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Preamble (A Rough Draft For An Ars Poetica)

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Preamble A rough draft for an ars poetica .
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Let's get our dreams unstuck The grain of rye free from the prattle of grass et loin de arbres orateurs I plant it It will sprout But forget about the rustic festivities For the explosive word falls harmlessly eternal through the compact generations and except for you nothing denotates its sweet-scented dynamite Greetings I discard eloquence the empty sail and the swollen sail which cause the ship to lose her course My ink nicks and there and there and there and there sleeps deep poetry The mirror-paneled wardrobe washing down ice-floes the little eskimo girl dreaming in a heap of moist negroes her nose was flattened against the window-pane of dreary Christmases A white bear adorned with chromatic moire dries himself in the midnight sun Liners The huge luxury item Slowly founders all its lights aglow and so sinks the evening-dress ball into the thousand mirrors of the palace hotel And now it is I the thin Columbus of phenomena alone in the front of a mirror-paneled wardrobe full of linen and locking with a key The obstinate miner of the void exploits his fertile mine the potential in the rough glitters there mingling with its white rock Oh princess of the mad sleep listen to my horn and my pack of hounds I deliver you from the forest where we came upon the spell Here we are by the pen one with the other wedded on the page Isles sobs of Ariadne Ariadnes dragging along Aridnes seals for I betray you my fair stanzas to run and awaken elsewhere I plan no architecture Simply deaf like you Beethoven blind like you Homer numberless old man born everywhere I elaborate in the prairies of inner silence and the work of the mission and the poem of the work and the stanza of the poem and the group of the stanza and the words of the group and the letters of the word and the least loop of the letters it's your foot of attentive satin that I place in position pink tightrope walker sucked up by the void to the left to the right the god gives a shake and I walk towards the other side with infinite precaution

Poem by Jean Cocteau
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Book: Shattered Sighs