POEMS

BY KIM KERZE

 

 3

 

 

 

 

Photo tirée de La Revue des Ressources  « La voix d’Antonin Artaud »

Contient un enregistrement MP3 de “Pour en finir avec le jugement de Dieu”

 

Antonin Artaud

 

                 There is a rustling

                     amongst this thatch of malediction

                                                            & prayer

         a gesture fulminates the spinal column - a ceremony

      of ink rhythms      

                           circulates in these scarred, traveller’s  hands

                                 & the air flashes silver

                                                            in a polyphony of knives.

 

                                     He crouches

       shrouded by observations,

              speared from the cauldron w/a Dublin cane ;

                                                    this watchful architect of the void

 

          who ruptures the mise en scène of thought

                           as outside the bombs rain

                                                  down on Dresden, Arnem, Paris. endless

 

                 Squinting, he receives another apparation

       a shard of body scars,

               tracings of  collapsed lungs,  

                          radio waves

                                from the debris of aircrafts

                                                                          forming smoke writings

     &  words are flung  in a mantra

against the chalk white crumbling walls

 

                                                   Artaud gathers what remains

                                            of his thoughts.     a last pirouette of

                                              remembering. a darkeningrace

              

 hovering

      over him, as he stands bolt upright

                               speaks in shrill fluted tones

 in gasps & whispers

             holding council with the demons, the saints and dead soldiers

                                   who have chosen communion with him

              

             

 

          the squall of voices subside

              as he turns to where                              

                                                                his iron casket

                                               the last work before departure 

                                                 hovers in the burning coals.

 

                          with eyes fixed in precise metallic sonatas   

he strikes incantations deep in the glowing metal

                                    weaving thin      

                                                              Orbits of fire.

 

         Shoulders twist

& skin glints with animal light

                    the hands

silver trays of hexagrams

            carry the deathglimmer

                             & the burnished demons

                                                                           Vanish

 

     Artaud’s breath contains a furnace which burns

           up questions.

                        thinklines of skin suffuse

        w/dark flames

weaving hylozoic spells

               back into the iron frame

                               as spittle scrawls from his lips with a hiss.

                      

                                 the air is thick

           hesitant, surrendering. Poised before this precipice

                              an abyss

                                                 of 

                                                            ni plus chef-d’œuvres”

                           Which when revealed yields yet another veil.

 

         His casket

 scripted from woven lightning  and hieroglyphic

                        Traces —

 is unable to further endure Artaud’s cachexia stare

                              

                                         & mutely begs

                                                      for the hammer blows

                                                                     To Cease

 

                                   Antonin relents; his heart shifting

                               Inside a stooped frame. Transfixed he watches

                                             as the blue inscriptions

                                                                                glow  red orange 

                                                                                               grey :

                                     A    revenent gaze

                                flickering   at the  access of the mountain 

 

 

 

 

 

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