A foreign
In recent weeks / months, I have a renewed interest in poetry.
First observation: reading poetry is a calling, or at least demanding passion, not least that of a material point of view.
Whoever wants to discover contemporary poetry has to get up early! Even the relatively well-known titles are hard to find in bookstores. Apart from the new (and classic, of course), there is not much on the shelves. Finding any naive I know! But what do you expect, it came to me one morning and since I'm doing as I can. But it's so small and so pretty a collection of poetry. We could find two or three more rays to slip a little poetry, right?
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My discomfort with poetry contemporary Quebec:
I feel me into a party which I did not e tee invited.
Well, fine. I am the intruder service.
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My discomfort with the poems in general, which is the same as I feel before a painting or sculpture, basically:
I never know if I 've spent reading them all the time required.
The poem or work of art does not have as many pre-defined duration than do a novel or an essay in a certain way. Certainly, one can get lost in reading a novel or essay, but just that my eyes have time to catch everything and my mind is all relatively assimilated, Finally, as far as possible, so I'm happy with my first reading. When I read a poem, I'm anxious. Do I not too quickly from one page to another? And since I sometimes anguish easy, I found the exercise challenging.
There.
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Tonight, I read Many are our enemies Geneviève Desrosiers. Amelia and I managed to get hold of one of the few copies in bookstores. From the first time I saw As such, there are only a few weeks, I knew that I would like this book. How could it be otherwise? I already loved this book and I sensed the sadness that awaited me as the writer died several years ago, even before the publication of this collection, and I knew then that I would know so ever that some of the inflections of his voice. And then the fact is that I sometimes find it easier contact with the dead than the living ... I suddenly do not feel that sense of me into a party at which I was not invited. I feel, however, a strange intimacy.
Another obstacle I have with poetry is that I have difficulty talking about it. What does it take to get to talk about poetry? What I miss to feel able to talk about?
Failing to be able, I will simply say that the revolution is lived up to my expectations.
And I quote a poem Many will my enemies :
"They"
"They are never income.
Blood Plague and dreams.
They had already dropped out before returning again to see ...
There was nothing anyway.
They knew but pretended to ignore it.
Their impatience was the extent of their sentences.
They fed exclusively with hatred and melancholy.
Sometimes on the roadside at the entrance of a city, they declined to pick up a blade of grass and kiss hands. Hours
remained widespread, they would not open a single eye.
They relieved each beggar, every dog, every bird they encountered on their way, not forgetting any. "
Geneviève Desrosiers, many are our enemies, Montréal, L'Oie de Craven, 2006 [1999], p. 32.
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The other night I dreamed about the house has lived his entire life my friend Karen, the one that died, that I did not helped her when she asked me through an intermediary, that I have not remembered, lest we have nothing to say for fear of discomfort, too. I remembered the other day that in fact, childhood is complete, we did not say much, but it does not prevent us from passing evenings laughing together. Maybe these are the evenings spent laughing with her that helped me through difficult times. Maybe that's what she would need and I do not give him, because I can be stupid and selfish.
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