By Paul Verlaine
Du corps humain auquel il rend hommage, Verlaine fait jaillir une céleste musique. Corps de femmes, corps de garçons rêvés. aimés. dont chaque versant, chaque pli désigne un chemin à explorer, un paysage à parcourir. Avec l. a. grâce d'une rivière paresseuse ou l. a. rage d'un torrent tumultueux, le désir coule entre les lignes, invitant au voyage de l. a. sensualité et du plaisir. Ces poèmes furent écrits et publiés clandestinement à différents moments de l. a. vie de Verlaine, de 1868 à 1890.
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Additional resources for Poèmes érotiques : Les Amies, Femmes, Hombres, Filles
Filled my days with model trains and trees whittled down, lowered my face into miniature smoke rising from the locomotive, at once acrid and sweet— inhaling it all, a heaven to hold forever. Or, a picnic, on a green hill. Autumn sun, sandwiches stacked high, and who I could love with me on a red gingham blanket, both of us fattened by time. You would think a bone stoppered my throat for how I talk, ridiculous clot of babble and gurgle, impediment as dreamed by the idiot or obvious— and then writ large, screamed out so no one with ears could ever miss me.
In the largest eyes ever, the goggling gimlets of the architeuthis as we sink in the inkwell dark of the blind ocean. As extras in the cast of Yog the Space Amoeba, mouthing Japanese we never before knew, our fear real, the danger fake, each building burnt like a cheap cigarette, down to an ashen stub, down to the loveless earth where you say to me we must run or die. indd 31 6/29/07 11:31:14 AM Seduction with Entropy If you think I’m honest, speak to me when it’s night. I’ll say anything when my face is blank like a moon.
Indd 54 6/29/07 11:31:20 AM Notes for My Body Double The plot hole by which you must enter in to the story is a doozy, a real humdinger, if you will, and it is all made of ﬁre, the way the stars are made of ﬁre, though we dream them to be utterly cold and prickly with a sad light. Nothing ever stops in my world to hear me singing to you. I have always loved you, sweet twin, beloved doppelgänger, alien lump of word in my mouth, language I spent three years learning only to forget when it grew too hard the phrases that meant something: Dear, I am your long lost butter cookie; and, I am sorry, it was accidental, but I have dipped the poodle in laudanum.
Poèmes érotiques : Les Amies, Femmes, Hombres, Filles by Paul Verlaine