On The Road To San Romano
by André Breton (tr. Charles Simic & Michael Benedikt)
Poetry is made in bed like love
Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in a forest
She has the space which she needs
Not this one but the other
Governed by the hawk's eye
The dew on the spindle
The memory of a moist bottle of Traminer on a silver platter
A tall rod of tourmaline over the sea
A road of mental adventure
Which climbs abruptly
One pause and it's instantly overgrown
Don't shout that from the roof tops
It's not fitting to leave the doors open
Or go around calling for witnesses
The shoals of fishes the hedges of small birds
The rails at the approach to the great station
The glow of two river banks
The furrows on a loaf of bread
Bubbles in a brook
The days of the calendar
Hog-wart
The act of love and the act of poetry
Are incompatible
With reading newspapers at the top of one's voice
The way the sunlight falls
The livid glitter which binds the ax-strokes of the
woodcutter
The string of a kite in the shape of a heart or a fish-trap
The steady waving of the beaver's tail
The perseverance of lightning
The flinging down of sweets from the top of an old staircase
An avalanche
The room of marvels
No gentlemen not the forbidden chamber
Nor the fumes of the barracks from Sunday evenings
The figure of the dance executed transparently above the
marshes
The body of a woman outlined by throwing knives
The lucent rings of smoke
The curls of your hair
The twisting of a sponge from the Philippines
The snakelike coils of coral
The ivy's slitherings into the ruins
She has all of time ahead of her
The embrace of poetry like the embrace of the naked body
Protects while it lasts
Against all access by the misery of the world
by André Breton (tr. Charles Simic & Michael Benedikt)
Poetry is made in bed like love
Its unmade sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in a forest
She has the space which she needs
Not this one but the other
Governed by the hawk's eye
The dew on the spindle
The memory of a moist bottle of Traminer on a silver platter
A tall rod of tourmaline over the sea
A road of mental adventure
Which climbs abruptly
One pause and it's instantly overgrown
Don't shout that from the roof tops
It's not fitting to leave the doors open
Or go around calling for witnesses
The shoals of fishes the hedges of small birds
The rails at the approach to the great station
The glow of two river banks
The furrows on a loaf of bread
Bubbles in a brook
The days of the calendar
Hog-wart
The act of love and the act of poetry
Are incompatible
With reading newspapers at the top of one's voice
The way the sunlight falls
The livid glitter which binds the ax-strokes of the
woodcutter
The string of a kite in the shape of a heart or a fish-trap
The steady waving of the beaver's tail
The perseverance of lightning
The flinging down of sweets from the top of an old staircase
An avalanche
The room of marvels
No gentlemen not the forbidden chamber
Nor the fumes of the barracks from Sunday evenings
The figure of the dance executed transparently above the
marshes
The body of a woman outlined by throwing knives
The lucent rings of smoke
The curls of your hair
The twisting of a sponge from the Philippines
The snakelike coils of coral
The ivy's slitherings into the ruins
She has all of time ahead of her
The embrace of poetry like the embrace of the naked body
Protects while it lasts
Against all access by the misery of the world
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