Alcools Kindle å Paperback

Alcools Kindle å Paperback

10 thoughts on “Alcools

  1. Steven Godin Steven Godin says:

    I'd say this is the best book of French poetry I've read since Paul Éluard's 'Capitale de la douleur'It's very much a collection that should be seen as a landmark in the history of not just French poetry but 20th century poetry in general The book features many sublime longer poems like 'Song of the Poorly Loved' The House of the Dead' 'The Betrothal' and 'Vendemiaire' but to keep things brief I picked three of my favourite shorter poems belowCLOTILDEAnemone and columbineHave sprung up in the gardenWhere sleeping melancholy twinesBetween love and disdainHere too our shadows comeWhich the night will suander;The sun that makes them somberWill disappear with themThe gods of running waterLet down their flowing hairAnd she must fly so you pursueHer shadow fairRHENISH NIGHTSMy glass is filled with wine that trembles like flameListen a boatman is singing a slow songOf a moonlight night when seven women cameOut of the river and their hair was green and longNow sing and dance until the terrace whirlsAnd the boatman's slow song fadesAnd bring me all the pretty blonde haired girlsWith the still gaze and the coiled braidsThe Rhine flows drunk with vine leaves trailing afterThe trembling gold of night is mirrored there;Like a death rattle the slow song grows softerOf the nymphs who bewitched the summer with their green hairMy glass has shattered like a peal of laughterMOONLIGHTThe honeyflowing moon is on every madman's tongueTonight and makes gluttons out of orchard and townThe stars can stand for bees who gather thisLuminous stuff that cloys the very trellisesAnd look all saccharine as they pour from the skiesThe rays of the moon are in fact honey raysHidden gold I dream of some sugary happeningBut I fear the bee Arcturus and his fiery stingWho having put these slippery beams in my handsTook his lunar honey from the rose of the winds

  2. Mariel Mariel says:

    I've lived like a fool and I've wasted my timeYou dare not look at your hands I want to weep all the time ZoneEveryone is old but you They were here first and are still here in their stale after life But here on this new street they are young and you are their young Their bed time piety your staying up late to old Jesus is the walking away beauty of parents pedestal He's the cool older girl with the who you want to be Pray into everybody's age Out of their mouths the breath to ascend Mechanical flight plans court the birds Time forgets the fish in the lower Automobile biographies concrete wombs hide the sky I wanted to watch the rosebug apart of the rose's heart too I know the shame and the sick in big picture too big for me Real life the kind inside calendars and the history book kind The face of crocodiles history and the rosebug history I feel ashamed in both kinds but the second kind is when I feel like real life is real even if I don't feel real My pity aches along the seams of her bellyI humble my mouth to her grotesue laughterIt's always like that On one shoulder that's not for the devil but just for them The night is a clock chimingThe days go by not I Mirabeau BridgeLove isn't going to come back You're not in Australia where the water flows backwards The river under Mirabeau Bridge is gone is night Others will come and go But not you You're night inside day This would be great sung to a Johnny Marr guitar riff I loved the and expectation always violent I void my heart and headInto barrels of HadesI shit the entire skyI'd rather be happyI'd rather be a child Reply of the Zaporogian Cossacks to the Sultan of ConstantinopleHorny animal flesh natural Whore sweat and cheap He's still waiting for herI have read different translations than Donald Revell's I guess there are debates on best versions blah blah blah But 'misery doubles destiny' is freaking great Sometimes someone else would have turned a better phrase but it's all on phases of fire of Apollinaire I can't read french either I don't believe in you misery and I will wait in your empty kingdom I haven't imagined myself in loveor was in love but if so it happened to someone else so I don't remember it So I don't take the love poems on my shoulder for angels in the same way as I do other Apollinaire poems I'm like an insect studying humankind for what it is like and this would be a head biting offcutting off head and then you're an insect from outer space anyway because it isn't love any It's a wound infestation So it worked for me like that In dust for eternityMy shadow my snake in the grassIn sunlight because you loved itThere I drove youMy shadow spouse remember I love youBeing nothing you belong to meAnd my shadow mourns me LES SEPT EPEESThis was my favorite in wallowing in the was it worth it happiness misery table top spinnerThe ground is poisonous but pretty in autumn SaffronCow eyes slow eyes mute mouth thoughtlessly eating seeing mouth eyes The Saffrons are underfoot and heart mouth eyes in bellies they eat saffrons The color of eyes of mothers and daughters loved who were not loved back like the yellow purple irises don't see you back I still love saffrons They don't have to love me back But it's a haunting that cow grind in what isn't for themMy barefoot brain inclined for the eveningLike a naked king the walls are wakingBeaten flesh and fresh cut roses Palace Bellies are deaf and dreams blinded by the false sun prophets King's hardened lap holds a woman's face echoing better dreams of the Orient 'Palace' made me think of written later Zone's cave discoveries of last year last centuries no hope come to life in today's cold unease Apollinaire's imagery is a brain meat I love that when your thoughts are the you are what you eat can't save yourself I'm going back to a lot what you made happen like that paranoia ladder to hell and what is the environment nudging the odds I'm finding cases for both sides in these poems The love poems that don't want to remember how to give love's empty arms another name But the homesickness when your brain is simmering an else I love Apollinaire's humor His tongue is in mouth and butt cheeks It's that curious sense of humor that doesn't chase the ghosts in the eye windows That's my favorite kind I'm good with that kind It leaves a space for the homesicknessThe corpses accosted meWith otherworldly looksUntil their facesBecame undismalEarth and sky losingTheir fantastic look The house of the DeadApocalyptic memory If everyone who has died stood up at one time Shadows themselves ghost themselves Present themselves Whenever a bell rings another corpse gets their earth flight The living make friends with corpses and memory must remember friendships echo If they died they only have to waitNothing is so ennoblingAs having loved dead men and womenYou become so pure that you attainUniversalGlaciers of memoryYou are strong enough to liveYou need no oneThe dead cannot remember them but the living can remember the dead What if they weren't afraid of death if they were afraid going to these friends This way the death and the life must be much the same Loving is a memory It's sad though like scrying for an answer to a headstone or Alzheimer's patients or a child who doesn't know what you're talking about when you tell them about something you shared when they were much younger If they are beyond and so above it all will you care about what you cared about less Then when they leave you you've only got silent shells 'Clotilde' says it about a craving for shadows I love the risk in following the living brain wants The sun is ended and your hiding place is an incurable appetite Maybe the past is a door that only opens some of the time It's like a magical world in a novel The way back that worked one time is a stranger now You could feel like shit about it and it still won't budge The future is a looming sky painting kind of door It's just a picture unless you look at it in the right way or right time If they knew you they would be with you a little I wish they wouldMonster of my hearing you pule and roarThunder is your hairYour talons sing like birdsMonstrous touch perforates poisons meMy eyes wash far awayThe virgin stars are my unproven mastersThe beast of stinks has a lily headAnd the loveliest monsterTasting of laurel must despair The Betrothal

  3. Eadweard Eadweard says:

    If she ever returns to meI'll say to her I'll say I'm happyI void my heart and headInto barrels of HadesI shit the entire skyI'd rather be happyI'd rather be a childI wish never to forget her O my love your florentine copulationsLeft a bitter tasteRepulsive to fateThe movement of her eyesDrew stars across the evening skyIn her look swam sirensWe fucked until we bled You laugh at yourself and the laughter crackles like hellfireThe sparks gild the ground and background of your life Your life is a painting in a dark museum And sometimes you examine it closely Regret is the cornerstone of hell Forgetfulness is heaven I shiver in the death of love I worship idols I worship memories that resemble love A thousand thousand spectral hounds Follow a trail that leads To my lovely wounds I do not pity myself any Cannot express my silent anguish All I wanted to say has changed to stars An Icarus climbs into my eyes Carrier of suns I burn between nebulae What have I done to the theological beasts of mind Once upon a time the dead adored me I’d been hoping for doomsday But the doom of me arrives like a whistling hurricane I found the courage to look behind me The corpses of my days Litter my road and I grieve Some of them putrefy in Italianate churches Or rot in lemon groves Flowering fructifying Simultaneous in all seasons Memories are all archaic horns Silenced by the wind

  4. Jenna Jenna says:

    If you were never uite sure what the word lyricism meant read this book Apollinaire pays his due to formal constraints such as meter and rhyme yet never gets bogged down by them Like wily Hermes with his winged sandals Apollinaire leaps athletically from image to image as though following the directives of some wild angelic muse rather than obeying the dictates of ordinary terrestrial logic The result is an exciting spontaneous unpredictable poetry whose substance it would be impossible to render as mere prose None of it makes logical explainable sense in the way that newspapers and textbooks do and yet it all feels perfectly right the way that dreams and drunkenness do Moreover Apollinaire is such a master of his medium that his heart wringingly romantic vision is never obscured by the poetic techniues he uses to express it In other words his shadow puppets are so masterfully crafted that their puppet nature doesn't get in the way of the breathtaking show

  5. Lee Foust Lee Foust says:

    Great collection translations seems legit my French is rather rudimentary so I'm not the best judge and the notes were fair and balanced Apollinaire's imagery is always competent often startling and very clever I loved the blending of modernism with mythology and even Christianity although my relationship with the religion itself is complex and dysfunctional At least here in the verse the mix of symbolism mythologies classical Christian and personal with wool gathering and a surprising and even thrilling sense of free association creates some extremely satisfying poetic frisson It's a big collection too really gives you the opportunity to get to know the poet; gonna have to give it the old 5 stars for sheer competency consistent beauty and scope although I can't really honestly put the whole of it on my favorites shelf a few poems here and there though did really hit the mark for me

  6. Marit Voskuil Marit Voskuil says:


  7. Elora Elora says:

    On a positive note there were some nice metaphors I guess but that doesn’t make up for the time I wasted in analyzing that ENTIRE thing God I hate French sometimes

  8. Jlawrence Jlawrence says:

    Apollinaire is a fascinating poet because he synthesized or presaged several early 20th century movements cubism futurism surrealism modernism with his own uniue vision A few of these poems are like knotty puzzles that can only be decoded via footnotes but overall this collection is solid and the best poems Zone Song of the Poorly Loved Rhenanes The Bethrothal The House of the Dead Vendemiaire are sublime This edition's translator Anne Hyde Greet offers copious helpful notes on the poems but those same notes reveal that she sometimes leaves out portions of lines or entire lines seemingly not for translation clarity but simply personal preference That makes me want to try another translation for comparison

  9. Keith Keith says:

    i enjoyed bits of this it saddened me to see so much rhyme in the original French that accompanies the liberal English translations i was inspired to read Apollinaire after seeing the first few lines of Zone referenced in an introduction to Stephen Mitchell's translations of RilkeAt last you're tired of this elderly worldSheperdess O Eiffel Tower this morning the bridges are bleatingYou're fed up with living in antiuityi liked a lot of the images but i got lost in the denser poems without the signposts of meter or rhyme so much of it is like a long drunken dance and although i can really appreciate the experimentation it can also be a little bit too disorienting would love to read it in the original French

  10. Lisa Lisa says:

    Best French poetry ever

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Alcools ➶ Alcools Free ➬ Author Guillaume Apollinaire – Since its publication in 1913 Alcools has acuired classic status as a major landmark not only in French poetry but in the wider contexts of modern European literatureAn indispensable text for an serio Since its publication in Alcools has acuired classic status as a major landmark not only in French poetry but in the wider contexts of modern European literatureAn indispensable text for an serious study of modernism it is richly rewarding in its own right it draw on traditions of folk song and literary Symbolism mingles lyrics of disarming simplicity with poems which are so boldly experimental that they can still challenge the modern reader and it looks forward to the discoveries of Surrealism and much else in subseuent writingAbove all however it records Apollinaire's own endless curiosity about life and his own intensely personal response to all its manifestationsThis edition features the full French text a comprehensive introduction including a biographical overview of Apollinaire and the work's context structure and imageryIn addition to the text commentary notes explain problematic phrases enlighten obscure references or stylistic points and gloss particular wordsThe text is edited and the notes written by Anthony Pilkington Fellow and Tutor in Modern Languages at Jesus College Oxford.

  • Paperback
  • 200 pages
  • Alcools
  • Guillaume Apollinaire
  • English
  • 03 April 2016
  • 9781853993732

About the Author: Guillaume Apollinaire

Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki known as Guillaume Apollinaire in French pronounced ɡijom apɔliˈnɛʁ was a French poet writer and art critic born in Italy to a Polish motherAmong the foremost poets of the early th century he is credited with coining the word surrealism and writing one of the earliest works described as surrealist the play Les Mamelles de Tirésias .