Name: Marie B. Borel
Current city: Lisbon
Occupation: Traveller, poet, reader, photographer, and more or less translator
Age: Born somewhere in the 1950s in Northern Europe
What does poetry mean to you?
La pluie et beau temps tiennent une très grande place dans ma vie.
Interesting because I never thought about it
Because it means something to me
Brings me loin des jaloux des tourments et des ego lego
Because it’s easy to travel with
No true travel without a poem (with no poem)
I’m happy that you lied
May every drug I ever took
Apples and tears
Heartquakes and sun
Smiles and rocks
Cries and sighs
Philippe Jaccottet
Cid Corman
Pierre Alferi
and flowing free
sky wide
blue. &; hair
bliss. your
tracks made
me see trees.
As far as LOIN* goes
I try to call and quote a train of thoughts
a train to an island an orchard or a shore
to summon a cosmology in reverse
where suns bloom and shed a light
to teach and stitch and mend and learn
the topsy-turvy ways of the world
Photo by Marie Borel
Who is your favorite poet?
My favourite poet would be Tom Raworth
The first poet I remember crossing my life was Federico Garcia Lorca
They are both the two sides of the same hope
Or perception or a given thing or despair
Despair whatever they said was not a sin
They offered me a world
Poetry is a word poetry is the world
Et que serait un monde rien de moins qu’un poème
Parce que le poème dit ce qu’il dit
L’herbe pousse
Le poème dit
Ce qui est parfaitement intelligible et néanmoins inexplicable
Penser les mondes du ciel
Donner une logique à l’absurde
Faire d’une souffrance infinie un art infini
Why do you like this poet?
“bird no sing in cage,” as Tom Raworth used to say
He took pleasure in making a new form each time.
He was not an academic, read only what would catch his eyes (no study, no
critique), and had absolutely no interest in literary canons.
“One writes because one likes to read: and because one doesn’t like to read shit one
attempts not to write it. I assume work improves with both reading and writing; and
by reading your own writing with the same sharp eye, ear and intelligence as you
read anyone else’s”
he said.
There are no rules (though many would like it if there were) regarding the essential
beauty of art. A place for everything and everything in its place.
Words are images.
-
I ‘m joyful and charmed, feeling pleasure and delight to share my own voice in April,
as a trace and a tribute to the idea of the outside and the inside, the proper purpose
of the world of poetry. Emotional distance remains the thread of some thoughts of
ideas made visible. It echoes, and shakes, and hurts, and heals.
Extrait de LOIN * (Éditions de l’Attente, mai 2013) par Marie Borel
la pluie horizontalement griffe la vitre
de la très grande vitesse d’un train toulouse
cyprès dans les parages octobre du rhône
l’ombre d’un homme qui monte l’escalier tombe
emporté prisonnier du lac gelé
près des pommes de terre
en ce pays le vent est blanc ardoise et cendre
aux alizés des rires
dans les pages erronées de plages brouillées
naviguer enfouir l’énigme des belles histoires dans l’herbe
quel manque d’oiseau à la forêt des équinoxes
têtes de loup sous l’ombrelle les jets d’eau disent
un peu seulement
le non-jour non-espoir non-printemps non-présent
la petite ourse me guide en aveugle
le vent gratte à l’auvent de l’automne
et parapluie noir le vœu en toi de mers et de mutisme
il fallut dénigrer le ciel
paradis déconsidéré
solitude des couleurs vert pur gris chance gris chancelant
les orangers les vergers de ta nouvelle zemble
où gisent les gris joyeux du temps
il viendra battre de chaque moitié du monde
et du regard tu fends la courbure de la ligne de l’eau
retourne à des durées chaudes et sûres
effacées les enfances les amours
le tilleul le faucon le miel
le passereau détrempé la boussole
tu deviens dans les jours je voyage
nage comme une écharde sur le miroir
l’ile émeraude sans doute jusqu’où je veux dire vois-tu
sans préavis n’importe quelle rose
sur n’importe quel rosier
est-il un exil qui fasse la terre étrange
eau air terre feu inversés avec patience
sans le secours de l’habitude
les yeux ennuagés d’alcool tu oubliais les cerises
lorsque lui sont posées des questions sur ton passé
une petite flamme s’y allume tristement
perse regardant le feu comme un être céleste
(jupiter feu céleste vulcain feu terrestre)
chef du monde pur et fils du grand dieu ormazd
est-ce loin est-ce ainsi sans souvenir sans vent
sombres tropiques
sous le vaisseau-soleil
(il disait que le soleil est un vaisseau)
-
Excerpt from FARAWAY, Translated from French to English by Carrie Chappell
the horizontal rain claws at the window
of the very high speed toulouse-bound train
cypress surrounds october on the rhône
the shadow of a man climbing the stairs falls
taken prisoner by the frozen lake
near the potato fields
in this country the wind is white slate and ash
in the tradewinds of laughter
in the misguided pages of hazy beaches
sailing burying the enigma of beautiful stories in the grass
how birdless are the forests of equinoxes
wolf heads under the parasol the water stream says
but barely
the non-day non-hope non-spring non-present
the little dipper blinded steers me
the wind paws at autumn’s awning
and the black umbrella the wish inside you of seas and silence
we had to decry the sky
paradise discredited
the loneliness of green pure grey lucky grey wavering
the orange trees the orchards of your nova zembla
where nearby the joyful greys of time lie
bringing earth’s two halves into battle
and in a glance you split the curve of the water stream
turn back to lasting warmths and certainties
the childhoods the loves erased
the linden tree the falcon the honey
the drowned sparrow the compass
you become through the days i travel
swim like a splinter on the mirror
the emerald island without a doubt just where i want to say don't you see
without warning whichever rose
on whichever rose tree
is there an exile that would make the world strange
water air earth fire reversed with patience
without the help of habit
your eyes cloudy from alcohol you forgot the cherries
when asked questions about your past
a small flame sadly ignites
persian watching the fire like a heavenly being
(jupiter celestial fire vulcan earthly fire)
leader of the pure world and son of the great god ormazd
is it faraway is it hence without memory without wind
dark tropics
under the sun-ship
(he said the sun is a ship)