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Alain Bosquet Poems


Information about Alain Bosquet

1919 March 28th: the birth in Odessa, Russia of Anatole BISK (occasionally BISQUE), son of Alexandre and Berthe Turiansky. His paternal ancestors, originally from Alsace and Belgium, established themselves in the Ukraine in the middle of the nineteenth century to work in railroad construction there. His father was a manufacturer, but also a poet. It was he who first translated Rainer Maria Rilke into Russian. 1920: The family, in reduced circumstances, moves to Varna, Bulgaria, on the shores of the Black Sea. His father lives off translations; his mother gives violin lessons. 1923: Alexandre Bisk becomes a bank employee in Sofia. He branches out into the stamp-collecting trade. 1925: Move to Brusselss. Little Anatole attends various primary schools. 1932-38: Secondary studies at the Atheneum in Uccle. 1938: Studies in Romance philology at the free University of Brussels. Founding of a first literary review with José-André Lacour, then Jean Mogin: Pylône. This review, which ran for only five issues, was noticed by Charles Plisnier and Robert Poulet. 1940: Mobilized May 10th, Anatole Bisk participates in the Belgian army campaign. At its surrender, at his own request, he joins the French army. After the armistice, he stays for a time near Montpellier. 1942: Lengthy travels lead him to New York where he becomes sub-editor of the newspaper of Free France, La Voix de France. With Yvan Goll, He founds a literary review, Hémisphères. His stay in the United States is also the occasion for important encounters : Maurice Maeterlinck, Jules Romains, Thomas Mann... He becomes a familiar of André Breton, by whom he is published in VVV. Roger Caillois proposes his poems to Lettres françaises, in Buenos Aires. 1943: New enlistment, in the American army this time. He serves in Texas, in California and in Maryland, then, in December, is sent to Northern Ireland. 1944: Work in London in Eisenhower''s headquarters. He lands in Normandy, the is posted to the H.Q. at Versailles. 1945: Liaison officer and functionary of the Council of Allied Control in Berlin. 1947: Still in Berlin, he founds a review in German, Das Lot, which will be published until 1952. 1948: Is promoted to Joint Director of Allied Liaisons and of Protocol. 1951: Moves permanently to Paris et takes up his studies at the Sorbonne . 1953: Finishes his education and decides to devote himself to letters. Thus begins a series of important collaborations in Combat (the newspaper of Albert Camus), in the Monde, in the Nouvelles littéraires, in Figaro; later on in the Nouvelle Revue française and in Quotidien de Paris. 1959: Teaches French literature in various American universities: Brandeis University, UW-Madison and UW-Milwaukee; then, for three years, occupies the chair of American studies at the University of Lyon. Reader for several publishing houses, editor of numerous collections of poetry, producer and commentator for the O.R.T.F. 1980: Naturalized as a French citizen, Alain Bosquet founds the review of internationalliterature Nota Bene. 1987: Election to the Belgian Royal Academy of French Language and Literature. 1993: Election to the Academy of Letters of Québec. President of the Académie Mallarmé. 1998: Dies in Paris, age 77. Source: http://www.fibitz.com/bosquet/index.html



Found 2 poems by Alain Bosquet .
[ Page 1 of 1 ]
.
No Need
"The elephant's trunk
is for picking up pistachios:
no need to bend over.
The giraffe's neck
is for grazing on stars:
no need to fly.
The chameleon's skin,
green, blue, lavender, white,
as it wishes,
is for hiding from ravenous animals:
no need to flee.
The turtle's shell,
is for sleeping inside,
even in winter:
no need for a house.
The poet's poem,
is for saying all of that
and a thousand thousand thousand other things:
no need to understand.

© 2001 translated by F.J. Bergmann"
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.
What Forgotten Realm?
"Let me introduce to you
my poetry: it's an island flying
from book to book
searching for
the page where it was born,
then stops at my house, both wings wounded,
for its meals of flesh and cold phrases.

I paid dearly for the poem's visit!
My best words lie down to sleep in the nettles,
my greenest syllables dream
of a silence as young as themselves.

Offer me the horizon which no longer dares
to swim across even one book.
I will give you this sonnet in return:
in that place live the birds
signed by the ocean;
and also these exalted consonants
from which can be seen
the brain tumors of stars.

Manufacturers of equators,
to what client, to what wanderer
who knows neither how to read nor love,
have you resold my poem,
that smiling predator who at each syllable
leapt for my throat?

My language is at half-mast
since my syllables
fled for safety, carrying with them,
as one carries wedding gifts,
all my spare sunrises.

My poem, as much as I dismiss you
like a valet who for twenty-five years
has been stealing my manuscript snows;
as much as I walk you on a leash
like a poodle
that fears to tread the dawn;
as much as I caress you,
with an equator around your neck
which devours my other images one by one,
at each breath I begin you again,
at each breath you become my epitaph.

A duel took place
between the words and their syllables.
followed by the execution of overly rich poems.
The language bled,
the last vowel surrendered.
Already the great reptiles were being conjugated.
Here is my last will and testament:
the panther which follows my alphabet
must devour it, if it turns back.

© 2001 translated by F.J. Bergmann"




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