René Char (1907–1988)

The world, these days, is hostile to the Transparents.

Experiencing failure to explicate feelings for Char's poetry. Wishing for ability to read it in French, but satisfied for the moment with the translations, which (having no point of reference) seem adequate, even good or possibly great, based on the fascinating phrasings and word pairings as appearing in English. And in fact these translations are not the work of one person but many, including noted poet-writers such as Paul Auster, show more William Carlos Williams, W.S. Merwin, and even good ol' Sam Beckett. The volume is split about 50/50 between lined and prose poetry, all of which deserves multiple readings to discern and separate the individual living layers, which peel back and twist away as if to resist interpretation.

Themes of separation (physical and emotional), shifting psychic states and during them what passes into and out of us, life's inevitable cyclic renewal in nature, emotions inherent in seasonal change, all permeated by a sort of exultant darkness flowing from tacit acceptance of 'the void'. Char presents in his poetry as uncompromising, as a resister, and in fact he joined the French Resistance during WWII, and later the movement against storage of atomic weapons in Provence.

There is a title of one poem, 'Remanence', which is a physics term referring to the magnetic induction remaining in a material after a magnetizing force has been removed from it. This is a good way to characterize Char's poetry...a reader may feel uncertain of what is being described yet still feels the effects lingering inside for some time afterwards, pulling the reader back to the source, and with the ghostly magnetic remains, also pulling in like-minded others.

Char was close to Maurice Blanchot, even dedicating one of these poems to him, and one can see some common ground in the prose work of these two philosopher-writers.

Some excerpts...

To Friend-Tree of Counted Days

Brief harp of the larches
On mossy spur of stone crop
—Façade of the forest,
Against which mists are shattered—
Counterpoint of the void in which
I believe.
___________________________________

[from Mumbling]

Go on, we endure together; and together, although separate, we bound over the tremor of supreme deception to shatter the ice of quick waters and recognize ourselves there. show less

There is only the one like me, the companion man or woman, who can wake me from my torpor, set off the poetry, hurl me against the limits of the old desert for me to triumph over it.

It occurred to me that I bought this book new 20 years ago. That reflects upon my priorities in my early 20s. Hey, I should spend money on a new book I won't read for decades. Such memory isn't necessarily wistful, just peculiar. Char creates a series of challenging images. Some are steeped in the privation of show more the Occupation, some appear bucolic. I am enjoying this stroll through the corridors of verse, there's much to absorb, some of which remains ill-defined even with scrutiny.

I had not take with me the thin line of my return. I had the approval of my mornings nd that of a trampled stream.

Given the contrary chords of language, I am alert to an altered disposition or perspective. show less

This book is at once violent and tender, remorseful and hopeful. Rene Char didn't really hit his stride until the 1950's, but this is a great first step.

http://lifelongdewey.wordpress.com/2012/02/09/841-leaves-of-hypnos-by-rene-char/

stunning poetry by a Surrealist master, not adequately translated. Unfortunately the original poems aren't included in this edition.