
On the downside of glory
the antique dealers poodle
frolics through the arcade
unleashed:
for him now, space and damp air,
the thermal baths, the deserted mosaics,
gold and blue the empty casino.
And for his master:
a pawned watch
where time is set in gold
with a monogram hinting of English glamour.

Sometimes a train goes through the station

but never stops.
It frightens the crows away
from the festooned cornices
but does not interrupt
their stories.

For three weeks it has rained.

It has even hailed. On the ground:
small crumpled rags of a tender green
buds no more, but not yet leaves:
the defeated smiles of chestnut trees.
330 Rose-Marie Franois

Noces

Mre, dit lun,

je te btirai une maison,
et un chemin loin des routes.
Tu auras la grille, lalle, onze fentres,
lardoise, les chemines,
la vigne rousse,
et tout autour
des arbres pour le vent.

Cache tes plumes et tes archets

au fin fond de lhorloge.

Une maison pour toi et moi.

Je serai grand. Attends-moi.
Essaie de ntre pas trop vieille.

(Carte dembarquement)
 Rose-Marie Franois 331

Nuptials

Mother, said one of them,

I will build you a house,
and a lane far from the roads.
Youll have an iron gate, a drive, eleven windows,
a slate roof, chimneys,
a russet vineyard,
and all around
some trees for the wind.

Hide your pens and bows

deep inside the clock.

A house for you and me.

Ill be big. Wait for me.
Try not to be too old.
332 Rose-Marie Franois

Sexes

La regarder suffit.
Elle est
et lautre saffole.

Le voir ne suffit pas.

Do le plumage
le ramage
lorgueil

et cette danse du dsir

au fond des yeux qui
la regardent.
******

Fait divers

On disait
les grands bois sombres
et on tremblait.

Rien
lheure opaque
que les branches qui craquent,
rsine surchauffe.
Loeil agrandi
cherche une luciole,
lappoint dune pense.

Mais au clair du non

les sapins vont lamble.
La nuit ne fait plus peur,
ni logre.

Les enfants eux-mmes

sont des tueurs.

(Carte dembarquement)
 Rose-Marie Franois 333

Genders

Looking at her suffices

She just is
and the other goes wild.

Seeing him does not suffice.

Hence: his plumage
his warbling
his conceited pride

and the dancing desire

deep in his eyes that are
looking at her.
******

In Brief

We would say
deep dark forests
and tremble.

Nothing
at the opaque hour,
just some branches cracking,
overheated resin.
The wide-open eye
looks for a glow worm,
a comforting thought.

But in the neons light

the fir trees are ambling.
No one now fears the night
or the ogre.

Children themselves
are killers.
334 Rose-Marie Franois

Cartes dembarquement

Une croix faite sur

le paradis: deux avions
sloignent
angle droit.

Avant
on voyait au ciel
des oiseaux
des intempries
des apparitions mystiques.

On prenait
lchelle des rves
les adrets, les hautes neiges
les tours des cathdrales.

On lanait des flches

ou des cerfs-volants, mais
rien ne raturait lazur.

Si nous changions de cap,

comme au concert on dcroise les jambes,
qui de nous attendrait lautre
laroport?

(Carte dembarquement)
 Rose-Marie Franois 335

Boarding Passes

Crossing out
paradise: two airplanes
take flight
at right angles

In past times
we would see in the sky
signs of weather
mystical apparitions.

We would climb
the ladder of dreams
mountain slopes and snowy peaks
or towers of cathedrals.

We would shoot arrows

or fly kites, but
nothing crossed out the blue.

Suppose we change our course,

as if uncrossing our legs at a concert
which of us would wait for the other
at the airport?
336 Rose-Marie Franois

Lavandes

Je ne veux rien entendre

rien
dans les feuilles
que lair tremblant
et la couleur
changeante
qui coule dans les nervures,
puis
sur les grappes mauves
ce bourdonnement orchestr
qui en dit plus que leur parfum.
******

Talisman

Rose bleue doutremer,

haute parente
des romarins ensorcels,
tu es loin
tu es toute ici,
un signet dans un livre
une phrase en suspens
larc lev dun violon.
******

Orphe

Pars sans te retourner

jai choisi la tche infernale.

Personne ne te suivra
et tu pars sans regrets.

Saint Jean son tour se dtourne,

voici lautre versant.

Le Soeil na pas tenu

son apoge.

(Carte dembarquement
 Rose-Marie Franois 337

Lavender

Ill hear nothing

nothing
in the leaves
save the trembling air
and the changing colors
swirling through their veins
then
on the mauve clusters
that orchestrated humming
more telling than their scent.
******

Talisman

Blue rose from beyond the sea,

remote ancestor
of the bewitching rosemary,
you are distant
you are close at hand
a marker in a book
a phrase left pending
on the poised bow of a cello.
******

Orpheus

Leave without looking back

I have chosen the infernal task.

No one will follow you

and you leave without regret.

The year turns away too,

here comes the other side.

The sun did not hold

to its zenith.
338 Rose-Marie Franois

Rose unique parmi les ronces, preuve archtype, crire sa couleur: ni

sang ni rubis ni groseille ni surtout fluomode.

Eclatante de solitude, rayonnante, harmonieuse dans le chaos du parc

abandonn. Nul ne laperoit, hier absente, demain jonche, quun rare
dserteur. Mais elle sait que ce jour valait la peine de fleurir.

(Rpter sa mort, Histoire dEurope, excerpt)

******

Poussires bondissantes: sous les jets deau qui les rabattent, des jardins
de briquailles.
(Le grutier, sans distinction, mord toute pierre, mche un linteau, relche
un fronton armori, crache larc bris dune baie, des fragments de fresques.
Les dtritus sentassent dans ce qui fut le grand salon. Rien nchappe au
dmolisseur: il dfonce lentre, crase le parloir, bascule la bibliothque).

Rien. Sauf, dans love du portrait oubli au trumeau dune chambre, le

regard dune trs jeune fille.

Lvnement est mince. Et si lHistoire, pourtant, ne faisait quenchaner?

Asphyxie, pans de silence moisi, figures irrcuprables du bleu rare.

Lhomme louvrage, iconoclaste, ne connat pas son nom. La pierre,

la page quil dchire, saigne mais il nen sait rien, lui qui ne lit pas.
Et se peut-il quil nentende pas davantage? que ce moteur qui lui
emplit la tte.

Une voix slve o la demeure seffondre.

.............................................

Mine fige, petite morte, ovale comme avant la vie, elliptique prsence.
La ville sagenouillait sous les bombes. La maison, toute droite, pierres
et parfums, en survivant te cdait lignorance de nouveaux venus. Ton
visage, entre deux croises, quittait la fleur de ton prnom pour un art
anonyme.
Les voyageurs de lobscur, nexistent-ils plus que pour moi?

(Rpter sa mort, Rose feu, excerpt)

 Rose-Marie Franois 339

Single rose amid the brambles, archetypal evidence. Write its color:
not blood, not ruby, not currant-red, and above all not fluorescent.

Bright in its solitude, radiant, harmonious in the deserted parks chaos.

Yesterday absent, tomorrow wilted. No one sees it, except some unlikely
wanderer. But the rose knows this day was worth blooming for.
******
An explosion of dust, hosed down by powerful jets, gardens of crushed
bricks.
(The crane operator does not pick and choose; he bites any stone,
chews on a lintel, drops an armoried pediment, spits out the broken arch
of a bay window, fragments from a fresco. Rubble piles up in what used
to be the drawing room. Nothing escapes the wrecker: he ploughs through
the entrance hall, flattens the parlor, turns the study upside down.)
Nothing indeed. Except, in the oval frame forgotten on a wall panel,
the look in a young girls eyes.

The event is slight. But, what if History was just running its course?
Asphyxiation, patches of mouldy silence, irrecuperable figures of a
rare blue pigment.
Man in action is an iconoclast who doesnt know his name. The stone,
the page he tears are bleeding, but he does not know it, he who does not
read.
Can it be that he also does not hear?except for the engine roaring in
his head.

A voice rises where the house collapses.

.............................................

Frozen face, little dead girl, oval-shaped as before birth, an elliptic

presence.
The city was on its knees under the bombs. The house, erect with its
stones and smells, survived, and left you to be forever ignored by those
who would come next. Between two windows, your face renounced the
flower in your first name for a piece of anonymous art.
Have the travelers of darkness ceased to exist but for me?

Colette Nys-Mazure
(1939)

Born in Wavre, Colette Nys-Mazure has lived primarily in the Tournai

region, where she teaches literature and creative writing and composes
essays and articles on contemporary Belgian writers. A prolific and highly
acclaimed author, Nys-Mazure acknowledges as important influences the
contemporary poets Andre Chedid, Guy Goffette, Nazim Hikmet, Philippe
Jaccottet, and Andr Schmitz, as well as Ren Char, Paul Eluard, Pierre
Reverdy, Saint-John Perse, Baudelaire, Louise Lab, and Racine.
Fascinated by words from a very early age, Nys-Mazure recounts with
touching simplicity in Clbration du quotidien the event of the automo-
bile accident that took the life of her father, a country veterinarian, when
she was seven. Her mothers death followed three months later at Easter.
The author speaks with gratitude and deep affection of the family mem-
bers who gave homes to her and her brother and sister. This early tragedy
was to mark her life and her work, for she began writing in an effort to
reweave the fabric of her torn childhood.
Thus Colette Nys-Mazure attributes the wellspring of her creativity to a
need to fill the void left by this childhood tragedy: if we have never
known this void, this inner lack, how can our need be great enough to
acknowledge, to welcome, and to love another? This desire for compas-
sionate interchange underlies all Nys-Mazures writing, which she sees as
a bridge of words extended toward others, and which undoubtedly ex-
plains her fondness for the epistolary genre, as illustrated in the exchange
Lettres dappel with Franoise Lison-Leroy.
Nys-Mazure often chooses to recreate the mythical experience of child-
hood, as in the poems of Haute Enfance or Enfance portative. Her
poetry highlights the significance of imagination in the development of
the individual child as a paradigm of the role of woman as creative artist.
342 Colette Nys-Mazure

The mother of five children who visit regularly bringing their own chil-
dren, Colette Nys-Mazure has learned to draw the quintessential from the
commonplace. Her portrait of the poet described in Singulires et
plurielles, alone at night in the empty kitchen, intent on carving a large
slice of poetry from the warm bread of daily life, is based on her own
experience balancing the demands of the inner life with those of family
and career.
The authors persistent struggle for the space in which to carve art out
of life has resulted in what Gabriel Ringlet, in his preface to Clbration
du quotidien, calls the transfiguration of the everyday. In this poetic text
in the form of individual letters to a friend dying of cancer, Colette Nys-
Mazure writes to us, not from a faraway land, but from a kitchen, a bal-
cony, a silence, or a solitude, and the voyage on which she takes us, by
way of her precise and poignant words, is one of illumination.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
La vie foison. Valenciennes (France): Froissart, 1975. Prix Froissart.
Damour et de cendre. Tournai (Belgium): Unimuse, 1977.
Pntrance, Tournai, Unimuse: 1981. Prix Charles Plisnier.
Petite fugue pour funambules. Tournai: Unimuse, 1985.
Dsarroi dsaveu in Lieux tressoirs. Mortemart (France): Rougerie, 1988.
On les dirait complices. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1989, with Franoise
Lison-Leroy.
Haute enfance. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles: 1990. Grand Prix de
Posie pour la Jeunesse, Paris.
Singulires et plurielles. Charlieu (France): La Bartavelle, 1992.
Arpents sauvages. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1993.
La nuit rsolue. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1995, with Franoise Lison- Leroy.
La crie daube (reedition of Pntrance, Petite fugue pour funambules
& Haute enfance). Amay: LArbre Paroles,1995.
Lettres dappel. Ayeneux (Belgium): Ttras Lyre, 1996, with Franoise
Lison-Leroy.
 Colette Nys-Mazure 343

Le for intrieur. Chaill-sous-les-Ormeaux (France) Le D Bleu, 1996.

Prix de Posie Max-Pol Fouchet.
Enfance portative. Avin/Hannut (Belgium). Editions Luce Wilquin, 1997.
Issue des lisires. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1997.
Champs mls. Avin/Hannut. Editions Luce Wilquin, 1998, with
Franoise Lison-Leroy.
Trois suites sans gravit. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1999.
Prix de la Ville du Touquet.

Essays and Other Prose

Suzanne Lilar. Bruxelles: Labor, 1992.
Clbration du quotidien. Paris: Descle de Brouwer, 1997.
Traces et ferment: un dialogue bible ouverte. Amay: LArbre Pa-
roles, 1998, with Lucien Noullez.

Articles
Bourdouxhe, Rolin, Harpman . . . Fatales?, La Revue Gnrale, no.4
(April 1998).
La Silhouette lumineuse, in Rcriture des mythes: lutopie au fminin.
Atlanta/Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1997.

Short Stories
Saisons dEscaut. Tournai, Unimuse, 1986 (in collaboration).
Lgendes pour un avenir. Tournai, Unimuse, 1989 (in collaboration).
Contes desprance. Paris: Descle De Brouwer, 1998.

Play
Tous locataires. Charlieu: La Bartavelle, 1993, with Franoise Lison-
Leroy.
Tenants All, English translation by Anne-Marie Glasheen in The Key to
Our Aborted Dreams: Five Plays by Contemporary Belgian
Women Writers. Belgian Francophone Library: Peter Lang, 1998.
344 Colette Nys-Mazure

Parti pris

Je sais la mort, le vide, langoisse suante.

Je pourrais hurler au mal, la nuit.
Crier le temps loeuvre en moi:
la lente corruption des sources,
la chair qui se dfait
et le coeur qui seffrite.
Les pans dombre dvorant le soleil
et la vie schappe et fuit par toutes les issues.
les espoirs mort-ns,
les soifs mal tanches.
Les folies douces et noires,
les suicides rvs
et lusure de ltre,
la solitude, le gel de lme,
les illusions fanes,
les amours avortes.

Je dis la beaut du monde toujours offerte,

L, sous mes doigts, sous mes yeux.
La joie pudique et la fte sans lendemain.
Lesprance apprise,
la sve obstine,
la chanson patiente.
Les instants dternit et lternit entrevue.
Laventure inoue dun rveil,
le jaillissement de la cration
et linvention de lamour.
Le bonheur surpris et la mort apprivoise.

Je ne maudirai pas les tnbres,

je tiendrai haut la lampe

(La vie foison)

 Colette Nys-Mazure 345

Parti Pris

I know death, the void, the chill of anguish.

I could cry out at the pain, at the night.
Condemn time at work in me:
the slow spoiling of my springs,
the collapse of my flesh,
the withering of my heart.
The walls of darkness that devour the sun
while life escapes through every pore,
the still-born hopes,
the unquenched thirst.
The sweet, dark madness,
the suicides imagined,
the erosion of being,
desolation, the ice within,
the faded dreams,
the lost loves.

I proclaim the worlds beauty, timeless offering,

Here, before my eyes, within reach.
The modest joys and the endless feast.
Hope acquired,
persistent saps,
the enduring song.
Each moment, each glimpse of eternity.
Each unmatched adventure of awakening,
the flow of creation
and the invention of love,
Joy caught unawares and death made tame.

I will not curse the shadows

I will hold high the lamp.
346 Colette Nys-Mazure

Dialogue dans le temps

toute ma vie lombre

dit-elle
moi qui rvais de danser au soleil
toute ma vie en sourdine
alors que ma voix vibrait
et toujours la rserve la retenue
au seuil des grands espaces fleurir.

celle qui dansait dans les rets du soleil

se faufilait entre les rais de pluie
celle qui divaguait sous les souffles
et dchanait les fes
ctait toi
avant que la poudre des heures
nalourdisse ton essor
ancienne petite fille
pantin abandonn
langle dune enfance.

aujourdhui
tu es debout au milieu de ta vie
tu regardes tu fais le compte
des jeux pars des outils des objets
tu vois les absents
autant que les prsents
tu dnombres tes ftes et tes deuils

demain tu poursuivras
aujourdhui tu te recueilles.

(Pntrance)
 Colette Nys-Mazure 347

Dialogue through Time

My whole life spent in shadow

said she
I who dreamed of dancing in sunlight
my whole life muted
while my voice was vibrant
now always reserve restraint
on the threshold of wide spaces where flowers should thrive

She who danced in the suns web

who slipped through the rains fingers
she who wandered with the wind
and unleashed magic
you were she
before the dust of hours
grew heavy on your wings
the once little girl
the puppet abandoned
in the corner of your childhood.

Today
you stand in the middle of your life
you watch you are taking stock
of the scattered games the tools the objects
you see those absent
as often as those present
you tally up your joys and sorrows

Tomorrow
you go on
today you meditate.
348 Colette Nys-Mazure

De haute mer

Lenfant a compt et recompt toutes les vagues; il a chevauch lcume

et bu la nue. Il a dnombr les coquillages, tri les toiles de mer, aiguis
les couteaux.
Il a balis la plage de chteaux forts et bourr ses poches de galets
soyeux. Il a sing la dmarche des crabes. Entre ses doigts carts, il a
laiss couler linfini sable fin et sest tremp longuement dans chaque
bche aveuglante. Il sest tress des bracelets dalgues et de varechs.
Il lche sur ses lvres le got opinitre du sel et secoue sa crinire
doyats dlavs. Il aspire prement lair amer charg dembruns.

Avant la perquisition nocturne du Phare, la mare lemportera. Dans

un cri cinglant de mouette.

(Haute Enfance)
******

Pleurer debout, silencieux, dfait sous la pluie,

sans protger ses cheveux de son cartable,
sans se moucher ni sessuyer le visage.
Sangloter immobile
tandis que sloigne
au carrefour des vacances
lamour adolescent
et son soleil cass.

Sabandonner au dsastre du ciel,

dluge sans recours.

Les mains crispes

sur le dernier prsent.

(Instantan, Enfance portative)

 Colette Nys-Mazure 349

From the High Sea

The child has counted the waves again and again; he has ridden astride
the foamy crests and drunk the clouds. He has tallied seashells, sorted out
starfish and razor clams.
He has lined the beach with fortresses and filled his pockets with silky
pebbles. He has aped the walk of crabs. Through his spread fingers, he
has sifted the limitless fine sands, and he has basked at length in each of
the tides shining pools. He has woven bracelets of kelp and seaweed.
He licks the persistant savor of salt off his lips and shakes his mane of
sandreeds. He takes deep breaths of the pungent spray-filled air.

Before the lighthouse Beacon begins its nightly rounds, the tide will
carry him away. With the shrill cry of a seagull.
******

There he stands, crying silently, forlorn in the rain,

he doesnt cover his head with his schoolbag,
he doesnt blow his nose or wipe his face.
Motionless, he sobs,
while she disappears
at the crossroads of summer
his adolescent love
and its shattered sun.

He is one with the skys disaster

a flood without recourse.

His hands clutch

the parting gift.

(Snapshot)
350 Colette Nys-Mazure

Devenue

Lenfance en elle sattarde et saigne. La pulpeuse, la violente. Au vide

du quotidien, lcho de ce soleil tann. Si les mots ne bourdonnaient sans
cesse, ne scrivaient en elle, son corps sinflchirait vers cette source.
Lorsque la pluie pleut plus dense sur le jardin turbulent, il lui revient
dautres averses dt. Elles surprenaient leurs jeux au large des ptures,
les prcipitaient exultants et tremps, vers lappentis, la grange suffocante,
les vastes noyers. Ce bonheur alors, sans gal et sans cause. Pourquoi la
pluie nest-elle plus que de leau? Fades nostalgies. Mais en ces jours
daube gt un mystre: lennui dtre, la panique, la qute inquite pointaient
jadis, elle sen souvient. Do vient quils ninclinaient pas au dsespoir?
Lenfance indivise hle par-dessus les annes. Moins paradis perdu que
terre promise, espre-t-elle.
******

Glaneuse

Avec ses mots serrs, crass, juteux entre les doigts, ses mots de
chaud et doux pour nuits dpouvante, de dure dlirance; avec, au fond de
ses poches, ses ariettes allgres, ses graves rcitatifs, elle avance dans la
fort des hommes. Elle a pris aux msanges plumes et chants; aux sentiers
leur creux moussu; la mer son ressac. Elle na ni armure ni besace. Elle
confie sa disette aux baies des buissons. Va-nu-pied, tzigane, lys des
champs. Orphe va, la flte la main.

(Singulires et Plurielles)
 Colette Nys-Mazure 351

Transformed

Childhood, within her, lingers and bleeds. The pulpous, violent one. In
day by day emptiness, echoes of this well-worn sun. If words did not keep
humming ceaselessly, did not become inscribed in her, her body would
sway towards this original spring. When rain falls more steady on the
turbulent garden, other summer showers come back to her. They would
interrupt the childrens games in the open fields, make them rush, excited
and drenched, to the shed, the stifling barn or the vast walnut trees. What
happiness then, without equal and without cause! Why is todays rain
nothing more than just water? Dull nostalgia. Yet in those dawning days
there lies a mystery: the boredom of being, the panic, the troubled quest
already loomed then, she remembers. How is it they did not lead to de-
spair? Undivided, childhood beckons from across the years. Not so much
a paradise lost, she hopes, as a promised land.
******

Gleaner

With words that are pressed, crushed, juice-filled, between her fingers,
words of warmth and of tenderness for the nights of terror, of stark de-
lirium; her pockets stuffed with lighthearted melodies, with solemn
recitatives, she makes her way through the forest of men. She has gleaned
finery and songs from the birds; mossy hollows from the lane; surf from
the sea. She goes unshielded, unencumbered, confiding her hunger to the
berries that grow wild along her way. Barefoot, gypsy, lily of the field.
Orpheus is passing, flute in hand.
352 Colette Nys-Mazure

Aime-aimante

Cest une femme de soie sauvage. Poreuse sous les mains savamment
tendres. Une femme de collines et de combes, de feuillages, de mousses.
Une ligne sinueuse en volutes et volupts. Sucs et salives, ecartlement
vertigineux. Elle, disloque, runie. Une femme trs loin, hler, harponner.
Trs proche ptrir, goter, savourer. Une femme despace amoureux
satur de miel et dombres intimes, de fire approche, de tressaillement
secret. Rauque et luisante dans la rumeur du plaisir imminent. Tambour
de la jubilation.
******

Partage

Elle debout entre table et berceau. Les ans envols vers lcole; lui, au
bureau, lusine, sur un chantier du monde. parpillement brutal. Vaste
dsordre. Ses chaussures lcorchent: elle se met pieds nus. Bouche nue
aussi. Et le cur? Laisse le cur. Au-dehors, ailleurs, ct, trs loin, des
femmes identiques attendent. Dsirent que quelque chose les remette en
marche, en voie. Est-ce qu cette heure quelquun fait lamour au nid
dune chambre forte? Elle va la fentre, se penche sur la rue, dcape
faades et visages. Des mfiances, des verrous, des vernis. Il napparatra
donc personne?

(Singulires et Plurielles)
 Colette Nys-Mazure 353

Loved-Loving

She is a woman of raw silk. Porous to the touch of knowing, tender

hands. A woman of hills and valleys, of leaves and moss. A winding spiral
of desire. Sweetness of sap, fluidity, delirious rift. She is torn apart, re-
joined. A faraway woman to be summoned, overpowered. A presence to
knead, taste, savor. A woman of loving spaces steeped in honey and
intimate shadows, of proud bearing, of secret raptures. Hoarse and gleam-
ing in the rumble of imminent pleasure. Jubilant beat of drums.
******

Divided

She stands between table and cradle. The older children have rushed
off to school, and he is at the office, the plant, or busy at some worldly
project. Brutal scattering. Vast disarray. Her shoes are killing her: shell
go barefoot. Bare lips also. What of her heart? Never mind her heart.
Outside, elsewhere, next door, far away, women just like her are waiting.
Longing for something to get them going again, set them on their way. At
this time of day, is someone making love in the shelter of a secluded
room? She walks up to the window, leans over the street below, scruti-
nizes facades and faces. Suspicions, bolted doors, varnished surfaces.
Will no one ever appear?
354 Colette Nys-Mazure

Sans ge

Dehors
La nuit habite le monde
Mais dans la chambre
La clart blonde des lampes
Tisse lintimit des vivants
La turbulence des coeurs se fait sage

On tiendrait le temps distance

Ntait lhorloge imperturbable
Et son gouttement
Plus aveugle
Dans la quitude

Lenfant

Etourdi de jeux
Suit un motif du tapis
Et sy perd

(Arpents sauvages)
 Colette Nys-Mazure 355

Ageless

Outside
Night inhabits the world
But in the room
The lamps blonde light
Weaves togetherness for the living
The heartsturbulence has been tamed.

Time could be kept at a distance

If not for the unperturbed clock
Dripping its hours
More blindly
In the stillness.

The child

Dizzy after so many games

Follows a pattern on the carpet
Lost in his thoughts.
356 Colette Nys-Mazure

De pierre et de feu

pierre la nuit
sous linflexion des toiles
le givre
lmoi des mots
pre pierre de terre
sacharnent
les caresses natives
la mare des tendres voyelles
demeure
minrale
nue.

sous les noces de nuages

dsir deau
longs fils de la pluie
sur la vitre des chambres
o nous avons divagu
dsir deau
lent roulis des mares
que mime le mouvement des amants
dsir deau
de larmes douces
entre les cils
quand les corps sont combls
envie de fontaine de source
tout lieu o surgit suinte et fuit
la vie femelle.

(Petite Fugue pour funambules in La Crie daube)

 Colette Nys-Mazure 357

Of Stone and Fire

stone in the night

under the arch of stars
the frost
a tumult of words
harsh stone this earth
relentlessly persist
native caresses
a tide of tender vowels
a bare
mineral
abode.

under a clouds bridal veil

a craving for water

long threads of rain
down the windows in rooms
that sheltered our madness

a craving for water

slow rolling of tides
akin to lovers moving
a craving for water
for sweet tears
filtering through eyelashes
when bodies are fulfilled
the longing for a fountain a spring
a place where surges seeps and flows
female life.
358 Colette Nys-Mazure

Cest une chambre parmi les collines. la boussole du coeur, tous les
sentiers mnent au moulin enfoui dans mille dtours dherbes hautes. Les
repres familiers: un appel de merle reconnu, le murmure rassurant du
ruisseau. Leau roucoule de pierre en pierre et sattarde sous le schiste
glissant, la passerelle vermoulue, les branches basses.

Entre les poutres, rien ne drange les fileuses; leurs toiles senflamment
aux rayons traversiers. Les sacs de jute renoncent leurs derniers grains.
Une odeur de paille ancienne prend les amants la gorge.

Dans la nudit du jour, un corps lautre se noue et les murs sembrasent,

les mains stonnent. Baume et plaisir sur les blessures ardentes. Aprs
les sommeils de farine, se rompra volontiers le pain de laube.

(meunires)
******

Combien de fentres? Le vent a beau samuser faire virevolter les

linges qui dfient arrts et rglements, la faade nen finit pas de baller.
Une lettre, un numro, une porte toujours jaune. Comment y reconnatre
la sienne?

Chaque case ressemble aux autres. Vertige de lidentique, peine

dmenti par le mobilier, la couleur dune tenture, quelques objets et leur
mmoire.

Qui grandit, aime et souffre ici, dans le grouillement dexistences

laborieuses? Elles sallument dans la nuit, brillent puis steignent une
une. Chaque vie serait-elle taille sur un patron commun?
Entre la naissance et la mort, qui mappellera par mon prnom?

(lanonyme)
(Le For intrieur)
 Colette Nys-Mazure 359

It is a room up in the hills. By the hearts compass, all pathways lead to

the old mill, hidden deep in a thousand ramblings of tall grasses. Well-
known markers: the familiar call of a blackbird, the reassuring murmur of
the stream. The water coos from stone to stone and loiters under the
slippery shale, the worm-eaten footbridge, the low-lying branches.

Between the beams nothing disturbs the spinners, their webs aglow
with crisscrossing sun rays. Jute sacks surrender their last few grains. A
smell of old straw assails the lovers throats.

In the naked light of day, one body is linked to the other; the walls
come ablaze and their hands marvel. Balm and pleasure soothe the burn-
ing wounds. After floury slumbers, gladly will they break bread at dawn.

(In the Old Mill)

******

How many windows? Even though the wind enjoys flipflopping the
laundry hanging out in defiance of ordinances and regulations, still the
facade keeps yawning and yawning. A letter, a numeral, one yellow door
after another. How is one to recognize ones own?

All units look alike. Dizzying sameness, barely broken by the furniture,
the color of a drapery, a few objects and their memories.

Who grows, loves and suffers here, in this jumble of laborious lives?
They light up in the night, shine for a while, then go out one by one. Is
each life then cut from a common pattern?

Between birth and death, who will call me by my first name?

(Anonymous)
360 Colette Nys-Mazure

Ltat de grce

Il se peut que nous ne soyons vraiment nous-mmes que dans

lmerveillement, lloge, la reconnaissance. L sexprime le meilleur de
notre tre, ce qui chante, souvre et va la rencontre de Celui quon ne
peut nommer.
Ladmiration, nest quun des noms de lEsprance, une petite voie
dEsprance. Sortir du moi, souvent troit et sombre, pour se laisser
saisir par ladmiration. Dcaper ltre de la couche dusage et dusure afin
de contempler ce qui se prsente de beau aux yeux teints, habitus.
Admirer le lever du jour, chaque jour inimaginablement neuf, lveil
des couleurs; le jeu des saisons, les mtores. Accueillir comme merveille
le premier visage: le trs familier, si proche quon ne le voyait plus, ou
ltranger crois dans la rue; face de lautre qui vient vers soi avec son
arroi de dsirs et de peurs quon peut reconnatre siens, mme sans le
connatre, lui. Se laisser toucher par les compagnons de mtro: la main de
lenfant noir dans la paume rose de sa mre, la joue adolescente pose
sur lpaule amie en blouson de cuir, le dbat passionn dans
lentreballement du journal tout chaud. Frres humains qui avec nous
vivez.
Sarracher soi, se dtacher des erreurs, des checs, senthousiasmer
pour se livrer la beaut qui sauve et nous mne Lui, Dieu de bont et
de tendresse, notre esprance.

Je vous cris avec enthousiasme.

(Clbration du quotidien, excerpt from Avec enthousiasme)

******

La posie est ma langue maternelle. Pour dire lessentiel, je recours ce

langage elliptique et imag qui fait appel non la raison raisonnante mais
lmotion et la sve des mots, ce qui bouge en chacun de nous sous
la couche de la routine, la cuirasse de la prudence. Comment exprimer
autrement lexprience initiale qui ma bouleverse?

(Clbration du quotidien, excerpt from Du dsastre de Pques)

 Colette Nys-Mazure 361

A State of Grace

It may be that we are our true selves only when in a state of wonder-
ment, praise or gratitude. The best in us is then expressed, that which
sings, opens up and welcomes Him who cannot be named.
Admiration is but one of the names for Hope; it is a byway of Hope.
To come out of the self, often narrow and dark, and let admiration take
over. To scrub off our being the layer of timeworn patterns and social
conventions, so beauty can be revealed and contemplated with eyes
dimmed by habit.
To admire the break of day, each time new beyond imagining with its
surge of colors; or the round of seasons, the meteors. To make our first
encounter of the day a marvelous event: a face so near, so familiar that it
almost goes unnoticed; or a strangers face seen on the street; the face of
the other who comes with his array of desires and fears that we can
recognize as our own, even if we do not know him. To let fellow passen-
gers on the subway touch our hearts: a black childs hand in his mothers
pink palm, an adolescent cheek resting on the leather sleeve of a friendly
shoulder, an animated debate from behind the pages of a newspaper hot
off the press. Our brothers all, in a humanity we share.
To tear ourselves away from the self, to cast off errors and failures, to
grow enthusiastic and adhere to the beauty that leads to salvation and to
Him, God of bounty and love, our hope.

I am writing to you enthusiastically.

******

Poetry is my native tongue. To express what is essential, I use this

elliptic, imagery-rich language that appeals not to the reasoning mind,
but to emotions and the marrow of words, to everything stirring within
us beneath the veneer of routine, the armour of cautiousness. How else
could I express this initial experience that overturned my life?
362 Colette Nys-Mazure

Je vous cris dune vie de femme.

Elle a la tte sur les paules, dit-on. Elle la aussi dans les nuages,
parfois mme dans les toiles. Le plus souvent dans larmoire provi-
sions ou dans la machine laver: elle se penche vers le hublot pour happer
le linge faire scher, repasser, vrifier, ranger. Elle a les mains dans leau
froide de la salade, leau trop chaude des vaisselles, leau sale des seaux
de nettoyage. Elle a les pieds sur terre: dans les mules qui glissent autour
des lits denfants ou sur les talons des comdies mondaines.

Elle a le corps dru et solide pour grimper et dvaler les escaliers, de la

cave au grenier, du parc voitures souterrain au bureau des allocations
familiales; pousser vigoureusement le chariot entre les rayons du
supermarch. Pour treindre lhomme et abriter ses petits.

Mais parfois elle voudrait tre une, tre libre et lgre; sans personne
qui pse ou saccroche, sans voix qui appelle ou qumande. Courir les
mains nues, nager loin, rencontrer pour rien, pour le seul plaisir de
lchange sans intention. Elle aimerait se remembrer. Elle rve de partager.
Tout. Et pas seulement les miettes.

(Clbration du quotidien, excerpt from Dune vie de femme)

 Colette Nys-Mazure 363

I am writing to you from a womans life.

She has a head on her shoulders, as the saying goes. But her head is
also among the clouds, sometimes even among the stars. Most of the
time it is in the pantry or the washing machine: she leans over the round
window to grab the clothes that must be dried, ironed, sorted and folded.
Her hands soak in the salads cold water, the scalding dishwater and the
dirty water of the cleaning pail. Her feet stand firmly on the ground: in
slippers that glide about the childrens beds, or perched on high heels to
comply with the comedy of social occasions.

Her body is firm and strong so she can tear up and down stairs from
cellar to attic, from the underground parking to the social security office;
so she can push her cart vigorously through the aisles of the supermarket.
So she can hug her man and comfort her young.

But sometimes she wishes she were just herself, free and limber, with
no one clinging to her or slowing her down, with no voice calling or
soliciting. To be able to run along, with bare hands, to swim a long dis-
tance, to meet people for no particular reason, just for the pleasure of an
exchange, with no set purpose. She would like to reassemble herself. She
dreams of sharing. Everything. And not just the crumbs.

Monique Thomassettie
(1946)

Monique Thomassettie, a native of Brussels, writes poetry, short stories,

other prose texts and plays . . . but she also paints and draws. Noting that
her literary and her graphic works are intimately associated, critic Luc
Norin declares that her poetry lies first and foremost in paintings she
explains and prolongs with words. She had an early start in both fields:
she began drawing as a young child and, at age twelve, wrote a first play
that received an award from the Marabout Publishing House in Belgium.
At sixteen, she began to write poetry, and one of her pieces, published in
a prominent Belgian newspaper, caught the attention of a young writer.
This event was to have important repercussions on Moniques life, for she
later married her literary admirer, Grard Adam.
Monique Thomassettie graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts in
Brussels, and for several years taught classes in painting. Since 1978 she
has regularly held exhibits of her art work, and she has illustrated some of
her own books. The first section of Verbes-Oriflammes consists of re-
productions of her oil paintings accompanied by short poems: shapes,
colors and words concur to create a poetic effect. Moreover, Thomassettie
states that she endeavors to coordinate her various art forms around a
common core, which is thus rendered visible, audible and tangible. In
1995 she received an award from the Socit des Potes et Artistes de
France for her collection De blancs oiseaux boivent la lumire.
Thomassetties poetry often alludes to Old Testament symbols as, for
example, in The Red Sea. In addition, she evokes allegorical figures and
even fairy tale personae (in The Stranger, for instance, we can find
subtle references to Charles Perraults tales and to La Fontaines fables).
The figure of the Angel in particular, plays a prominent role in Triptyque,
a title that, once again, is reminiscent of the art world. As Thomassettie
366 Monique Thomassettie

explains in an Afterword to the collection, this work was inspired by her

vision of an angel.
Another aspect of Thomassetties work reveals the poets love of Na-
ture and her respect for all living things, which are evident in several of
the excerpts presented here. Many of her texts include reflections on
poetry itself, on the magic of words. Words she launches like birds
and at their own riskas she emphasizes in one of our selections.
Her poetry is unusual in several ways: in its imagery, its pictorial quali-
ties, as well as in its deep sense of the sacred. Humorous touches are
present as well, as in the whimsy of the Forest Queen and the episode
of the pigeon hunter.
In the last few years, Thomassetties interest in the theater has been
renewed, for she finds it an ideal medium to integrate writing and painting.
 Monique Thomassettie 367

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Encres sympathiques. Bruxelles: Le Non-Dit, 1992.
De blancs oiseaux boivent la lumire. Bruxelles: Le Non-Dit, 1994.
Feuilles mortes glissant dans leau claire. Bruxelles: Le Non-Dit, 1994.
(Early poems).
Verbes-Oriflammes. Avin/Hannut (Belgium): Editions Luce Wilquin, 1995.
Triptyque. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1997.

Short Stories
LOmbre de Dieu. Bruxelles: Le Mt de Misaine, 1989. (Includes some
poems)
Les Seins de lune. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1998.

Novel
Le Matre dor. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1996.

Narrative
Un Voyage ou Journal dun Peintre. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin,
1993.
On the cover of this anthology: Sagesse, art work by Monique
Thomassettie.
368 Monique Thomassettie

LEtrangre

Mots trangers
au-dessus du berceau
Grise du miel coulant
de lvres incomprises
elle fuit

Son histoire
celles manques
grimacent
sous les voiles du renouveau

Mais encore on oublie

dinviter la fe sombre

Talents enfouis
Dterrs

Un loup passe
la ravit

Elle les renterre

Ttues
des pousses vertes
sur lhumus noir

Rticence:
lafft de lagneau
qui pourrait les brouter!

La vtant de rouge
les mots maternels
ouvrent des bras bleus

Sur un dos laineux

son souffle sapaise

(De blancs oiseaux boivent la lumire)

 Monique Thomassettie 369

The Stranger

Strange words
above the cradle
She is charmed by the honey flowing
from enigmatic lips
and flees

Her story
ruined as were others
that flinched
under the veils of renewal

But once again they forget

to invite the somber fairy

Her talents are buried

Then unearthed

When a wolf comes by

and carries her away

She buries them again

Stubborn
little green shoots
sprout from the dark humus

Reticent:
She watches for the lamb
that might graze there!

Dressing her in red

motherly words
open up a blue embrace

The fleece is soft to touch

and she regains her peace.
370 Monique Thomassettie

Mer Rouge
Haie docile
les vagues
de part et dautre du nouveau chemin
parsem de coquillages surpris
entrouverts
En suspens des poissons
dans la houle arrte
Le vent retient son souffle
Fond de mer
menant aux dunes claires
Me manquent les rochers!
lhorizontrs hautse dessinent
des btiments
Vertige
Mais
plus loin
vibre dans la lumire
le vert tendre de mai
Est-ce vapeur cume
cette forme aile?
Pniblement sextraient
lourdes deaux
de grandes plumes
Au seuil dun pays fragile
Sy brisent les terres
comme pltras
Abmes
Des puits semplissent deaux
plus bleues
que le ciel insipide
Lerrance commence:
Elle vendit son me
pour un peu de soleil
Son manteau dor lui pse
O le jeter?
.../
 Monique Thomassettie 371

The Red Sea

Docile hedges
the waves
on both sides of the new road
strewn with startled shells
half-open
Fishes in suspension
in the frozen tide
The wind holds its breath
Bottom of the sea
leading to bleached sand dunes
But rocks are missing!
On the horizonup highthe profiles
of buildings
Dizzying sight
But
further on
vibrating in the light
the tender green of May
Is this winged silhouette
vapor or foam?
Struggling to get free
laden with water
long feathers emerge
On a fragile countrys threshold
The land breaks apart
like lumps of plaster
Abysses
Wells fill up with water
more blue
than the pallid skies
Now is the time for wandering:
She sold her soul
for a bit of sun
Her gold cloak is heavy
Where can she discard it?
.../
372 Monique Thomassettie

.../
Dans un gouffre
il chute
sardonique
en cliquetis

Mais
(ce nest pas si simple)
lme est conqurir

Enfin descend la nuit

veillant sur les eaux
de lumineux envols

Toucher les fonds

En revenir aile!

(De blancs oiseaux boivent la lumire)

******

La nuit

La nuit. Je rve. Je me rveille au petit matin et, consciente, continue

mon rve, ou, plus exactement, le rve me continue, me poursuit.
Ainsi, le pote et lartiste rvent veills, mais, force de rver, finissent
par dominer leur rve, leur uvre. Tandis que le rveur endormi est domin
par ses songes. Dans lArt, la frontire entre conscient et inconscient est
abolie. Lartiste, le pote, passent de lun lautre en connaissance.

(Verbes-Oriflammes)
 Monique Thomassettie 373

.../
In some chasm
it falls
sardonically
in a clatter

But
(things are not that simple)
the soul is yet to be conquered

At last night descends

and over the water stirs
flights of luminosity

Touching bottom

And coming up with wings!

******

Night

Night. I dream. Early in the morning I wake up and, fully conscious, I

continue my dream or, more exactly, my dream continues me, pursues
me.
Thus the poet and the artist dream while awake but, by dint of their
dreaming, they end up controlling their dream, their work. While the
dreamer who is asleep is controlled by his dreams. In Art, the line be-
tween conscious and unconscious is erased. The artist, the poet, go from
one stage to the other fully aware.
374 Monique Thomassettie

Jeunesse de nos mres

Jeunesse de nos mres

Souvenirs qui seffeuillent
Un oiseau manque aux toits des villes
Trait jaune-orange au fond des violets
Barre dor dune joie incruste dans le temps
 Monique Thomassettie 375

Our Mothers Younger Years

Our mothers younger years

Memories like falling leaves
A bird is missing from the city roofs
Shades of violet over an orange-yellow streak
A gold bar of joy inlaid in time.
376 Monique Thomassettie

Jerrais seule

Jerrais seule. Dans le vergerabandonn, une brousse dherbes hautes

accueillait mes explorations. Un arbre abattu supportait mes exercices
dquilibre. Au fond, lombre de sapins, se cachait une masure en ruines.
Des tuiles brises jonchaient la terre, nue cet endroit. Lhumidit, les
araignes, me firent abandonner lide de men faire une maisonnette.
Un morceau de pelouse ouvrait sur le verger. On y accdait par un
portillon au fond de mon jardin. Y poussait un cerisier, pill chaque t
par les oiseaux. Ce triangle dherbes, clairsem des ombres du feuillage,
me semblait lot, oasis labri des vents. A lapproche du soir, rentrant de
mes escapades, je my attardais.
******

La vue de fleurs . . .

La vue de fleurs disposes dans une coupe ma subitement treinte. Un

dsespoir viscral devant leur fugacit.
A Paris, je visite les muses. Il me semble, au milieu des Nymphas,
perdre conscience, puis revenir au monde dans le berceau cosmique.
Bonnes mres, les Impressionnistes! Monet vid de son optique nous
donne sa vision que nous buvons passivement. Festin royal pour les
indignes voyeurs.
La Promenade sur la falaise, Pourville. Plus quun air marin sur
ma peau, dans mes narines, dans mes poumons, jprouve la sensation
du peintre, son motion, sa communion avec la nature. Je suis Pourville
et non au milieu de la chaleur des spots et des bavardages feutrs.
Luttant contre la fugacit de la nature, lImpressionnisme insatiable la
grignota, la dvora. Elle nous revint blouissante, transforme en jardins
dEden. Les fruits de vie y sont pches de Renoir, joues enfantines.
Bienheureux les peintres semblables aux lys des champs.
Claude Monet triompha du Temps. Aprs son ombrageux portrait par
Henri Fantin-Latour, il cra la lumire charnelle.

(Verbes-Oriflammes)
 Monique Thomassettie 377

I Was Alone

I was alone, walking aimlessly. In what used to be an orchard, a jungle of

high grasses welcomed my explorations. On a felled tree I practiced my
balancing act. In the rear, shady fir trees hid the ruin of a small shed.
Around it the ground was bare and strewn with broken tiles. At first I
thought of making it my playhouse, but dampness and spiders made me
change my mind.
A parcel of lawn led to the orchard through a little gate at the rear of
my garden. There grew a cherry tree, plundered each summer by the
birds. This triangle of grass, sprinkled with the leaves moving shadows,
was for me like an islet, an oasis protected from the winds. When evening
came, as I returned from my escapades, I would often linger there.
******

The sight of flowers . . .

The sight of flowers arranged in a bowl instantly gripped me. A visceral

despair at their transience.
In Paris, I visit the museums. I seem, amid the Waterlilies, to lose
consciousness, then come back to the world cradled in the cosmos.
What good mothers, the Impressionists! Monet deprived of his sight
gives us his vision, which passively we drink in. A royal feast for the
unworthy intruders.
The Promenade on the Cliffs, at Pourville. More than sea air on my
skin, in my nostrils, in my lungs, I experience the painters sensation, his
passion, his communion with nature. I am at Pourville and not caught
here between the heat of the spotlights and the muffled conversations.
Struggling against the transience of nature, insatiable Impressionism
nibbled at it, devoured it. It comes back to dazzle us, transformed into
gardens of Eden. The fruits of life become Renoirs peaches, cheeks of
children.
Fortunate are the painters for they resemble the lilies of the field.
Claude Monet triumphed over Time. After its shadowy portrait by Henri
Fantin-Latour, he created carnal light.
378 Monique Thomassettie

Jai connu un peintre . . .

Jai connu un peintre dsespr devant la pollution de la mer. Comment

la peindre en cet tat?
Je lui rpondis: Il faut peindre nos mers intrieures et celles de nos
souvenirs . . . .

Le ciel prend peu peu une imperceptible couleur mauve, perdant ce ton
crulum d lozone.
Couche fissure, comme dans les Nymphas o la peinture se craquelle.
Comment ds lors ne pas rechercher un noyau imprissable?

Lazur reflte linconscience des hommes, leur lent suicide.

Un monde brl, dsertique, aux roches dores sous des cieux violets.
Curieusement ce tableau me procure une ivresse. Le mme vertige que
celui prouv lide du monde originel davant la vie.
Un temps au-del du Temps.
Lme des Nymphas y palpite.
Crucifis par le soleil, nous nous souviendrions . . .

(Verbes-Oriflammes)
 Monique Thomassettie 379

I knew a painter . . .

I knew a painter who deplored the pollution of the sea. How can I paint
it in this condition?!
I answered: We must paint our inner seas; the seas in our memories . . .

Little by little the sky turns to a slightly mauve color; lacking ozone, it
loses its cerulean shade.
A fissured surface, just as in Monets Waterlilies where the paint is
crackling.
Why not then look for the imperishable kernel at the heart of things?

The sky reflects mankinds thoughtlessness, its slow suicide.

A burnt out world, a desert, with golden rocks under a violet sky.
Strangely this picture goes to my head; it is the same dizzy spell I
experience when I think of the primeval world, the world before life.
A time beyond Time.
Crucified by the sun, we would remember . . .
380 Monique Thomassettie

Je cabriole au pied des falaises

Je cabriole au pied des falaises

Avant, jtais fleuve
Et avant, rivire cristalline aux veils du jour
Avant dtre rivire
je sillonnais la ville au long des rigoles de pluie
Et avant de mler mes larmes celles du ciel
je fus femme
fille tendue sur la berge
si blanche sa peau aux reflets de nacre bleue
******

Entends les contes . . .

Entends les contes qui nous sauvent la vie

Il tait une reine des bois
(Toujours ma plume oscille
entre mer et fort)
Reine des biches couleur daube
et gazelle aimant un lion
Forte vers les monts quittait les bosquets
vers la crinire flamboyant
en altitude de midi
Un jour dheure incertaine
elle surprit le roi contre-jour
qui buvait leau de la montagne
O la crinire?
la couronne de feu?
Des branches nues comme en hiver
slevaient sur le front
Un cerf!
Tu peux les voir sillonner la plante

(Triptyque)
 Monique Thomassettie 381

I frolic now . . .

I frolic now at the foot of the cliffs

But I used to be a river
And before that, a stream, crystal-clear at daybreak
Before I was a stream
I used to flow through the city with the rain
And before mingling my tears with the skys
I was a woman
a girl lying on the river bank
her skin so white with glints of bluish pearl
******

Listen to the tales . . .

Listen to the tales that can save our lives

Once upon a time there was a Forest queen
(Always my pen wavers
between sea and forest)
Queen of the does, the color of dawn,
a gazelle in love with a lion
She left her trees headed for the mountains
toward the flaming mane
at the height of noontime
One day at an uncertain hour
she surprised the king against the sunlight
drinking from a mountain stream
Where was his mane?
his fiery crown?
Only branches bare as in winter
growing on his forehead!
A deer!
His kind can be seen all over our planet
382 Monique Thomassettie

Mon me ma soeur

Mon me ma soeur
Jai fait tendre un tapis dor
sur les graviers de la ville
Autour du pas de tes penses
oscillant des volants de neige

Mon poux
plus doux que le miel du soleil
Jai vu les malheureux dans la ville
leur ai donn des manteaux
Tant suis emplie de ton amour

Le sacre de notre amour

en offrande slve
******

. . . Comme un colombophile . . .

. . . Comme un colombophile propulse des oiseaux

je lance des mots
pess
bagus
Avides les voici balayant lombre des nues
Brusquement lourds
ils chutent
disparaissent au sol
Un filet rouge en suspens
scoule enfin sur le terreau qui labsorbe
Le ciel a ferm sa blessure
Dans un buisson se tient un chasseur
Mes mots! mexclam-je
Pourquoi viser mes petites mes?!
Ses yeux tincellent:
Mes flches sont lenvers des colombes
Mon coeur souffre
car il aime
lhomme qui joue
Sourire au travers de mes larmes
Je ris! /...
 Monique Thomassettie 383

My Sister My Soul

My sister My soul
I had a golden carpet laid
over the city streets
Around the cadence of your thoughts
flounces of snow undulate

My spouse
more sweet than the suns honey
I have seen the poor in the city
I have given them cloaks
So imbued am I with your love

The crowning of our love

rises up as an offering
******

Like a pigeon-fancier . . .

. . . like a pigeon-fancier who propels his birds

I launch my words
after theyre weighed
and banded
Eagerly they sweep through the clouds shadows
But suddenly too heavy
they fall
disappear on the ground
A trickle of red
soon flows on the earth and is absorbed
The sky has closed its wound
In a nearby grove there is a hunter
My words! I exclaimed
Why aim at my little souls?!
His eyes throw sparks:
My arrows are the other side of doves
My heart aches
for it loves
this mischievous man
I smile through my tears
I laugh! /...
384 Monique Thomassettie

/...
Notre rire intrinsque
Le chasseur mouvre sa veste
Pelotonne contre lui
jentends roucouler son coeur
de mille becs!

Jai dautres oiseaux encore dans mon sac . . .

dit-elle

(Triptyque)
 Monique Thomassettie 385

/...
Laughter our human prerogative
The hunter opens his coat
I snuggle up against his chest
and I hear his heart cooing
as if from a thousand beaks!

. . . I still have other birds up my sleeve . . .

she said
386 Monique Thomassettie

LEnfant

Elle marche au seuil de lautomne, en son jardin o bgonias en boutons

sont de pensifs coquillages ferms sur des trsors. Ouverts, ils dploient
des ptales dentels ou des rondeurs bon enfant. Elle nidentifie pas un
mouvement, ne sait si le remous furtif est la chute dune feuille ou le vol
dun oiseau. En elle encore un sourd dsir en rsonance avec les printemps
ternels.
Elle porte la Terre et ses fleurs desprance, tremble en son trfonds
o sommeille un amour.
Et se rappelle . . .

(Les seins de lune, excerpt)

******

Child

She is walking on autumns threshold, in her garden where budding

begonias are pensive seashells enclosing hidden treasures. As they open,
they unfold into scalloped petals or good-natured roundness. She does
not recognize a single movement. She does not know whether this furtive
rustle is an autumn leaf falling or a bird taking flight. Within her still
lingers a muted desire in harmony with eternal springs.
She carries the Earth and its flowers of hope, trembling deep inside
herself, where love lies dormant.
And she remembers . . .
 Monique Thomassettie 387

Profil de vierge, drawing by Monique Thomassettie

(in Triptyque)
(Verbes-Oriflammes)

velyne Wilwerth
(1947)

Evelyne Wilwerth was born in Spa, a charming town in the Belgian

Ardennes that used to be a favorite watering place and health resort, and
is still popular today for its natural springs, its summer theater, and its
music festivals. In her writings, Wilwerth often evokes her happy child-
hood in a land of pine groves and wide-open spaces.
A graduate of the University of Leuven with a degree in Romance
Philology, Wilwerth had an early start in the world of literature. In her
own words: . . . as a small child, I always dreamed of becoming a writer.
And so I did! For several years after her graduation, she taught literature
in a secondary school. In 1977, she resigned her position and for some
time lived in Paris, then in Southern France, determined to devote her
time to writing. She eventually returned to her native Belgium and now
resides in Brussels. Writing is her full-time occupation. Her books have
been published in Belgium, in France, in Canada and in the United States.
A poet, essayist, novelist, Evelyne Wilwerth is also involved in the the-
ater: she has authored several plays for the stage and for the radio. Be-
cause of her continued interest in the world of childhood, she writes
stories and novels for young people and conducts creativity seminars for
adolescents. Although she is active in literary circles (in Belgium and
abroad), she often retreats to the country to find the privacy and quiet she
needs to create. Her writings have been translated into English, German,
Dutch and Ukrainian. Wilwerth herself has translated literary works from
Dutch to French.
Her prose and poetry share basic traits: acute sensitivity, deep concern
for oppression and suffering in the modern world, and celebration of life
freed from the set patterns of conformity. In subtle, indirect ways, and
often with light humorous touches, Wilwerths works offer a social com-
390 velyne Wilwerth

mentary in the form of modern fables (illustrated, for example, in the

prose pieces of Histoires trs fausses, or in the mini-poems Neiges de
boules.)
An important quality of her style is its concision, an art of suggestion
that elicits the readers response.
A poet with an impressionists vision, Wilwerth uses striking meta-
phors, attention-catching images that capture unconventional, yet signifi-
cant aspects of our world, and of a womans life in particular. In her
longer poems (La Pniche-Ferveur and Le Cerfeuil meraude) she cel-
ebrates the coming of age of a woman who rejects her complacent and
narrow surroundings to find accomplishment in poetry. In the shorter
poems, often whimsical in form and full of surrealistic imagery, the au-
thor invites the reader to seek the substantive foundation, the symbolic
meaning. Dessine-moi les quatre lments is different from the other
collections, as its format is a large album where Wilwerths prose blends
in subtle ways with the illustrations of painter Manu Van de Velde: poetry
emerges from the intimate fusion of text and graphic art.
Critic Frank Wilhelm speaks of Evelyne Wilwerths free spirit and
healthy constructive anarchism, while he evokes her taste for unseemly
situations and her propensity for the bizarre: She refuses to accept the
world as it is. She is a friendly, but assertive poet who firmly adheres to
the fundamental choices she has made . . .

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
La Pniche-Ferveur. Paris: Chambelland, 1978.
Le Cerfeuil meraude. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1981.
Neiges de boule. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles, 1989.
Dessine-moi les quatre lments. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1993.
Poems published in miscellaneous periodicals.

Short Stories
Grenat/La Gare. Bruxelles: Andr de Rache, 1982.
Histoires trs fausses. Paris: Chambelland, 1985; Charlieu (France): La
Bartavelle, 1994.
 velyne Wilwerth 391

Novels
Canal-Ocan. Avin/ Hannut (Belgium): Editions Luce Wilquin, 1997.
La Vie cappuccino. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1999.

Essays
Visages de la littrature fminine. Bruxelles: Mardaga, 1987. Prix
Charles Plisnier, 1988.
Neel Doff. Bruxelles: Bernard Gilson, 1992.
Neel Doff (1858-1942). A Biography. New York: Peter Lang, 1997.
(Translation of Neel Doff by Rene Linkhorn)
Evelyne Wilwerth has also authored books for children and adolescents
as well as numerous articles on literary topics.
392 velyne Wilwerth

La Pniche-Ferveur

ce soir . . .
..............
je me secoue
jenlve quelques vtements trop raides, que vous
avez voulu me coller . . .

jetons leau nos miroirs

pour fter notre naissance . . .

pniche amarre aux herbes folles

aux rives de limagination

mille voyages faire encore

mille escales dans la gographie intrieure . . .

trop frl les murs, trop march sur la pointe des

pieds,
trop navigu dans les pastels
trop dormi, trop mesur, trop compos, trop
ferm mes manteaux, trop
adieu trottoirs de sagesse,
posie niveau zro . . .
.................................

perdu beaucoup de temps plaire

au lieu dtre
(ces jardins circulaires, au parfum musqu et
triqu la fois, asphyxie de fleurs, gangue)
cest fini
..........................................

non vos jardins sans temptes

votre temps cousu la machine
non vos corps aux volets ferms
vos enclos, vos dlimitations, vos fils barbels,
vos serrures, vos tracs mous,
vous, secs et gras la fois
souffle court de vos vitrines
souffle rentr de vos fentres /...
 velyne Wilwerth 393

tonight . . .

I shake myself loose

I discard the stiff garments
you wanted to stick on me . . .

Let us throw our mirrors into the river

to celebrate our birth . . .

barge anchored in the wild grasses

along the shores of imagination

one thousand journeys yet to be taken,

one thousand ports of call in my inner geography . . .

Too much brushing against walls, too much walking

on tiptoe,
too much sailing through pastel shades,
too much sleep, too much restraint, too much compromise
too many tightly-buttoned coats, too much!
Farewell, sidewalks of docility,
poetry degree zero . . .
...........................................

I wasted much time trying to please

rather than just be
(these circular gardens, with scents at once musky
and insipid, suffocating flowers, chaff).
That is all over now.
.................................................

No, to your gardens free of storms,

to your schedules stitched by machine,
no to your tightly shuttered bodies,
to your enclosures, demarcations, barbed wires
your padlocks, your wavering trails,
you, at once shriveled and fat,
your exhibits short of breath
your windows gasping for breath /...
394 velyne Wilwerth

/...
non vos gentils graniums
et vos potiches de bonne conscience . . .
..................................

oui, nos visages, corchs peut-tre

et si lisses, quand mme, lintrieur
oui, il nous faut briser les membranes, les sangles,
les couvercles, les carcans
pour la pulpe

et nous offrir enfin au vieux vent (complice de

labsolu) . . .

........................................

posie-fanal
car je serai offerte lirruption du pome
qui me dilatera
qui me dchirera
(tordue par le doute, avant, pendant, sans cesse,
convulsions de peur)
pome qui portera toujours un sourire trembl
car n de langoisse
mais celle-ci, il lextrait, il lextirpe, il lexpurge
lexpulse dans une flambe de joie . . .

........................................

je touche la chevelure de lair

je devine les brins dherbe de la srnit
mes contours, dilus dans la fusion
le silence cercle ma main qui crit, peigne mes
songes
nous nous inscrivons dans le grand sillon ascendant
feuille simple
la peur se couche mes pieds
je pars . . .

(La Pniche-Ferveur, excerpts)

 velyne Wilwerth 395

/...
No to your gentle geraniums
and your crocks of self-righteousness . . .
.....................................

Yes to our faces, perhaps scraped

but all the same so smooth inside.
Yes, we must break the membranes, the straps,
the lids, the fetters,
and reach the core
and at last offer ourselves to the old wind,
(accomplice to the absolute) . . .
........................................

Poetry-beacon
Ill let the poem invade me
dilate me
tear me apart
(wrenched by doubt, before, during, unceasingly,
racked by fear)
poem that forever will wear a trembling smile
born from anguish
yet it extracts, extirpates, expurgates,
expells its anguish in a blaze of joy . . .
........................................

I touch the winds flowing tresses

I sense serenity in each blade of grass
My contours blur and fuse
Silence circles my writing hand, unravels my dreams
We are inscribed in a long ascending groove,
simple foliage,
fear crouches at my feet
Im on my way . . .
396 velyne Wilwerth

Le Cerfeuil meraude
..................................... ...
comment ai-je pu
si longtemps
me gaver de flashes
jcrivais des textes que je dsirais trs beaux
au lieu de les cracher, comme a, sur le sol
je ne voyais gure les auberges simples
je m'cartais soigneusement de la sueur du cerfeuil
..................................... ...
j'ose enfin les mots taills dans mon bois profond
sans contreplaqu ni cire mollasse
mais tellement encore exhumer
c'est difficile
n'empche, mollets dlests
donc plus translucide et moins parapluie
la sexualit, belle comme une cathdrale
belle comme le corail enfoui
..................................... ...
j'ai mu
il tait temps
j'atteins enfin l'pure
..................................... ...
sourcire de moi-mme
patiente puisatire . . .

(Le Cerfeuil meraude, excerpts)

 velyne Wilwerth 397

..................................... ...
how could I
for so long
have reveled in tinsel pursuits
I would write texts that I wished beautiful
instead of spitting them out, like so, on the ground
I barely noticed the simple inns
I carefully shunned the sweat of chervil
..................................... ...
at least I dare words carved in my inner wood
with no veneer or sluggish wax
but so much is yet to be exhumed
it is difficult
just the same, with limbs unrestrained,
thus more translucent, less umbrella-like,
sexuality, beautiful as a cathedral,
beautiful as coral from the deep . . .
..................................... ...
I moulted,
just in time
to finally reach the blueprint stage,
..................................... ...
discoverer of my own springs,
patient digger of wells . . .
398 velyne Wilwerth

I touch the winds flowing tresses

I sense serenity in each blade of grass
My contours blur and fuse
Silence circles my writing hand, unravels my dreams
We are inscribed in a long ascending groove,
simple foliage,
fear crouches at my feet
Im on my way . . .

Pas possible.
Nous sommes complets.
chaque fois,
cette mme phrase
les griffait au visage.
Cinquante-trois htels.
Et pourtant,
le silence lthargique
des parkings,
des trottoirs,
des regards.
Alors ils se redressrent
et sortirent leurs craies.
Ils dessinrent,
sur les pavs disjoints,
un lit baldaquin.
Et sy lovrent.
******
Lupin, digitale,
digitale, lupin.
Ctait ainsi
quelle scandait sa marche,
sur ce boulevard parisien.
Elle dut bientt carter les bras
pour se frayer un passage.
Parmi
la luxuriance.
******
 velyne Wilwerth 399

Vanille, moka ou chocolat?

Lilas, rpondit-elle.

Et comme elle possdait

un regard dune nuance inconnue,
il lui servit

ce quelle dsirait.
(Neiges de boule)

Impossible
we have no vacancy.
Each time
this same phrase
clawed at their faces.
Fifty-three hotels.
And still
lethargic silence
in parking lots
on sidewalks
in every gaze.
Then they held up their heads
got out their chalk sticks:
on the disjointed cobbles
they drew
a four-poster bed
and curled up in it.
******

Lupine, foxglove,
foxglove, lupine.
And so
rhythmically she walked
along the Paris boulevard
Soon she had to spread out her arms
to clear a path
through
the luxuriance.
400 velyne Wilwerth

La Terre

Sapinire-lez-Spa

Jose. Jose renforcer ltreinte. Appuyer davantage. Mes coudes. Mes

avant-bras. Ma joue gauche. Me voil ancre. Mais je veux aller plus loin,
plus profondment. Au-del de toute dcence. Alors jenfonce mes seins.
Je presse mes cuisses contre elle. Mes genoux. Puis mon ventre. Jattends.
Le parfum de rsine saffole. Ou maffole. Jcarte les doigts pour quil
minonde. Je sens les sourdes reptations de la terre: elle ragit. Alors
jose encore. Jenfonce mon pubis dans sa chair douce et dure. Les aigu-
illes de pin frmissent, poussent des cris aigus.

Juste la lisire. Jai choisi lemplacement avec soin. La lisire de la

sapinire. Tout prs du chemin bord dherbes. Et pas loin des Fagnes.
Une pente secrte. A ma mesure.

Alors les odeurs senflamment et entament leur sarabande. Humus,

champignons, feuilles mortes, chtaignes. Rsine, rsine. Et moi je
chavire sous leur violence musque.

Les aiguilles me caressent, me picotent, me titillent.

Tout ce chambardement au coeur du silence. Silence religieux.
Sacr.

Mais on meffleure! On meffleure le dos, les reins. Les paules nues.

Une fougre espigle? Une branche curieuse? Une main promeneuse?
Ma peau gmit, brle.

Ltreinte, de toute part. Trop intense. Et le bonheur total, dtre couche

sur le ventre.

Comme quand jtais petite.

Je suis petite. Je suis allonge sous le marronnier. Sur la terre tide.

Toute nue. Toute lisse. Pas loin des balanoires. Jenfonce mes ongles
dans le sol pour mieux treindre mon enfance. Mon enfance trop
belle. Alors elle me fait parfois mal. Il y a trop de papillons verts et
jaunes. Trop de pivoines capiteuses. trop de loggias et de balcons. Trop
de beaut pour une petite fille. Et de grands rves argents.
Et des livres qui germent dj dans mon ventre. / . . .
 velyne Wilwerth 401

Earth

I shall dare. Dare to intensify my embrace. To press harder. My elbows.

My forearms. My left cheek. Now I am anchored. But I want to go further
still, deeper still. Beyond all decency. Then I thrust in my breasts. I press
my thighs against it. My knees. Then my belly. I pause. The resinous
scent goes wild. Or drives me wild. I spread out my fingers so it can flow
freely in me. I can feel the Earths muffled stirrings: it responds. Then Ill
be even more daring. I thrust my pubis into the grounds smooth hard
flesh. Pine needles quiver, utter shrill cries.

Just at the edge. I carefully chose the spot. The edge of the pine grove.
Next to a pathway lined with grass. Not far from the Fagnes marsh-
lands. A secret slope. Fitting me perfectly.

Now fragrances are ablaze and go into a saraband. Humus, mush-

rooms, autumn leaves, chestnuts. Resin, resin. Their musky violence
engulfs me.

The pine needles caress me, prickle me, tickle me.

All this commotion in the heart of silence. Religious silence.
Sacred.

But something brushes against me! Something grazes my back, my

hips. My bare shoulders. A playful fern? A curious twig? An intrusive
hand? My skin moans, tingling.

Everywhere an embrace. Too intense. Lying on my stomach in total bliss.

Just as in my childhood.

I am a little girl. I am lying under the chestnut tree. On the warm

Earth. All naked. All smooth. Not far from the swings. I sink my
fingernails into the ground to better embrace my childhood. My child-
hood . . . too beautiful. Sometimes it hurts. There are too many green
and yellow butterflies. Too many peonies with heady fragrance. Too many
loggias and balconies. Too much beauty for a little girl. And big silvery
dreams.
And books already germinating in my belly. /...
402 velyne Wilwerth

/...
Je suis trs petite. Je me cambre. Je fais pointer mes fesses. Je serre
mon oreiller. Jenfonce mon ventre dans les draps de la terre. Je tangue
des hanches sous des regards tendres. Prs du balcon. Prs du poirier
voluptueux. Je suis ne sur le ventre. Dans les bois.

A la lisire dune sapinire.

Avec des aiguilles de pin plein les cheveux. I

S
Mais la terre reprend ses chaudes reptations. Ltreinte sintensifie S
encore. Jentends vaguement des voix: U
On dirait un bb . . . A
Non, une femme . . .
Non, une poupe . . . I
Toute nue, l, au bord du chemin. O
Les voix svanouissent . . . M

(Dessine-moi les quatre lments)

 velyne Wilwerth 403

/...
I am just a little child. I arch my back. I stick out my buttocks. I hug
my pillow. I sink my belly into the Earths bedding. I sway my hips to
and fro under loving gazes. Near the balcony. Near the voluptuous
pear tree. I was born lying on my belly. In the forest.

At the edge of the pine grove.

With pine needles all over my hair.

But the Earth again is softly undulating. The embrace grows. I

more intense. Vaguely I hear voices:
It looks like a baby . . . O
No, its a woman . . . D
No, a doll . . .
Stark naked, there by the side of the road . . . O
The voices fade away . . . S
404 velyne Wilwerth

Le Feu

Excerpt from Le Feu (Fire) in

Dessine-moi les quatre lments
(Illustration by Manu Van de Velde)
 velyne Wilwerth 405

Fire

Not to rush things, she muses. She welcomes

the rhythms, as her volatile dress excitedly
whirls around her. A dress incarnadine. In the
half-light, the dark wines reflection, velvet-like.

A silhouette emerges, stands out, leans forward.

It is too soon, she thinks. But already she is standing,
she follows the shadow, holding his warm hand. The dance floor
seizes them in its sultriness. Slow music winds
around them. Fur-like.
406 velyne Wilwerth

Chair

Zphirine sinstalla sur lappui de fentre. Elle stira. Puis guetta le

soleil. Bientt, il lui lcherait les chevilles. Puis elle samusa balancer les
jambes, pendant une heure ou deux. Puis elle saisit ses feuilles et son
stylo.

Tout en bas, on chuchotait, on montrait du doigt, on invectivait. Oui,

tout en bas.

Dans le soleil, les jambes galbes de Zphirine. Et la robe couleur chair

qui lhabillait, peine. Zphirine crivait, au nonante-neuvime tage de
son building.

Fouiller . . . ne pas avoir peur . . . fouiller . . . dpasser les limites . . .

Ses longs mollets beraient le vide. Le soleil et la pluie sculptaient ses

genoux. En bas, des rumeurs, des crachats.

mesure que lt sappesantissait, Zphirine sinstalla de plus en plus

au bord de lappui de fentre. Elle se concentrait dans sa robe couleur
chair. Ses lvres, plus nettes et profondes: elles viraient au vermillon.
Besoin de cela . . . besoin de conditions extrmes pour aller jusquau
bout . . .

Les orages aimrent ses cuisses. Elle, crivait, crivait.

En bas, tout en bas, on lanait des pierres, des adjectifs, des jumelles,
des tomates.

Les lvres de Zphirine viraient encore. Le vermillon fit place,

imperceptiblement, la nuance sang. Et Zphirine offrait ses cuisses,
dcouvertes jusqu laine.

Elle sasseyait prsent lextrme bord de la fentre.

Car lcrivain doit travailler sans filet . . . sans filet . . .

Les feuillets se noircissaient, dans la lumire. /. . .

 velyne Wilwerth 407

Flesh

Zephirina sat on the window ledge. She stretched her arms. Then
watched for the sun that soon would lick her ankles. Then for an hour or
two she amused herself swinging her legs to and fro. Next, she picked up
her papers and pen.

Way down below, people whispered, pointed their fingers at her, shouted
abuse. Yes indeed, way down below.

Zephirinas shapely legs dangled in the sun . . . And her flesh-colored

dress barely covered her body . . . Zephirina was busy writing, on the
ninety-ninth floor of her apartment building.

Delve deeply into it . . . without fear . . . really delve into it . . . know-

ing no bounds . . .

Her long legs dangled over empty space. Sun and rain sculpted her
knees. Down below: rumors, spittle.

As summer grew more intense, Zephirina moved closer and closer to

the border of the window ledge. Concentrating, in her flesh-colored dress.
Her lips more prominent, brighter; they turned to vermilion.

I do need this . . . I need extreme conditions to carry it through . . .

Thunderstorms fell in love with her thighs. But she kept on writing,
writing on and on.

Below, way down below, they were throwing rocks, adjectives, binocu-
lars, tomatoes.

Zephirinas lips changed again. From vermilion, imperceptibly, they

turned blood-red. And Zephirina displayed her thighs, exposing them up
to her crotch.

Now she was sitting at the very limit of the window ledge.

Because a writer must work without a net . . . without a net . . .

In the sunshine she covered page after page with her writing. /. . .
408 velyne Wilwerth

/. . .
Le 9 septembre, 15 heures trente, Zphirine tomba. On aperut
dabord une masse floue, claire, virevolter dans le ciel. La masse se densifia
bientt, tournoya, puis obliqua vers le sol. Ce fut un paquet trs prcis qui
atterrit, ct dun camion. Une pile de feuillets couleur chair, bien serrs.

Un diteur, avis, qui passait justement par l, parcourut le manuscrit.

Et il dcida sur-le-champ de le publier. Ctait de loin le meilleur manuscrit
de Zphirine H.

(Histoires trs fausses)

 velyne Wilwerth 409

/. . .
On September 9, at 3:30 p.m., Zephirina fell. At first a light-colored
blurry mass was seen twisting and turning in the air. Soon the mass
became more distinct, whirling, then swerving toward the ground. What
landed next to a truck was a neatly shaped package: flesh-colored sheets
of paper, all in a solid stack.

A sharp-witted publisher, who just happened to be passing by, leafed

through the manuscript. And right then and there he decided to print it: it
was by far the best work Zephirina H. had ever written.
410 velyne Wilwerth

La montagne mauve

La montagne mauve murmure. peine.

Ils se connaissent depuis un jour, un mois, un an, une dcennie, cinq
secondes. Ils ont jet les mots la mer. La femme lui offre son visage.
Comme jamais elle na offert son visage. Dans la nudit la plus indcente,
la plus absolue. La nudit jusqu los, le sang, les viscres, le sexe, lme.
Lme de son visage. Le sexe de son visage. La femme a mal. La femme
exulte. Dj la lumire fait des trous dans sa tempe, son cou, leur corps.
Dj ils irradient. dj ils glissent dans lirisation. Sans le savoir.
Bientt pulvriss. Lentement pulvriss. Sable, gouttelet tes,
atmosphre. Particules de beaut. Particules dternit. Ils sinscriront
dans la longue ligne des couples qui ont jet les mots la mer. Voil
pourquoi notre le est si blouissante.

Et la montagne mauve baisse doucement ses paupires.

******

Elle sasseyait souvent . . .

Elle sasseyait souvent devant deux marronniers.

Elle gotait lancrage du tronc,
puis senivrait de leurs mains multiples
aux doigts frissonnants,
pianotant
sur le clavier du ciel.
Elle se coulait dans ce friselis,
dnouait ses veines,
puis crivait,
assise en tailleur
sur une racine,
sur les genoux de la terre.
(Le Spantole, no. 307, 1997)
 velyne Wilwerth 411

Mauve Mountain

The mauve mountain whispers. Softly:

They met one day ago, one month, one year, one decade, five sec-
onds ago. They threw words into the sea. The woman offers him her
face. She offers it as she never before offered her face. In the most inde-
cent, the most absolute nudity. Nudity as deep as her bones, her blood,
her entrails, her womb, her soul. The soul of her face. The sex of her face.
The woman is in pain. The woman rejoices. Already the light pierces
holes in her temples, her neck, their bodies. Already they radiate. Already
they glide into iridescence. Without knowing it.
Soon they will be pulverized. Slowly pulverized. Sand, droplets, puffs
of air. Particles of beauty. Particles of eternity. They will be inscribed in a
long lineage of couples who threw words into the sea. This is why our
island is so resplendent.

And the mauve mountains eyelids softly close.

******

Often she would sit . . .

Often she would sit by the two chestnut trees,

She enjoyed their trunks solidly anchored,
then marveled at their multiple hands
with quivering fingers
tinkling away
on the skys keyboard.
She would glide into their trembling rhythm,
unwind her veins,
then she would write,
sitting tailor-fashion
upon a root
upon the knee of the earth.
412 velyne Wilwerth

Je vous veux altires

Je vous veux altires

Avec des cheveux de lumire
Et des jambes dambition

Je vous veux impertinentes

Avec des robes transparentes
Et des genoux crasseux

Je vous veux folles et graves

Et je vous vois
Poussant vos balanoires
Farouchement
Avec vos bras de libellules
Et votre nuque brlante
Vous femmes

Femmes jusquau bout des serres

(Indit, unpublished)

*******

*** Elle pntra dans la pice-cathdrale. Exigea un trapze.

Sempara de lespace. Traa un nouveau roman.
En bas, le regard aigu de son diteur.

*** Offrir des fleurs ou une bouteille de bordeaux? Hsitation

mollasse. Alors elle sbroua. A ses pieds, un caillou
aux formes sculpturales. Elle le saisit dlicatement,
tourna le dos aux habitations et obligations.
Le caillou et la femme senfoncrent dans la nuit.

*** Il ne pouvait rsister aux chelles. Un soir, lune delles

se prsenta lui. Il lescalada en lui soufflant des mots
tendres. Aprs des heures, ou des nuits, il atteignit le
visage de lchelle, huma les tempes et les paupires:
parfum inconnu. Parfum dabsolu.
Mais quelle tait la nuance du regard clos?
 velyne Wilwerth 413

Of You I Demand Pride

Of you I demand pride

With luminous tresses
And legs of ambition

Of you I demand insolence

With transparent dresses
And knees soiled with grime

Of you I demand foolish and grave things

And I see you

Propelling your swings
Fiercely
With your damsel-fly arms
While your neck is burning
You, Women,

Women to the tip of your talons

******

***She entered the cathedral-like room. Demanded a trapeze.

Took possession of space. Outlined a new novel.
Below: her publishers sharp stare.

***Should she bring flowers or a bottle of wine? Slight

hesitancy. Then she shook herself. At her feet, a shapely
sculpted pebble. She picked it up delicately, turned her back
to apartments and commitments.
The pebble and the woman disappeared in the night.

***He never could resist ladders. One evening he happened to

meet one. As he climbed it, he whispered words of love. After
many hours, or even many nights, he reached the ladders face,
sniffed around the temples and eyelids: scent unknown. Scent
of the Absolute.
But what gaze was enclosed within these eyelids? What shade might
it be?
414 velyne Wilwerth

*** Mieux se connatre, lui avait-on serin. Elle se figea

soudain devant son reflet. Combien de cheveux possdait-elle?
Labsence de rponse lanantit.

(Indits, unpublished short forms)

 velyne Wilwerth 415

***Know yourself, everyone kept harping on.

Suddenly, facing her mirror, she froze. How many hairs were on
her head? She was completely devastated for lack of an answer.

Mimy Kinet
(19481996)

Mimy Kinet did not enter the world of literature until she was forty years
old although, to be sure, her poetry had been secretly incubating all along
in her heart and mind. Unfortunately, what promised to be a brilliant
career was brought to a close by her untimely death.
Born in the rural community of Grupont in the Ardennes, she was a
university graduate with a degree in Romance philology. In her adult years,
married and the devoted mother of three children, she lived in Naninne in
the province of Namur. From 1990 to 1996, she edited RegArt, a literary
and artistic review of renown that ceased publication after her death.
Her discovery of Greek culture in 1978 was to influence deeply her
future poetic inspiration. Mimy Kinet developed a strong attachment to
the Hellenic world, its language and its people. More specifically, she
frequented the Lige Hellenic Circle where she met several writers and
artists in exile. She had studied classical Greek as a scholar, she now
learned demotic. She often traveled to Greece and eventually acquired a
house on the isle of Paros in the Cyclades, although she continued to be
a resident and a citizen of Belgium. One of her posthumous poems in-
cluded in this anthology shows the poignant nostalgia of a woman torn
between two worlds: In this place, an exile / over there a stranger.
According to her wishes, her body was cremated and her ashes dispersed
in the Aegean sea, off the island of Paros.
Mimy Kinet published relatively few poems in her lifetime, but she left
many that appeared posthumously in a volume of her complete works,
edited by Belgian poets Andr Doms and Pierre-Yves Soucy. Her poetry
is presented as the existential and spiritual testimony of a woman whose
voice will continue to vibrate within our memories.
In a special issue of the review LArbre Paroles paying homage to
Mimy Kinet, her Greek friend, poet Aki Roukas, recalls her visit to Paros
418 Mimy Kinet

in 1996, a visit all the more laden with emotion because she sensed it
would be her last. In these pages, Andr Doms evokes Kinets determina-
tion to rediscover the meaning of true priorities . . . to escape from the
confines of set principles, whether bourgeois, intellectual or dogmatic
. . . and to achieve the kind of personal freedom that compells one to
make the right choices and to assume responsibilities . . .. Doms draws
a parallel between some of Kinets philosophical beliefs and mythical
Hellenic figures. For his part, Soucy notes the frequent use of the voca-
tive second person (tu) in Mimy Kinets poetry, a device revealing
distanciation from the self. He also underscores the qualities of her style,
marked by the rare combination of conciseness and emotional intensity.
The last poems of Mimy Kinet have a tragic resonance and clearly
reveal the authors awareness of her early demise. The title she chose for
her very last pieces, which is also the last sentence in the posthumous
Posie, communicates a feeling of profound despair: Demain ne sajoutera
plus jamais ma vie (Tomorrow will never again be added to my life).
 Mimy Kinet 419

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Pollens. Unpublished, 1989 (see Posie below).
Nostos. Published in limited edition, 1990, with illustrations by Kosta
Lefkochir. (See Posie below).
Hypoges. Mont-sur-Marchienne (Belgium): LHorizon Vertical, 1991.
Le Discours du muet, suivi de Fables du mardi. Amay (Belgium): LArbre
Paroles, 1994.
Prcis dinconsistance. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1996.
A voix tue. Unpublished, 1996 (See Posie, below).
Mots murs. Posthumous. (See Posie, below).
Demain ne sajoutera plus jamais ma vie. Posthumous. (See Posie,
below).
Posie. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1997. (Published posthumously, this
volume includes poems from all the collections listed above.)
420 Mimy Kinet

Ma douleur . . .

Ma douleur est de ntre pas leau

qui caresse diffremment, de ntre pas lombre clairant
la lumire, de ntre pas la branche laquelle,invitablement,
les fruits viendraient se suspendre.
Je suis racine.
de la racine au fruit,
lintimit premire,
la terrible distance.

(Pollens, excerpt)
******

Jason

Quas-tu trouv, Jason,

Au bout de cette vague?
Les belles Symplgades
Aux treintes dorage
Et la Toison sacre
Dans les mains de Mde.

Mais tu ne savais pas

Que lor ne se dploie
Que dans lobscur silence
Des noces de lerrance.

Quas-tu trouv, Jason,

Au bout de la Toison?
Un rve de maison
Et la terrible paix
Qui couve lautre exil.

Quas-tu trouv, Jason,

Au bout de ce sommeil?
Les torpeurs de lennui
Et la femme meurtrie.
Les vapeurs de loubli
Et le sang de tes fils.

(Nostos)
 Mimy Kinet 421

I grieve . . .

I grieve for not being water

whose caress is different, for not being a shadow
that brightens the light, for not being a branch from which
fruits would inevitably dangle.
I am a root.
Between root and fruit
early intimacy,
dreadful distance.
******

Jason

What did you find, Jason,

At the end of the tides?
The lush Symplegades
With their stormy embrace
And the all-hallowed Fleece
Held in Medeas hands.

But what you did not know

Is that gold only shines
Through the silent darkness
Of a wanderers vows.

What did you find, Jason,

At the end of the Fleece?
The dream of a mansion
And the terrible peace
That breeds other exiles.

What did you find, Jason,

At the end of your sleep?
The torpors of boredom
And a woman aggrieved,
Vapors of oblivion
And the blood of your sons.
422 Mimy Kinet

Grce

Je nai pas fait le choix

Dpouser ce pays
Ou de lui rsister.

Terre-colre de miel
Et de sanglant velours,
Je ne tai pas choisie.

Tu nourris tes hros

Et tu creuses leur tombe,
Tu mets bas des rapaces
Et des colombes en naissent.
Grce, tu mobsdes.

Jai plant lomphalos

De mes mains dlirantes
lorient des brumes.
Jai cuv le jasmin
L o le ciel frissonne.
Je ne suis plus dici
Et je nai pas choisi.

En ce lieu exile,
trangre l-bas,
Jignore tout de mes pas.
Ma volont a fui.

Et je btis des les

Comme on fait des abris.
Elles soufflent des temptes,
Enfantent des gorgones
Et des poisons divins.

Jai peur dy accoster,

Jai peur . . .

Mais je nai plus le choix.

(Nostos)
 Mimy Kinet 423

Greece

It was not my choice

To espouse this country
Or to refuse it.

Angry land of honey

And of blood-stained velvet,
I did not choose you.

You nurture your heroes

And you dig their graves,
You beget predators
But they give birth to doves.
Greece, my obsession.

My delirious hands
Planted the Omphalos
East of the land of mists.
I was steeped in jasmine
Under shimmering skies,
And it was not my choice.

In this place an exile,

Over there, a stranger,
I step on paths unknown.
Will has deserted me.

So I construct islands
As one would build shelters.
They are blown by the storms,
They engender Gorgons,
Brew poisonous nectars.

I am afraid to berth here,

I am afraid . . .

But it is too late to choose.

424 Mimy Kinet

Je revois le fracas . . .

Je revois le fracas des vagues sur le rocher.

Jentends encore le balancement du thym saccouplant aux abeilles.
Dans ma bouche, le frisson carlate des griottes que me tendait
Yannis et sur ma peau le lent sanglot du vieux monastre de Lefks
qui dcomptait ses pierres.

Et je mattarde aux vestiges dune prsence qui ne viendra

peut-tre plus.

L
o je tattends
cest l
que tu tabsentes.

chaque amour suffit sa peine.

(Hypoges)
******

Ils sen allrent . . .

Ils sen allrent dos dos

oubliant
quau bout de la circonfrence
ils devraient de nouveau
se faire face.

(Fables du mardi)
******

Distraction des potes

Que disait-elle? Quentendait-il?

Ils voyageaient depuis longtemps sur un interminable ruban de
goudron, lorsquils saperurent quils avaient pris place bord
dune barque.

(Comment aurait-il pu en tre autrement?

Et do leur venait locan?)

(Fables du mardi)
 Mimy Kinet 425

I can still see . . .

I can still see the waves crashing on the rock.

I can still hear bees in love with swaying thyme blossoms.
Still feel in my mouth the scarlet shiver of sour cherries Yannis
Picked for me, and on my skin the long sobs of Lefks monastery
counting up its ancient stones.

So I linger among the remains of days that perhaps

will never come again.

Where
I wait for you
is where
you will not come.

In every love some rain will fall.

******

Both turned their backs . . .

Both turned their backs and walked away

forgetting
that at the end of the circumference
they would again
have to stand face to face.
*******

The Poets Inattention

What did she say? What did he hear?

They had traveled a long time on an endless ribbon
of asphalt when they realized they were seated on board
a canoe.

(How could it be otherwise?

And where did the ocean come from?)
426 Mimy Kinet

Lenfant que nous fmes . . .

Lenfant que nous fmes ne nous a pas reconnus.

Pourtant, nous avons march des toiles entires ses cts.
Nous lui avons mme racont notre vie: tu te souviens?
murmurions-nous,
sachant quil ne pouvait nous comprendre.

Il ne nous a pas reconnus: nous tions entrs dans le souvenir

et lui, continuait de sautiller devant nous, ignorant le vide dans
lequel il allait se prcipiter.

Lorsque nous avons repris conscience, par un matin fourbu

comme nos illusions,
nous avons tent de le retenir encore un peu
et nous avons tendu les bras . . .

Nous les avons referm sur deux bquilles de bois tendre.

(Mots murs in Posie)

******

Lenfance tait devenue irrmdiable . . .

Lenfance tait devenue irrmdiable.

Et nous suffoquions tous sur ce quai
o narrivait jamais aucun bateau
et do nous larguions nos rves
dans de vieilles bouteilles
avec une innocence qui se brisait ds le premier rcif.

Comment rver le rve,

les choses qui sabsentent
avant mme quon les ait reconnues?

(Et quest-il advenu de cet amour dont nous parlions si haut

et ct duquel nous venions de passer
en rebroussant chemin pour arroser nos pardons?) / . . .
 Mimy Kinet 427

The child we used to be . . .

The child we used to be has not recognized us.

Yet, we walked by his side many a starry night.
We even told him our life story: Do you remember . . . ?
we murmured,
knowing he could not understand us.

He did not recognize us: we were now part of memory

and he skipped along in front of us, ignoring the abyss
in which he was about to plunge.

When we regained consciousness, on a morning as dreary

as our illusions,
we attempted to hold him back a little longer,
and we opened our arms . . .

Only to embrace two crutches of tender wood.

******

Childhood had become irretrievable . . .

Childhood had become irretrievable.

We were all suffocating on this pier
where no ship ever docked
and whence we launched old bottles
filled with candid dreams
doomed to crash on the very first reef.

How can one dream the dream,

the things that go away
even before they can be named?

(And whatever became of this love we proclaimed so loudly

love we had just passed by
as we retraced our steps to celebrate forgiveness?) / . . .
428 Mimy Kinet

/...
Quest devenue la lettre que nous navons jamais reue parce que
nos ailes avaient renonc au domicile fixe?
Quest devenue la lettre que nous navons jamais envoye parce que
la page tait crible de blanccomme une nuit damants?

(Et ce furent pourtant

nos plus beaux mots damour).

(Demain ne sajoutera plus jamais ma vie in Posie)

 Mimy Kinet 429

/...
What became of the letter we never received because
those who have wings forego a permanent address?
What became of the letter we never sent because
the page was riddled with whitethe color of a loversnight?

(And yet these were

our most beautiful words of love.)

Franoise Lison-Leroy
(1951)

Born October 6, 1951, at Wodecq, in the western Hainaut region,

Franoise Lison-Leroy has lived near Tournai, in the town of Blandain
since 1971. Married, with two children, Lison-Leroy has managed to
balance the exigencies of family and writing with a career in teaching
French. The author has published short stories, plays, and articles on
literature in addition to her poetry. She has also animated dramatic per-
formances.
Lison-Leroy earned acclaim for her work early in her writing career. In
1983, her first collection of poetry was awarded the Prix Froissart in
France. The following year Lapprivoise won the Prix Casterman in Bel-
gium. At barely forty years of age, Lison-Leroy was honored with the
prestigious prize in honor of Swiss poet Max-Pol Fouchet for Pays
Gomtre. In his preface to this award-winning collection, Jean Orizet
applauds the authors concision and technical mastery, but above all, he
recognizes in Lison-Leroy the inner vibration, the contained emotion,
the lyricism . . . essential to all poetry worthy of its name.
In the letter that accompanied Lison-Leroys submission to this distin-
guished competition, the author was required to demonstrate the concise-
ness to which Jean Orizet alludes. In a few succinct paragraphs, Lison-
Leroy encapsulates her ideas on poetry and acknowledges writers who
represent important influences on her work, among whom she counts
Andre Chedid, Sylvie Germain, Colette Nys-Mazure, Pierre Reverdy, and
Andr Schmitz. After reading Pays Gomtre, Andr Schmitz empha-
sized the originality of Lison-Leroys work: Short prose pieces composed
of brief, pointed sentences, clear, incisive, deliciously new. A poetry whose
territories are distinctly outlined, its blueprints perfectly drawn, by a poet
who knows how to conciliate and reconcile in her writing the spirit of
geometry and the spirit of poetry.
432 Franoise Lison-Leroy

Franoise Lison-Leroy conceives of poetry as a field of vision, a limit-

less expanse, completely open and free. As a child, she discovered in
books confirmed allies, capable both of transporting her to faraway
places and of reaffirming her roots. In her writing she attempts to express
her image of the elsewhere in terms of daily life. Like Colette Nys-
Mazure, Franoise Lison-Leroy draws her poems from the metaphoric
wound of her solitude, a solitude that is overcome through the love that
impels her writing. Pays Gomtre represents the poets gesture at once
intimate and communal, her invitation to others to explore her inner land-
scape, the country she depicts as free from boundaries and accessible to
all.
The sense of community Lison-Leroy seeks to create in her writing has
frequently resulted in collaborative works. She experiences a particular
affinity with Colette Nys-Mazure, and the two poets have co-authored
several books of poetic texts. Champs mls, from which we have se-
lected excerpts by Lison-Leroy, consists of poetic interpretations of paint-
ings in the Muse des Beaux-Arts (Museum of Fine Arts) in Tournai. This
collaborative work is innovative in its interdisciplinary approach, and rep-
resentative in its reflection of the partage, or sharing, the author hopes
to communicate.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
La mie de terre est bonne. Valenciennes (France): Editions Froissart,
1983. Prix Froissart.
Lapprivoise. Tournai (Belgium): Unimuse, 1984. Prix Casterman.
Fief daube in Lieux tressoirs. Mortemart (France): Rougerie, 1988.
Elle, durgence. Amay (Belgium): LArbre paroles, 1989. Prix Ren
Lyr.
Le chemin baumier. Amay: LArbre paroles, 1989.
On les dirait complices. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1989, with Colette Nys-
Mazure.
Pays Gomtre. Lausanne (Switzerland): LAge dHomme, 1991. Prix
Max-Pol Fouchet.
Quand je serai petite (poems for the theatre). Charlieu (France): La
Bartavelle, 1992.
 Franoise Lison-Leroy 433

Avoir lieu. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1993.

La nuit rsolue. Mortemart: Rougerie, 1995, with Colette Nys-Mazure.
Terre en douce. Amay: LArbre paroles, 1995.
Dites trente-deux. Avin/Hannut (Belgium): Editions Luce Wilquin, 1997.
Champs mls. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1998, with Colette
Nys-Mazure.

Short Stories
A leau-forte et lme. Tournai: Unimuse, 1986. Prix Hubert Krains.
Saisons dEscaut. Tournai: Unimuse, 1986 (in collaboration).
Lgendes pour un avenir. Tournai: Unimuse, 1989 (in collaboration).
Histoires de Petite Elle. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1996.
Le coureur de collines. Avin/Hannut: Editions Luce Wilquin, 1998.

Plays
Tous locataires. Charlieu: La Bartavelle, 1993, with Colette Nys-Mazure.
Textes crits et jous partir de fvrier 1986. Tournai: Maison de la
Culture, 1986 (in collaboration).

Essay
La main la plume. Namur (Belgium): Maison de la Posie, 1990.
434 Franoise Lison-Leroy

Un grand rire de champ vert

Un grand rire de champ vert.

Cache-cache sillons de terre nue. Jeux de bruissements et de tendresses.
Sous le soleil et ses oiseaux, il y en a deux qui ont fil doux entre les
rainures trop droites pour tre honntes. Il rit, le champ, car il les a bien
eus, avec ses plants srieux et ses lignes exemplaires. Encore deux que
les briques nauront pas. Ce sont les premiers, cette anne. Triste poque
o ils ont tous de longues voitures confortables et des chambres porte
de jambes.
Ce jour, en plein aprs-midi, il rit, le champ, tout seul, dun grand rire
de juste.
Et ce nest pas le vent qui lui coupera le sifflet.

(Lapprivoise)

******

Delle

Delle, il disait.
Il parlait delle. Il aimait dire, rvler. Quelle tait la sereine et vraie,
laigu, lardente. Quelle lavait appel, approch, apprivois.
Il disait des mots delle.
Elle coutait. Elle tait sre que ctait.
Ne le comprenait pas.
Elle souffrait toujours de ne pas tre lui, dans sa carrure, ses
messages, ses prises de soleil et dclipse.
Il disait delle. Alors elle intgrait de son mieux ses paroles. Savait que
son pass lui ne se reprendrait pas.
Tout au plus laimait-elle de son plus vif amour.

(Elle, durgence)
 Franoise Lison-Leroy 435

A Green Field Has the Last Laugh

A green field has the last laugh.

Hide and seek in the furrows of bare land. Games of rustling and love-
making.
Beneath the sun and its birds, two have slipped away from the grooves
too straight to be respectable. The field bursts out laughing, for it fooled
them all with its serious seedlings and exemplary lines.
That makes two more that bricks wont enclose. They are the first this
year. These are sad times when everyone has a big comfortable car and a
room within legs reach.
So today, in the height of the afternoon, the solitary field laughs out
loud, in peals of honest laughter.
Not even the wind will cut it short.

******

About Her

About her, he would say.

He would speak of her. He was fond of telling, of revealing. That she was
serene and true, penetrating, passionate. That she had called him, ap-
proached him, tamed him.
He would repeat her words.
She would listen. She was sure it was.
Did not understand him.
She always suffered from not being him, with his broad shoulders,
his messages, his bouts of brilliance and eclipse.
He would say of her. Then she combined his words as best she could.
Knowing his past could not be recaptured.
Simply, she cherished him with her most ardent love.
436 Franoise Lison-Leroy

Je traverse ton pays dme . . .

Je traverse ton pays dme sans me

retourner. Les champs que mes pieds hersent ont
port la mer avant moi.
Delle les traces mauves des galets,
qui tamisent le bl aux heures dassolement.
De nous demeurera le vent.
Et la tenace fivre de cet lan givr.

******

Toi, tu me vas bien

Toi, tu me vas bien.

Comme la nuit, comme le bl la nuit
et mon cahier de mer. Comme la plage froide et grise,
aime dun long hiver qui
aurait cru en elle.
Tu me vas. Et je vais
mon sentier au-devant. A la craie nue je te parle.
Tu dchiffres mes mots. Ils avancent.
Le chemin nous prolonge, et la
flaque, et les traces dargile sur le ciment bless.
Nous avons nos tmoins.
******

Le temps nest pas nous

Le temps nest pas nous,

ni lespace. Parfois le rail dchire ltreinte.
Parfois lt. Et nous jetons des lignes
au-del des lisires.
Tu dis quon noublie pas,
que les poings des horloges nont pas dombre,
que les tunnels protgent
des gares allumes. Tu me promets ta peau,
les taches rouges des champs sur la dune.
Nous revenons nous.

(Pays Gomtre)
 Franoise Lison-Leroy 437

I travel the country of your soul . . .

I travel the country of your soul without

looking back. The fields harrowed by my footsteps
carried the sea before my coming.
From the sea remain the mauve traces of pebbles,
sifting the wheat at the time of crop rotation.
From us will linger the wind.
And the persistent fevers of this burst of frost.

******

You Suit Me Perfectly

You suit me perfectly.

Like the night, like wheatfields at night
and the sea, my notebook. Like the beach cold and grey,
claimed by a long winter
that believed they shared love.
You suit me. And I suit
the path ahead. With chalk alone I speak to you.
You decipher my words. They move forward.
The road is our permanence, as are
the puddle and traces of clay on cracked cement.
These are our witnesses.
******

Time Is Not Ours

Time is not ours,

nor is space. Sometimes the rail shatters the embrace.
Sometimes, summer. And we cast our lines
beyond the borders.
You say one does not forget
that a clocks fist leaves no shadow,
that tunnels shelter us
from the stations bright lights. You pledge me your body,
crimson patches of fields on the dunes.
We come back to ourselves.
438 Franoise Lison-Leroy

Nous parlons pour tout dire

Nous parlons pour tout dire. Pour refaire le monde, la distance et le cri.
Nos mots gardent fumantes les rives de labme. Ils toffent la brume.

Nos mots vont vers ceux-l qui errent. Qui agrippent les songes comme
autant de boues.
******

Nous sommes ns du mme sol

Nous sommes ns du mme sol, ces annes-l. Les cris des gerbes ont
ameut lespace, ouvert les nids aux grives solitaires. Un livre a surgi de
la dune: il apportait la mer cache derrire sa course.

Do vient le chant lointain que nous tisse le vent? Il porte un voilier

sur lpaule. Il convoque lcume et le sel des mares.

Toi tu me gardes au tide du pays.

******

Tu es mon lieu plerin

Tu es mon lieu plerin, la plaine ouverte o sabrite lescale. Mle

toi jameute les canaux, la ligue des bosquets, la colline aux cent fves.
Une algue messagre nous ramne la mer.

Au creux des herbes commence le voyage. Il a le parfum des semences,

dune grange longtemps cherche. Lamour y clbre sa halte.
******

Terre en douce

Terre en douce. Notre fief. Ce nom sbroue dans ma mmoire. Il nous

vient de si loin, dun village charnu. Un lieu ampleronces et baumes
fait de riens. Un de ces pays blancs qui nont pas de vestiaire.

Terre en douce. Terre amie. Je tcris de ce champ quembrase la

lumire. Tous les talus sont sur leurs gardes. Tous les buissons. La perdrix
sentinelle mavertit de ton pas. Tu surgis sur deux roues.

(Terre en douce)
 Franoise Lison-Leroy 439

We Speak to Say All

We speak to say all. To remake the world, the distance and the cry.
Our words keep the banks of the abyss steaming. They pervade the
mist.

Our words reach those who stray. Who cling to dreams like so many
lifebuoys.
******

We Were Born of the Same Earth

We were born of the same earth, in one of those years. The call of
wheat sheaves aroused space, opened a nest for the solitary thrush. A
hare rose up from the dunes, bringing the sea behind him as he ran.

Where does it come from, this distant song the wind weaves for us? A
sailing ship rests on its shoulders. It summons the foam and the salt of
tides.

And you, keep me in the warm abode of this land.

******

You Are My Pilgrim Place

You are my pilgrim place, the open plain with its peaceful haven. Merging
with you I arouse the canals, the league of thickets, the hill of the hundred
beans. A seafrond messenger brings a hint of ocean.

In the hollow of grasses the journey begins. It carries the fragrance of

seeds, of a barn long sought-after. Here love celebrates its resting place.
******

Land of Quiet Ways

Land of quiet ways. Our fiefdom. This name stirs in my memory. It

comes to us from very far away, from a pulpous village. An ample place
brambles and balmmade up of the simplest things. One of those blank
homelands with no coatroom.

Land of quiet ways. Friendly land. I am writing to you from this field
ablaze with light. Every slope has its guard up. Every bush. The partridge
sentinel has announced your coming. You rush in on both wheels.
440 Franoise Lison-Leroy

Les taches vivement coloresjaune, orange, acide, vert deaune gardent

que la saveur du bouquet initial; lancolie, la capucine, leuphorbe, liris,
chaque fleur a lgu un ton.

Leur foison attire le visage qui vient sy fondre, papillon aimant par la
flamme vgtale. Le peintre les tient loeil.

(inspired by Redon, Jour)

******

Leau capte et relance lclat du rverbre, le rayonnement l-haut des

deux fentres refermes sur leur lumirefeu continu. Chambre damants
qui montent au ciel par lescalier des feuilles et des nues. Tandis que la
nuit tisse autour de la demeure son chle moelleux de silence.

(inspired by Magritte, LEmpire des lumires)

******

elle cavale
avec les vents
pour une juste mmoire

sa robe
salue le matin rendu
celui qui sagenouille
sur la digue

au bal des voleurs daube

elle invoque loubli

(inspired by Rodin, Danseuse cambodgienne au bras droit lev)

(Champs mls, excerpts)

 Franoise Lison-Leroy 441

The vividly colored strokesyellow, orange, acid, sea greenretain but

the essence of the original bouquet; columbine, nasturtium, euphorbia,
iris, each blossom has bequeathed a tint.

Their profusion beguiles the face that mingles with them, moth attracted
by the vegetal flame. The painters eye captures them.

(inspired by Redon, Day)

******

The water catches and reflects the glow of the streetlight and, from above,
the radiance of two windows enclosing their own lightunbroken fire. A
room for lovers who reach the sky by climbing the staircase of leaves and
clouds. While around the house, night weaves its downy shawl of silence.

(inspired by Magritte, The Empire of Lights)

******

she gallops
with the winds
for a true memory

her gown
greets daylight restored
as it kneels
on the seawall

at the dawn thieves ball

she invokes oblivion

(inspired by Rodin, Cambodian Dancer with Right Arm Raised)


Batrice Libert
(1952)

Batrice Libert was born in the small town of Amay, on the Meuse river in
the province of Lige. Today, married and the mother of two sons, she
lives in the city of Lige where she teaches French, communication and
drama in a secondary school. She is also a librarian.
A dedicated educator, Batrice Libert enjoys developing innovative teach-
ing methods while, at the same time, she remains active in literary circles.
An associate of the Arbre Paroles publishing house and the Maison de
la Posie in Amay, she regularly contributes reviews and critiques, as well
as poems and short stories, to a wide number of journals. She also gives
lectures and conducts seminars in creative writing and poetry for adults
and for adolescents.
Because of her interest in all artistic forms, Batrice Libert often writes
in collaboration with painters and photographers. Her poems have ap-
peared in several anthologies; some have been translated into English,
German, Italian, Romanian and Russian. In 1996, she was the recipient
of the Prix Armand Roche, in France. In 1997, she was awarded the Prix
Amlie Murat for Le Bonheur inconsol, also in France. The following
year, she earned the Marcel Lobet Prize for her essay on Jean Joubert.
Earlier, in 1993, she had received the XYZ (Montreal) Prize for her short
stories.
In the foreword to her collection Baisers vols Paul Eluard, Libert
recalls how her interest in poetry developed when, at age sixteen, she
discovered surrealist writer Eluard. His poetry, she states, is simple, natural,
yet dazzling. It propelled me into another world. Libert adds that Eluards
words inspired her to write her own verse. In Baisers vols . . . , she
begins each poem with an italicized quotation from her posthumous men-
tor, whose influence may be seen in the unusual images and other-worldly
realities that grace Liberts work.
444 Batrice Libert

According to her biographer, Marie-Thrse Vandermeulen, Libert is

also a spiritual daughter of Raymond Queneau, precisely because of her
fascination with the intricacies of language and her playful spirit: her
criture ludique invites us to look beyond the surface of her words for
multiple meanings and connotations.
Important themes in Liberts poetry include love, the feminine mys-
tique and literary creation. The poet frequently treats the notion of the
creative process in her various collections, particularly in the slim volume
Lalangue du dsir et du dsarroi (available in English translation), where
striking metaphors evoke the poets travail and fervor. In parallel fashion,
these texts allude to the vicissitudes and trials of life itself.
Liberts poetry is free from classical constraints, but makes effective
use of rhythms and consonances. Some of her texts, leavened with subtle
humor, capitalize on polysemy, on homophones and occasionally on pure
lexical inventions that can be better appreciated in the original French.
However, Libert certainly does not focus exclusively on linguistic leger-de-
main. Indeed many poems, especially the later ones, are poignant reflec-
tions on human destiny, the passing of time, and death. Our selection
includes the poem Then everything fell apart . . . , from Le Bonheur
inconsol, a work whose title is characteristically ambiguous in that it is a
sort of oxymoron, which in translation approximates disconsolate hap-
piness or Cheerless Joy, the title of the books published translation.
Publisher, poet and critic Jacques Charpentreau emphasizes the oral-
ity of Liberts poetry when he remarks: Her poetry is meant to be whis-
pered, spoken, shouted, sung, or staged.

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
Invitation. Lige (Belgium): Thalia, 1979.
Parades. Bruxelles: Andr De Rache, 1983.
Baisers vols Paul luard, suivi de Remparts. Bruxelles: Vie Ouvrire/
Paris: Pierre Zech, 1989.
Lalangue du dsir et du dsarroi. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles,
1992. English translation by A.M. Glasheen. Luxembourg: Apertura
Magazine,no.7 (Jan. 1998).
La Passagre. Bruxelles:Vie Ouvrire/Paris: Pierre Zech, 1994.
 Batrice Libert 445

Le Bonheur inconsol. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1997.

Cheerless Joy. Translation by A.M.Glasheen.
Vol main nue. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1998.
Le Rameur sans rivage. Paris: La Diffrence, 1999.

Short Stories
La Gomme, in La Revue de la Nouvelle XYZ (Montral), no.33 (spring
1993); and Casse (France), no.9 (Sept.1994)
La Caricature, in Casse, no.19-20 (summer 1996).

Essays and Articles

La Classe de franais en fte. Lige: Dessain, 1983.
Jean Joubert. Amay: LArbre Paroles, 1996, with Marie-Christine
Masset.
Quelques Femmes potes en Belgique francophone, in Lieux dtre
(Lille, France), no. 22, 1996.
La Posie, entre vers et prose, in Le franais dans tous ses tats
(Montpellier, France), no.37, 1998.
446 Batrice Libert

Dormir la lune dans un oeil et le soleil dans lautre,

ltoile entre les lvres,

le vent entre les doigts.
Dormir ainsi,
sans bouger, lme tremblante . . .
Fermer un oeil, oublier lautre.
Rouler penses vers la fontaine.
Garder soucis au fond du puits.
Dormir la lune dans un oeil et le soleil dans lautre . . .

La paupire tombe sur lennui, lautre se lve sur la joie.

Tailler des arcs en demi-lune.
Tailler des rves en biseau
et mlanger dans le regard
lombre ensable de la lune
et le sang chaud dun long soleil.
Dormir la lune dans un oeil et le soleil dans lautre . . .
Courir, marcher, dormir,
aimer,
mais toujours sous la lune ensoleille . . .
******

Une tranquille rue rouille

Qui na jamais t jeune

Une blancheur dorage neuf

Qui na jamais vaincu lespace

Une cascade de caresses

Qui na jamais dout du monde

Une compagne sans dtour

Qui na jamais connu lamour

Une brasse damants sauvages

Qui nont jamais t compris

Une insensible nuit de laine

Qui na jamais vraiment suffi

(Baisers vols Paul Eluard)

 Batrice Libert 447

To sleep with the moon in one eye and the sun in the other,

a star between ones lips,

the wind between ones fingers.
To sleep this way,
perfectly still, while the soul trembles . . .
To close one eye and forget about the other.
To roll thoughts toward a fountain.
To keep troubles in a deep well.
To sleep with the moon in one eye and the sun in the other.

One eyelid closes out worries, the other opens to joy.

To carve half-moon arches.
To carve dreams to a bevel
and to merge within ones gaze
the sandy shadows of the moon
and the warm blood of a long sun.
To sleep with the moon in one eye and the sun in the other . . .
Tu run, to walk, to sleep,
to love,
but always under a sun-lit moon . . .
******

A quiet rusty street

That was never young

A pure whiteness in a new storm

That never triumphed over space

A cascade of caresses
That never doubted the world

A straightforward companion
That has never been in love

A host of unruly lovers

That have never been understood

The uncaring blanket of night

That has never truly sufficed
448 Batrice Libert

Visitation

La porte tait ouverte.

Dieu pntra.
La pice tait dserte.
Dieu conversa
avec les murs, les fentres,
avec le pole, ses pains de bois
que lhomme, mang de doutes,
avait laisss mourir plus dune fois.

La maison mite dombres,

Dieu lclaira.
La chambre glace dattendre,
Dieu la rchauffa.
Il prit une serviette ponge
et lava le pass.
Puis il se coucha comme on oublie,
rvant de lhomme qui,
par la porte entrouverte,
enfin pntrerait.
******

A nos fils Bernard et Stphane

Envole-toi! Naie crainte!

Sois loiseau migrateur, gourmand de soleils neufs,
ou la feuille qui nat dun dlire verbal.
Sois le pic, sec et haut, cir dpaisses neiges,
ou la marche force des vagues multiformes.
Sois le rail qui supporte et emporte le temps
ou la clart qui fuit plus vive que ta voix.
Sois la rieuse chanson des phrases rebondies
ou lenfant qui, par jeu, se meurt et puis revit.
Envole-toi! Naie crainte!
Tu es encore natre.

(Remparts)
 Batrice Libert 449

Visitation

The door was open.

God came in.
The room was deserted.
God conversed
with the walls, the windows,
with the stove and its wooden loaves
that man, gnawed by doubts,
had more than once left to die out.

The house was riddled with shadows,

God brought in light.
The room was frozen in expectation,
God brought in warmth.
He took a terry cloth towel
and wiped away the past.
Then he lay down, as if oblivious,
and dreamt of the man who,
through the door left ajar,
at last would come.
******

To Our Sons Bernard and Stphane

Fly away! Fear not!

Be the migrating bird, eager for new suns,
or the leaf born from verbal madness.
Be the peak, high and dry, polished by deep snows
or the compelling surge of multifaceted waves.
Be the rail that sustains and carries time away
or the light that flees faster than your voice.
Be the joyous song of well-rounded phrases
or the child who pretends to die then lives again.
Fly away! Fear not!
You are yet to be born.
450 Batrice Libert

Dicte

Je me dicte parfois
des penses
qui dansent sur ma page
comme des arbres boucls
Leur charme a tt fait
de me rduire
moi-mme
vulnrable et seule
sous linstant qui fuit
sous linstinct qui crie
de dire et dire encore
le mot
LES MOTS
qui TROUENT

(Remparts)

******

Quel secret . . .

Quel secret
dans lherbe brve
sur les lvres des tuyas
dans le dlire mauve de lair?

Leau
sourd avec lardeur dun corps aim
glisse de courbe en aile
fleurit la rose et le glaeul
maquille le dahlia hirsute

Eau forte du jardin

o le jour dcline ses nuits
sans se soucier des lendemains

(La Passagre)
 Batrice Libert 451

Dictation

Sometimes I dictate to myself

thoughts
that dance upon my page
like disheveled trees.
They soon cast a spell
reducing me
to myself
vulnerable and alone
while the instant flies
while my instinct cries
that I must tell and tell again
the word
THE WORDS
that STRIKE
******

What secret . . .

What secret lies

in the humble grass
on the cedars lips
in the airs mauve rapture?

Water
rises with the fervor of a beloveds body
eases from curve to wing
blossoms into rose or iris
paints the shaggy-haired dahlia

The gardens aquatint

where each day denies its nights
with no thought of tomorrows.
452 Batrice Libert

On borde un pome . . .

On borde un pome comme on borde un enfant. Aprs lui avoir

embrass le front, racont une histoire. Aprs avoir constat que
la nuit vient. Irrparable. En avoir pressenti laube, rappel le
parfum, puis lon sen va sans se quitter, riches et lgers dun
bonheur intouch.
******

Une herbe pousse entre deux silences

Elle a prnom de femme
et visage de neige

Linsense pose des fleurs partout. Sur les tables, les chaises, les
balcons, les perrons, les appuis de fentres; sur les lits, les chevets,
les bougeoirs et dans les vases; sur les vestes et les chapeaux, les
bottines, les parapluies . . . Linsense sme des fleurs comme on dit
bonjour aux arbres, aux orties, aux btes. Elle en pare aussi son
corps: ses yeux sont des pervenches; sa bouche, un aster rouge;
son sexe, une anmone. Et linsense va, nue comme une fleur,
toute droite, dans la valle perdue des hommes.

(Le Bonheur inconsol)

 Batrice Libert 453

You tuck in a poem . . .

You tuck in a poem as you would a child. After you kissed his forehead
and told him a story. After you realized night is falling. Irretrievably. After
you foresaw the coming of dawn, remembered its flavor, then you go
without truly leaving, both of you enriched and lightened with unmarred
happiness.
******

Some grass grows between two silences

It has a womans name
and the face of snow

Foolishly she places flowers everywhere. On tables, chairs, balconies,

staircases, windowsills; on beds, bedstands, candelabras and in vases; on
coats and hats, shoes, umbrellas . . . Foolishly she sows flowers as one
would greet trees, nettles, animals. She also adorns her body with flow-
ers: her eyes are periwinkles, her mouth is a red aster, her sex, an anemone.
And foolishly she goes about, naked as a flower, upright, in the lost valley
of men.
454 Batrice Libert

Si elle touche du front . . .

Si elle touche du front la hauteur du jour,

un ange tombe sur sa main,
frle sa joue, carte une mche de cheveux,
apaise une ride o scrivait la mort.

Si elle touche du front le vert de la nuit,

le vent caille les chemins
o sont rangs les doutes
comme des Alyscamps.

Si elle touche du front le bleu de lombre,

les gisants se redressent,
ceux qui, frapps doubli,
dormaient encore parmi les ronces,
et leurs lvres disjointes
parlent bas nos seuils.
Si elle touche du front la brume de neige,
la voil qui prend eau et feu,
saccoude aux pierres sans effroi
et parle voix trs nue,
de la petite mort, en elle, mtamorphose.

(Le Bonheur inconsol)

 Batrice Libert 455

If her forehead . . .
If her forehead touches the height of day,
an angel falls on her hand,
brushes past her cheek, pushes back a lock of hair,
soothes a wrinkle where death was inscribed.

If her forehead touches the green of night,

the wind clears pathways
where doubts lie in rows
as in the Alyscamps.

If her forehead touches the blue of shadows,

the dead rise
those who, long forgotten,
were sleeping still among the brambles,
and their disjointed lips
softly speak to our beginnings.

If her forehead touches the mists of snow,

suddenly she is water and flame,
she leans on the stones without fear
and speaks in a voice very pure,
of the small death in her, now transfigured.
456 Batrice Libert

Ils voulaient sortir . . .

Ils voulaient sortir de la caverne:

peurs et joies se mlaient.

Quitter le feu?
Laisser le pain?
Oseraient-ils?
Dehors la lumire parle fort
et les arbres menacent.

Au seuil, une brise dlia leur crainte.

******

Et tout sest dlit . . .

(jai mal la peau [R-M V.])

Et tout sest dlit

lpre sur lpre
terre pele aux vents des alphabets
peaux pierres paroles
cailloux dans le regard
doigts torsads
corps sans issue que lui-mme

et tout sest drob

lamour quon sapprtait ptrir
lenfant dont on avait rv
les chnes de la mlancolie
corps glabre dsert
en proie lui-mme

douleur dtre soi

(Le Bonheur inconsol)

 Batrice Libert 457

They wanted to come out . . .

They wanted to come out of the cave:

their fears and joys mingled.

To leave the fire?

To give up the bread?
Would they dare?
Outside light speaks in a loud voice
and trees threaten.

On the threshold, the breeze disentangled their fright.

******

Then everything fell apart . . .

(At odds with my own skin [R-M V.])

Then everything fell apart

decay upon decay
earth crumbling away in a storm of alphabets
skins stones speeches
eyes with pebbled stare
fingers tightly entwined
body with no end but itself

then everything slipped away

the love one so carefully nurtured
the child so tenderly dreamed of
the oak trees of melancholy
a body bare deserted
now become its own prey

the distress of selfhood

458 Batrice Libert

Destine
Un jour, tu nais.
Le blanc de la neige
cache mal le noir du temps.
Tu vagis, tu cries,
tu chantes, tu pries.
Le rouge boit les couleurs.
Tu as tous les ges de la terre.

Un jour, tu sais
le rouge sous le fard,
le noir sous le blanc.

Un cavalier dpose en toi

une rose violente.
Depuis lors,
tu regardes les fleurs
avec des tats dme
Dont lclat plit peu peu,
comme les cuivres des cuisines.
Tu reprends ton nom toute vole,
de faim, de froid, de peur.
Tu renoues avec le lierre et laubpine,
le muscat et loranger.
Entre des arbres aux noms si doux,
tu protges ce quil te reste
de pouvoir et dinvention.
Un jour, tu meurs, sans avoir pu te connatre.

(Arcade, Qubec, 1997. Included in Le Rameur sans rivage)

 Batrice Libert 459

Destiny
One day, you are born.
The whiteness of snow
barely hides the darkness of time.
You wail, you cry,
you sing, you pray.
Red swallows all colors.
You went through all the ages of Earth.

One day, you learn

there is red underneath greasepaint,
there is black underneath white.

A knight places in your heart

a violent rose.
Since then,
you look at flowers
with soulful feelings
that slowly lose their sparkle
and tarnish with the copper cookware.
In a flash you grab your lost name.
You are hungry, cold, afraid.
You return to ivy and hawthorne,
to grape vines and orange blossoms.
Among trees with such sweet names,
you protect what is left
of your vigor and inventiveness.
One day you die, never knowing who you were.
460 Batrice Libert

Dconvenue
Elle esprait sarrter sur le seuil:
il ny avait pas de seuil.
Elle esprait frapper la porte:
il ny avait plus de porte.

Alors elle voulut rebrousser chemin,

mais il avait disparu.
(Arcade, Quebec, 1997. Included in Le Rameur sans rivage)

******

Elle ta sa robe . . .

Elle ta sa robe
puis une autre
et une autre
ainsi de suite
longtemps
jusqu sa peau
cette autre robe
quil faudra quitter
on ne sait quand
******

Elle est la source . . .

Elle est la source

tu es le rocher
londe qui la traverse
et la dmultiplie
Vous tes le torrent et la berge

Terres mles que vous incendiez

Terres assoiffes que vous irriguez

Elle la source
toi le rocher
vous la verticalit
(Vol main nue)
 Batrice Libert 461

She hoped to stop on the doorstep:

there was no doorstep.

She hoped to knock on the door:

there was no longer a door.
Then she tried to turn back,
but the road had disappeared.

******
She took off her dress . . .

She took off her dress

then another
and yet another
and on and on
for a long time
down to her very skin
this other dress
that must also be shed
one never knows when
******

She is the source . . .

She is the source

you are the rock
the river that flows through her
and multiplies her
Together you are stream and shore

Mingled lands you set aflame

Parched lands you irrigate

She the source

you the rock
together verticality
462 Batrice Libert

La femme du soir . . .

La femme du soir, la reconnais-tu?

Est-ce de la fatigue, cet air de nonchalance?

Il pleut . . . a te rend belle sous la lumire,

dis-tu.

Brillante, elle regarde la vitre

o la pluie dessine son nom.
Dans ses yeux, lenvie dtreindre
un feu solaire entre les bras et sous la robe . . .
Lenvie dun grand mime damour
clbrer deux corps nus.

La femme du soir,
dmasque-la, dnoue-la.
Du bout de tes yeux dabord.
Du bout de tes mots ensuite.

Prends le temps
de craquer sous la peau,
de te fendre pour elle,
doublier qui tu es.
Lobstacle entre vous deux,
cest le fleuve du jour quil faut passer gu.

La femme du soir
qui lon donne sa folie,
amoureuse et chtelaine
dun lit coutur de dsirs,
cette belle-de-nuit tapporte
sous sa laine,
sous la soie de son sourire,
une musique imprononce.

(Vol main nue)

 Batrice Libert 463

Woman of the evening . . .

Woman of the evening, do you recognize her?

Does her nonchalant air come from fatigue?

Its raining . . . you look beautiful in this light,

you say.

Luminous, she looks at the window pane

where the rain draws her name.
In her eyes, a desire to embrace
to hold in her arms a solar fire, and under her dress . . .
Desire for a long pantomime of love
a celebration by two nude bodies.

Woman of the evening,

Unmask her, unravel her.
First with the tip of your gaze.
Then with the tip of your words.

Take the time

to feel the crackling under your skin,
to reach out to her,
to forget who you are.
Between the two of you the obstacle
is the river of day that must be forded.

Woman of the evening

to whom you pledge your mad passion,
the beloved, the lady of the castle
on a bed scarred with desires,
this beauty-of-the-night brings you
with her velvety warmth
and her silken smile,
music as yet unsung.

Marie-Clotilde Roose
(1970)

Born in Brussels, and still living today in this capital city, Marie-Clotilde
Roose is a graduate of the University of Louvain-la-Neuve with a degree
in philosophy magna cum laude. She is currently completing a doctorate
in literature and esthetics at the University of Geneva, Switzerland. The
subject of her dissertation reflects her dual intellectual orientation toward
philosophy and poetry, two areas she began to explore when she was still
a lyce student.
Marie-Clotilde Roose taught French in an English college for one year;
she also conducted French classes in Belgium, both as an instructor and a
private tutor. She is the founder and coordinator of Le Cercle de la
Rotonde, a literary society for beginning writers. Roose is fond of classi-
cal music and enjoys singing in a choir. Being multilingual, she is inter-
ested in translation, especially from English to French.
Marie-Clotilde Roose is involved in many activities related to literature.
She publishes poetry, writes prefaces and essays, gives lectures on schol-
arly topics, and attends colloquia. She has a promising future as a writer
after brilliant beginnings that earned her several important awards.
She comes from a literary background: her mother published poetry; a
great-uncle was a writer and a great-aunt was the founder of the French
Prix Fmina, a major literary prize. Marie-Clotilde Roose is not sure
that being a poet comes from the genes, but she states that the poetic
pulsion must pass through the body before it is born from a dsir dtre
a desire to be.
Marie-Clotilde Roose likes to acknowledge a number of Belgian poets
who have offered her encouragement and guidance, many of whom are
represented in this anthology. In his preface to Le Mur immense de la
nuit, poet Werner Lambersy finds in Rooses poems innocence and
466 Marie-Clotilde Roose

simplicity, a sensitivity all the more refreshing because it has not been
eroded. For her part, Andre Sodenkamp underscores the spontaneity of
expression in LOrange Soleil where she perceives the ebb and flow of
childhood.
 Marie-Clotilde Roose 467

Selected Bibliography

Poetry
LInstant vert. Unpublished manuscript. Prix Georges Lockem, Acadmie
L.L.F.B., 1991.
LOrange Soleil. Amay (Belgium): LArbre Paroles, 1994. Prix Charles
de Trooz.
Le Mur immense de la nuit. Paris: Caractres, 1994.
De Feu et de froid. (Forthcoming). Prix Biennale Robert Goffin; Fondation
Nausicaa.

Articles
La Norvge culturelle, Phoenix no. 3 (June 1995).
Ontologie et Posie. Trois tudes sur les limites du langage, par Serge
Champeau, La Revue Philosophique de Louvain, vol. 93, no.4
(Nov. 1995).
Le sens du potique. Approche phnomnologique, La Revue
Philosophique de Louvain, Vol.94, no. 3 (Nov. 1996).
468 Marie-Clotilde Roose

La nuit est pleine . . .

La nuit est pleine

de chants doiseaux et diris,
dastres tremblant sur leur tige.

La nuit est pleine

de brasses dair blanc
et de colombes lissant leurs plumes.

Mais do vient, en ma poitrine

ce rauque sanglot qui roule et meurt?

******

Mon coeur est sec, sec . . .

Mon coeur est sec, sec

comme une arche de verre
et pse, ainsi lenclume.

Je cherche le soleil
ou la mer, en cume
qui me fracassera
en mille petites pierres.
******

Jeter au loin . . .

Jeter au loin lcorce de la douleur.

Garder lamande nue et tendre
pour des jours de soleil.
Le germe pointera ses feuilles.

(LOrange soleil)
 Marie-Clotilde Roose 469

The night is filled . . .

The night is filled

with bird songs and iris blossoms,
with stars trembling on their stems.

The night is filled

with armfuls of white air
and doves preening their feathers.

But, deep inside my chest,

what is this rasping cry that rumbles and dies?

******

My heart is brittle . . .

My heart is brittle, brittle

as a glass vessel
and heavy as an anvil.

I am looking for the sun

or the foaming sea
that will shatter me
in a thousand pebbles.
******

Throw away . . .

Throw away the shell of your grief.

Keep only the bare tender kernel
for future sunny days.

New leaves will soon be sprouting.

470 Marie-Clotilde Roose

Quand la nuit montera . . .

Quand la nuit montera au soleil

et dispersera tes cendres
sur lherbe frache,

tu vivras.

Dj, depuis longtemps,

ton rgne aura lagu
les branches des tnbres.

Et la lumire
se couchera sur lombre,
priant.
******

Terre promise

Terre promise,
terre de fleurs et de senteurs,
terre denfances

caresser dorages
et de rires aux sanglots

de fruits,
dclairs:

cest lhritage que ton pre

a lgu en partage
toutes les mains du ciel.

(Le Mur immense de la nuit)

 Marie-Clotilde Roose 471

When night . . .

When night climbs to the sun

and scatters your ashes
on the cool grass,

you will live on.

For a long time then,

your reign will have trimmed
the branches of darkness.

And light
will join the shadows,
in prayer.
******

Promised Land

Promised land,
land of blossoms and fragrances
land of childhoods

to be caressed with storms

and sobs of laughter

with harvests,
with lightning:

this is your fathers legacy

to be meted out
to heavens many hands.
472 Marie-Clotilde Roose

Le ciel est rose et bleu

Le ciel est rose et bleu: pastiche

de couleurs

je ne me sens pas
le coeur rver; tout cela

mexcde. Pourquoi

faut-il parfois subir

la beaut comme
un outrage

notre douleur?
******

Tu te demandes . . .

Tu te demandes
si tout cela prend sens:

tes
va-et-vient
entre la chair et lme

dsordres
matriss par amour.

As-tu seulement got

livresse du sel,
et au parfum de miel

que le soleil prodigue?

Tu nen connais que l

essence nue.

(Le Mur immense de la nuit)

 Marie-Clotilde Roose 473

The Sky Is Rose and Blue

The sky is rose and blue: a parody

of colors

for I feel
no heart for dreaming; it all

overwhelms me. Why

at times must we suffer

beauty as
an affront

to our grief?
******

You may wonder . . .

You may wonder

if all this makes sense:

your
comings and goings
between flesh and soul

disorders
controlled by love.

Have you even tasted

the pungent flavor of salt

the sweet fragrance of honey

dispensed by a prodigal sun?

All you know of them

is their merest existence.
474 Marie-Clotilde Roose

Celui qui consent

Celui qui consent

sa nature

passe par lpreuve

connat lentrelacs
du plaisir et du don.

Devant la perspective
dune fin,
il ne recule plus.

Il entre
dans louverture.
Souriant laube,
il offre: ne se refuse pas.

Son visage se grave

sur le mur de la nuit

telle une fine icne

dans sa face de chair
et de ciel.

(in Sud, 1996, Posie franaise de Belgique)

 Marie-Clotilde Roose 475

He Who Accepts

He who accepts
his own nature

goes through the test

knows how closely woven
are pleasure and giving.

Facing the prospect

of an end,
he no longer backs away.

A door opens
and he enters.
Smiling at the dawn,
he gives freely, never refuses.

His face is engraved

on the wall of night

like a fine icon

whose face is both human
and heavenly.
476 Marie-Clotilde Roose

Ecriras-tu encore?

Ecriras-tu encore?

Vivre et mourir.

Entre ces deux bornes, le long

cheminement du possible.
La trop lente interrogation
du vrai.

Lun meurt, lautre nat.

Ecrire pour fixer linstant

de la rose
(Peux-tu encore parler
de la rose?)
qui de lclosion
au dclin

offre limage tremblante

et tremble
du dsir.

(Indit, unpublished, 1997)

 Marie-Clotilde Roose 477

Will You Write Again?

Will you write again?

You live and die.

Between these boundaries lies the long

pathway of possibilities.
The very slow questioning
of Truth.

One dies, another is born.

Write to record an instant

in the life of a rose
(Can you still speak
about the rose?)
that, from budding
to wilting,

offers, wavy and wavering,

the image
of desire.
478 Marie-Clotilde Roose

Ce que jai te dire . . .

Ce que jai te dire,

cest le rien

qui be entre ciel et terre,

cet horizon

o se profile la langue muette.

Celle dont
tous les savants

cherchent en vain lcriture

et la traduction.
******

Poids du monde qui dort . . .

Poids du monde qui dort,

chair contre chair,
le ventre plein de naissances.

Poids de la terre qui couvre

les corps de mille gisants
tte contre tte.

Main froide de lombre

qui caresse les nuits
o nous veillons inquiets.

(De feu et de froid)

 Marie-Clotilde Roose 479

What I have to tell . . .

What I have to tell you

is the void

gaping between heaven and earth,

this horizon

where a silent language emerges

a tongue
that all scholars

vainly seek to put in writing

and to translate.
******

Weight of the world . . .

Weight of the world sleeping,

flesh to flesh,
its womb filled with new births.

Weight of earth covering

a thousand recumbents
head to head.

Cold hand of the shadow

that caresses the nights
when, anguished, we keep watch.