The endless Scroll

For Jean Benoît

March 2011

Dear, Dear Jean,
I’m waving—HI! !!
Dancing… as you danced, My Friend!
...I see you smile [and the stars sigh]
Hear you laugh [and all this weight leaves so ease may grant peace]
>> >
Above the black dogs
and the nails of this sphinx bed
I see your crown of rivers thrust new alphabets,
they are my honey and cake
--each letter, pure joy! !!--
and my music--
all my windows are learning to write~ ~~
I use the trees and the sky
and JOY
to sing.
Ah, this is indeed a feast! !!

© Joe Pulver, February 2011

Pang Goling – Celui qui s'enroule
Squelette bleu et chair de verre où s'étire
comme lente et féline la verdeur noire de la forêt
pensées froissées
transparences
dont se moire une résille de membranes
qui s'intercalent entre jungle et banquise

Nuit vitrée
porte ouverte au cœur battant des locomotives qui songent,
pensées subreptices
qui glissent
ainsi que des chevaux fêlés par les orages
drapés de bure à toute allure
sur les toboggans de l'esprit

Écailles du pangolin prises dans les réticules du givre
pensées percées
forcément
puisque le monde ne se voit qu'au travers.

Bulles de rêve
innervées de fer, aux arêtes d'acier, aux volutes de fonte
mangroves et fleurs des insomnies
magie noire hors d'attente
tendre gare du temps
et qui danse dans ses jupons de poutres grises
et déroule comme une fumée
ses longs cheveux d'absence au ciel arachnéen

A l'arrière plan lointain
il passe
comme un songe
une claire calèche à claies
brèche
éclair et ligature fraiche
et les éclats noirs de la route
dénouent les raies de vert de gris
de ta robe
qui
libres et souples alors s'enlacent
au grand soleil d'or de tes cuisses

© Pierre Petiot - January 2011

Good Night, Rain, The Brightness

For Jean and Mimi

There is no reason to doubt that the moment is here among us now. I will give to dust all the significance of your breath and your beauty, and then I will brand you with roses, and the hours, tall and longhaired, will open the key with the lock.

I will brand you with all that is profane, is beautiful, follows your blood with night, my uprooting night exceeded by your eyes...

To you, love, mine, in whom the fire of the forest betrays the city for your grand terrestrial window, giving light for you, and I will brand you in your vision, for without time you linger in thorns that deliver you always ahead of your voice. Your window that sees us and remembers the house of our sea-light rendezvous, our wandering evening, unlocked.

I see you and hallucinate you, and within your great Oceanic shadow, mirrored on all sides by the flood and the missing pieces of the puzzle of secret passageways, and meet you half way around the world... between a burnt out starry sky and a phantom of waking up still alive. You yourself, by your lighted presence, ravage those doorways held together by the moon, balanced by the savagery of absence and your breath of hummingbirds.

My love keyed with desire, along that street named after your reflection, where la petite mort has landed, sputtering on the boulevard of Springtime and the evil lilacs, tearing the city apart, with its grimoire-shaped hooves... I love you dipped in night-blood of bathing the beauty that alarms the blind pilot in the arc of his rapture, landing without reason...

You are the endless scroll of pleasurable decisions, the messenger of marvelous attractions, and I am the specter of the wind, when it departs, taking everything with it... Within my eyes the panther in a black pendulum swinging, the Maîtresse of unendurable “Good Nights...” and to which you are the caress of rubies and momentous crimes, bright pollen...

It is I in the midst of your lightning,” grooming the distances in the auburn locks that entice the serpents drooling fresh secrets in your words, inside of your body exhaling sleep, and setting those fires in the garden... The threat of a storm arrives before you...

The plume of sparks erases history, the bright triangle of glances inciting mayhem.

© J.Karl Bogarrte - January 2011

Jean - Pencil on paper

© Pinina Podestà - January 2011

L´inquiétante Etrangeté

© Bernard Dumaine - December 2010

Vanitas - acryl and collage on paper, 140 x 185 cm

© Rik Lina - December 2010

3rd feather - bloom looks at his palm, at the book, at the sky

bloom looked at Breton's list-Swift, Sade, Chateaubriand, Constant, Hugo, Desbordes-Valmore, Bertrand, Rabbe, Poe, Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Jarry, Nouveau, Saint-Pol-Roux, Farge, Vaché, Reverdy, Saint-Jean-Perse, Roussel. He'd added some of his own-Zazie, Bogo, Benoit, Pinosová, Rosemont, Mansour, Parent, Ducornet. He turned to the open sky and raised his open hand. "Can you see this, André? Jean?" he asked, rising his outstretched hand higher. "That's surreal."

© Joseph s. Pulver, sr. - 2010

2nd feather

he laughs as Breton laughs-clear-effortlessly.rides where Breton rides.sings of his own accord-it rings bright as the head of a giraffe against the sky ! his arms are the river, a child of moon and garden and sky-tongue in the grandeur of Discover!he meets blind with scissors that play outside the margin.he is a circle and his weapon is L~O~V~E~

© Joseph s. Pulver, sr. - 2010

1st feather~

there is a whisper.

Gone to some /where/ of bones and skulls - HA! !! With those wings? N~E~V~E~R! !! No BLACKNESS can silence the blazing light of your feathers-unfurled! ~!!

there are echoes that hold won't come.

Your voice is quiet - HA! ! ! That laugh, singing through the dim mundane, rests not!! ~!

I have eyes that share your FORWARD, JEAN, no barren grains of sand l~i~m~i~t your FLIGHT!! ~!

© Joseph s. Pulver, sr. - 2010

Rune Grammofon poem [65.b]

they made him from bricks

his sandals

his cloak

his open mouth

rushing with storytellers hard as closer

a bird sat on his shoulder

wings spread like a mighty cross

many where the masked round faces

that hid in the clouds his hands waved away

in the space he created

he mixed passion with eternity

then he howled

until his desire gleamed

bright as the sun in a fit of anger

a webbed-winged bird large as the sabbath

and a butterfly appeared

on wet red ground they mated

when the dance of desire was complete

the bird ate the butterfly

then rubbed an egg from under its wing

inside was a brick

it rose on two totem legs

spread its flame-thorned wings

and opened its mouth

I will not be defeated he said

"after Jean Benoît"

biosphere / deathprod les fleurs du mal

© Joe Pulver

Jean Benoît

Jaune tamis solaire où le chercheur d’or enfonce ses mains brumeuses

À la recherche d’un oiseau tiède pour orner le revers d’une correspondance

Ou bien c’est un emblème décoloré qui est encore vu aujourd’hui en transparence dans le désordre d'une chevelure écarlate

Avant minuit dans les cimes illettrées de La Coste

Toutefois dans ces syllabes

Pierreries glissantes

Il peut les pressentir

Emblème et tamis

Si on accélère le pas, la lecture

Si on accorde une caresse fugace à une gravure inachevée où la bougie coulante, l’exemplaire trempé et le crâne sont incrustés dans l’œil de l’Éternité

Inexorablement

Je parle d’un Livre imaginaire qui nous appartient

Comme toute étoile de ce ciel, qui est à ma portée, à votre portée

Qui paraît maintenant vouloir m’imiter et qui vous idolâtre

Notre Livre, toile d’araignée délicate et aile fragile où le gris perle règne, est aussi une mélodie berceuse fissurée par les soupirs de la dame inéluctable

Elle est notre belle danseuse qui dans le dix-huitième siècle montrait la lave de ses seins aux alentours du Café où Charles Fourier réunissait à ses disciples

Envers et contre tous

Niagara de sperme avec sourire de fée!

En rappelant son abyssal regard, ses boucles crépusculaires, son existence est transformée au moins dans ce poème

En poudre de cachot démoli par la violence extrême d’un orage esquissé lentement par la lune

Tout à coup (ce n’est qu´un lubie) je pense enlever l’image initiale du cadre qui la limitait

Surveiller maintes fois le parcours sublime de ton écriture de géant

Ta lettre du 31 août doit arriver malgré l’absence d’adresse…

Inspiration

De Jean Benoît, mon ami.

4th feather - Doom

Darkness, the cage, dreams above the city. Stretches out its ravaging

hand, its artless heart, all its

downhill bells,

claws to own, erase.

Teeth as walls, climb and tear, leaving only

the tatters of have been.

And you, Bright Heart, in your cape-open to love,

arrive

with a balcony of stars and joy

and a blissful fire that will not lie in bleak silence-

take your 1st step on the sea of swelling word and deed,

dance your way to the longing city

and the faces

barred

from

song.

And we, stirred by the calligraphies of your arms,

open the plums of our summer-harvest dreams and harmonize

[after zazie's "DOOM" NOV 2010]

As the Infinities of Jean’s Lamp Grow & Grow!!!

O Energy of Wheels & Fingers twirling angel-can, what tribute could I pay you? ?? I have no gift to pull down the stars and let them dance for your delight. Have no melody of passions—never full enough, soaring, to voice. My hands and words seem so inadequate though my little matches are glowing.
But you have
my smile—free of poverty,
my heart—all the books that will not be silent,
and the joy your work, every grain & blade!! !, brings out in me.
O Master, can you see me spin and flutter as all your songs [AGAIN, sleek as a bicycle painted with 1,000 tricks] free me from mundane and hapless?
Fly, my Dear Brother! !! Rest in no rooted-glade, but dance your nebulae—stuffed with surging contact, in the imagination of every eye

[Julia Hülsmann Trio “Kiss From A Rose”]

Joe Pulver for Jean November 2010

Wailing Wall - 1994

Mur
En virides verticalités,
Et en étrennes de lumière
La mousse sur le mur résonne comme un soleil.

L’oeil au plus près
Rêveries de châteaux au revers cramoisi des capuchons du polytric
Lumineuses agates de verdeur
Pantelantes aux flocons de pluie

Et par dessus
Au jardin où l'oseille dort
Auprès du Monstrueux de Viroflay et de la Grosse Blonde d’Hiver
Le monde est tout peuplé de fantômes de plantes.
Il y gît l’ombre d’un fétiche oublié des épeires
Que chassent les araignées d'eau et les corneilles