Henri Michaux “ Passaggi”

 

Henri Michaux, Passages 1937 - 1963

A CERTAIN PHENOMENON CALLED MUSIC

The child, who has played with things for so long, with sand, with water, what will remain in him later of his power to play?

As an accomplished adult, the mammal no longer plays, or so little. In man, however, being with slow development, the game finely insinuated, having had time to become important, cunning to survive other than in tracks, and sometimes seeks and finds, in the midst of adult behaviour, a new playful organisation.

... There is what is called music.

It is also about waves, very small and to play with, not certainly by receiving them on wet feet but only, so tiny they are, in the deepest part of the ear that receives them vibrant and like a Secret. Invisible, they arrive in circular lines, which will soon surround it as if they came from everywhere, and in a huge tank keep it bathed.

These tiny waves relieve things, the unbearable "solid state" of the world, all the consequences of this state, its structures, its insluevable masses, its harsh laws.

They know how to do the night on the object, and on the beings when they have become like objects. They can disembody the flesh, abstract the concrete, de-problematise the situation. We breathe, we will relive, everything else forgotten, the good flood having returned to cover the earth that the geometry, the walls, the ugliness and the countless undesirable encumbered, which had been stuffed there and that it would have taken at least three wars and as many revolutions to eliminate, and not so well as this simple and prodigious cover will do.

Music, a wonder that surely preceded the fire. We needed it otherwise.

APRILE

 

Poesia persiana

What is poetry

If not that instinct to dust

The mirror of the veranda of certainty;

That perceiving,

The moment a flower blooms,

The freedom of the whole universe?

Mohammad Reza Shafiei Kadkâni

Poesia persiana

                                            Forugh Farrokhzad    da  “La strage dei fiori”

A window

A window to see

A window to hear

A window like the mouth of a well

Reach the bottom of the earth's heart.

And open along this continuous blue grace,

A window that in the nocturnal favour of the scent of noble stars

Overflows of little hands of solitude,

And from there we can invite the sun

To the exile of the geraniums.

I only need a window

I come from the country of dolls

Under the shade of paper trees

In the garden of a picture book

From the dry seasons of the arid experience of friendship and love

From the dusty paths of innocence

From the flourishing years in the pale letters of the alphabet

From behind the desks of an unhealthy school

When the children now knew

Write the word stone on the board

The confused flocks flew from the old trees.

I come from the heart between the roots of carnivorous plants

And my head still

He trembles at the terrible scream of a butterfly

Crucified on the album with a pin.

When my faith was hanged on the fragile ropes of justice

And in the whole city

They tore the heart of my eyes to pieces,

When they suffocated with the black handkerchief of the law

The childish eyes of my love

And from the pulsating temples of my hope

Blood flowed up,

When my life was no longer anything,

Nothing, if not the ticking of a watch,

I realised that I had to love,

To love, to love madly.