French poetry 101 – Paul Eluard
Apr. 25th, 2007 07:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foudebassanDue to a slight organisational glitch, several poets have swapped their places. The Fury and the Mystery are therefore deprogrammed today; they should make an apparition on Friday.
Eugène Grindel (1895-1952) would probably not have been a poet if he had not caught tuberculosis at an early age. He has to give up his studies to go to a sanatorium in Switzerland, where he meets a young Russian girl, Gala, whom he marries in 1916. Love prompts him to write, and the famous La Courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon Coeur is dedicated to her.
No one escapes the draft in WW1, but he is not sent to the front lines due to his health: he evacuates the wounded instead.
It is perhaps to escape the memories of the war that he joins the Dadaist movement and its automatic writing credo. He takes up the pseudonym of Paul Eluard – Eluard being his grandmother’s maiden name. He is very close to the literary circle of his time: he switches to surrealism with Desnos and of course Breton, becomes a member of the Communist party with Aragon. But Gala leaves him for Salvator Dali, and in 1933 he quits from the Communist Party before slamming the door to surrealism’s face in 1938. He does meet another woman, Maria Benz, with whom he lives a passionate relationship.
WW2 arrives. The first well-organised resistance networks are Communist – they have a cloistered cell structure that is just about perfect to conduct illegal operations – so he joins them again. He also founds a clandestine group of writers, whose anti-nazi works are published in secret. It is during that time that he writes today’s poem.
Note the lack of punctuation, the invocation-like rhythm. There are traces of surrealism, in the link-less images and pictures, and of course in the short, staccato-like rhythm, but this is more of an invocation. The verse have an odd number of syllables (7, that’s pretty unusual) that contrast with the four-syllable “j’écris ton nom”, and of course with the shorter, 3-syllable “Liberté”.
This might well be one of the most often pastiched poems of all time, as the process is a bit blunt; but you can’t deny it’s highly effective. The RAF launched hundreds of thousands of tracts with poem over occupied France.
Maria dies suddenly in 1946. Eluard goes to Greece to help fight against the arriving authoritarian regime. He is a member of several peace committees, and meets the third woman of his life, Dominique. It is in his last years that he writes the famous “La terre est bleue comme une orange” – the earth is blue like an orange.
To him, love (and women) are the focus that enable a man to reach the higher spheres of poetry, of beauty, and of intellect. It is a belief he shares with his brother in arms and favourite rival, Louis Aragon.
Next time: the fellow travellers.
Eugène Grindel (1895-1952) would probably not have been a poet if he had not caught tuberculosis at an early age. He has to give up his studies to go to a sanatorium in Switzerland, where he meets a young Russian girl, Gala, whom he marries in 1916. Love prompts him to write, and the famous La Courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon Coeur is dedicated to her.
No one escapes the draft in WW1, but he is not sent to the front lines due to his health: he evacuates the wounded instead.
It is perhaps to escape the memories of the war that he joins the Dadaist movement and its automatic writing credo. He takes up the pseudonym of Paul Eluard – Eluard being his grandmother’s maiden name. He is very close to the literary circle of his time: he switches to surrealism with Desnos and of course Breton, becomes a member of the Communist party with Aragon. But Gala leaves him for Salvator Dali, and in 1933 he quits from the Communist Party before slamming the door to surrealism’s face in 1938. He does meet another woman, Maria Benz, with whom he lives a passionate relationship.
WW2 arrives. The first well-organised resistance networks are Communist – they have a cloistered cell structure that is just about perfect to conduct illegal operations – so he joins them again. He also founds a clandestine group of writers, whose anti-nazi works are published in secret. It is during that time that he writes today’s poem.
Sur mes cahiers d'écolier Sur mon pupitre et les arbres Sur le sable sur la neige J'écris ton nom Sur toutes les pages lues Sur toutes les pages blanches Pierre sang papier ou cendre J'écris ton nom Sur les images dorées Sur les armes des guerriers Sur la couronne des rois J'écris ton nom Sur la jungle et le désert Sur les nids sur les genêts Sur l'écho de mon enfance J'écris ton nom Sur tous mes chiffons d'azur Sur l'étang soleil moisi Sur le lac lune vivante J'écris ton nom Sur les champs sur l'horizon Sur les ailes des oiseaux Et sur le moulin des ombres J'écris ton nom Sur chaque bouffée d'aurore Sur la mer sur les bateaux Sur la montagne démente J'écris ton nom Sur la mousse des nuages Sur les sueurs de l'orage Sur la pluie épaisse et fade J'écris ton nom Sur les formes scintillantes Sur les cloches des couleurs Sur la vérité physique J'écris ton nom Sur les sentiers éveillés Sur les routes déployées Sur les places qui débordent J'écris ton nom Sur la lampe qui s'allume Sur la lampe qui s'éteint Sur mes raisons réunies J'écris ton nom Sur le fruit coupé en deux Du miroir et de ma chambre Sur mon lit coquille vide J'écris ton nom Sur mon chien gourmand et tendre Sur ses oreilles dressées Sur sa patte maladroite J'écris ton nom Sur le tremplin de ma porte Sur les objets familiers Sur le flot du feu béni J'écris ton nom Sur toute chair accordée Sur le front de mes amis Sur chaque main qui se tend J'écris ton nom Sur la vitre des surprises Sur les lèvres attendries Bien au-dessus du silence J'écris ton nom Sur mes refuges détruits Sur mes phares écroulés Sur les murs de mon ennui J'écris ton nom Sur l'absence sans désir Sur la solitude nue Sur les marches de la mort J'écris ton nom Sur la santé revenue Sur le risque disparu Sur l'espoir sans souvenir J'écris ton nom Et par le pouvoir d'un mot Je recommence ma vie Je suis né pour te connaître Pour te nommer Liberté |
On my school notebooks On my desk and on the trees On snowy sand I write your name On the read pages On all the white pages Rock blood paper or ash I write your name On the golden pictures On the warriors' weapons On the kings' crowns I write your name On the jungle and the desert On the nests on the brooms On the echo of my childhood I write your name On all my azurean rags On the rotten sun in the pond On the living moon of the lake I write your name On the fields on the horizon On the birds' wings and on the mill of shadows I write your name On every breath of dawn On the sea on the ships On the demented mountain I write your name On the moss of clouds On the sweat of the storm On the thick and bland rain I write your name On the scintillating shapes On the bells of colours On the physical truth I write your name On the awakened paths On the deployed roads On the overflowing squares I write your name On the alighted lamp On the blown-out lamp On my gathered reasons I write your name On the fruit cut in two Of the mirror and of my room On my bed empty shell I write your name On my eager and tender dog On his erect ears On his clumsy paw I write your name On the tremplin of my door On the familiar objects On the flow of blessed fire I write your name On every bestowed flesh On my friends' brow On every offered hand I write your name On the window of surprises On the softened lips Far above silence I write your name On my destroyed havens On my collapsed lighthouses On the walls of my boredom I write your name On desireless absence On naked solitude On the steps to death I write your name On newfound health On vanished risk On hope without memories I write your name And by the power of a word I begin my life anew I was born to know you To name you Freedom |
Note the lack of punctuation, the invocation-like rhythm. There are traces of surrealism, in the link-less images and pictures, and of course in the short, staccato-like rhythm, but this is more of an invocation. The verse have an odd number of syllables (7, that’s pretty unusual) that contrast with the four-syllable “j’écris ton nom”, and of course with the shorter, 3-syllable “Liberté”.
This might well be one of the most often pastiched poems of all time, as the process is a bit blunt; but you can’t deny it’s highly effective. The RAF launched hundreds of thousands of tracts with poem over occupied France.
Maria dies suddenly in 1946. Eluard goes to Greece to help fight against the arriving authoritarian regime. He is a member of several peace committees, and meets the third woman of his life, Dominique. It is in his last years that he writes the famous “La terre est bleue comme une orange” – the earth is blue like an orange.
To him, love (and women) are the focus that enable a man to reach the higher spheres of poetry, of beauty, and of intellect. It is a belief he shares with his brother in arms and favourite rival, Louis Aragon.
Next time: the fellow travellers.
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-25 06:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-25 07:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-25 07:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-25 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-25 08:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 06:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 12:40 am (UTC)And I am amused to note that yes, I did know of Paul Eluard before... I'd never read anything of his, of course, but in year 11 my French teacher made reference to his remark that "La terre est bleue comme une orange" (alas, in reference to Prévert!) and it became my favourite quote for a very long time.
love
Catherine
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 06:21 am (UTC)Prévert again? Damn! We'll have to get to him soon then.
no subject
Date: 2007-04-26 11:52 pm (UTC)