ISBN: 1-882022-02-5
TITLE: It Then
AUTHOR: Danielle Collobert, Translated by Norma Cole
$9.00
Excerpt
Description: 1989, Poetry, 128 pages.
The first English translation of this French poet, now an influence on many young American poets, who died at the age of 37 in 1978. Beverly Dahlen comments: "Colloberts dash is a materialization of the gap within speech and the rush to close even as one discloses it... the page bears the record of these bursts of language ...Collobert insists on being without a subject, as if being were radically different from, absolutely divided from its subject. And like an archeologist she preserves the fragments of this ruined subject against time, to reproduce the duration ...appalling in the intensity of their imagination of the literal body transmuted into writing." Michael Palmer comments: "She enunciates the words for desire and for loss the other words with harrowing intensity. It Then explores the limits of the phenomenal body and of speech by the agency of a prose which defies category."
| I It flows it bangs itself slammed into walls it picks itself up stamps feet it doesnt go far four steps to the left new wall it extends its arms leans leans hard rubs its head again harder forehead there the forehead hurts rubs harder becomes inflamed not the forehead from within cries good start for the pain head between arms forehead against wall and rubbing skin breaks open a little not enough ooh the pain there it is feet kicking the wall down low go on with the toes striking hard thrashing nothing to be done doesnt subside never will subside the rage the pain cries hits with flat hands dull noise a cry here a cry no gasp a little above a gasp in shrillness here it comes collects at the back of the throat whats going to come out still below the pain not enough sobs shaken saliva at lips edge bitter taste slides a little towards the corner nose smashing lips the lips twisted sideways pulled back to the gums moistening the wall eyes closed stomach and chest flattened unsticks comes back harder sharp impact of shoulders unsticks comes back again with elbows with knees bangs fists fists backs to the bone starts over skin reddens rips at last it falls doubled up dragging arms stretched along the wall kept vertical by ends of fingernails it collapses impact of back head rings on wooden floor it pushes up onto its elbow drags along the wall reaches hung-up coat hangs onto hoists itself buries its head in the wool grabs the arms holds the end of the sleeves tight overlaps them around neck expecting softness but no squeezes hard chokes coughs into tears chokes lets go hangs onto cloth pulls hard to rip rips with all its strength tears pieces with its teeth spits chokes arms fall back down sinks down slips onto the ground a body there practicing pain as if it hadnt had enough of this suffering at each moment in floods in vast wave trying pathetically to practice it body striking disfiguring its limbs with the too full pain which body sudden empty which violence against about empty pain congealed at last wanting to reach it to set it once and for all to keep it there motionless or set it down in front of it itself to make it really visible in its infinitely numerous images unceasingly a body there no that body there the one banging its face against the wall maybe no walls fictive also unnecessary walls no only to see from the place of the present invisible here facing the stripped body arms motionless yet sweeping around in space without meeting anything to lean on temporary connection just for an instant to slow the breathing down slow down the beating to quiet down this body seeking the place the hollow in which to melt back down again heat ruptured and cold of the world around its place or position unsure to inscribe against the lack the shocks of the day |
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