Marie-Claire Bancquart

Every Minute Is First

Poems
Übersetzer: Gladding, Jody

• Broschiertes Buch

Produktbeschreibung

"The first full-length English translation of this celebrated French writer of the twentieth century, a penetrating and encompassing collection of her last works touching on death, domesticity, nature, language itself, and-always-the body"--

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Produktdetails

• Verlag: Milkweed Editions
• Seitenzahl: 128
• Erscheinungstermin: 23. Mai 2024
• Englisch
• Abmessung: 215mm x 141mm x 11mm
• Gewicht: 194g
• ISBN-13: 9781639550906
• ISBN-10: 1639550909
• Artikelnr.: 68364770

Autorenporträt

Marie-Claire Bancquart (1932–2019) is the author of Every Minute Is First and more than thirty other collections of poetry and several novels. In her lifetime she was the recipient of numerous prizes, including the Prix Supervielle, the Prix Max Jacob, and the Prix Robert Ganzo. Bancquart was also president of the French arts council La Maison de la Poésie and a professor emerita of the Université Paris-Sorbonne, where she taught French literature until her retirement in 1994. She lived in Paris for most of her life with her husband, Alain Bancquart, a musician and composer. Jody Gladding is a poet and translator with five books of poems and forty translations from French by authors such as Roland Barthes, Jean Giono, Julia Kristeva, and Pierre Michon. She has published three previous books with Milkweed Editions, including her own poetry in the books Rooms and Their Airs and Translations from Bark Beetle as well as a translation of Geneviève Damas’s novel If You Cross the River, which was a finalist for the PEN Translation Prize. She has won the Whiting Award, Yale Younger Poets Award, and numerous others for her poetry and was a finalist for the 2004 French-American Foundation Translation Prize with Jean Giono’s The Serpent of Stars. Gladding has taught in the MFA in Writing Program at Vermont College of Fine Arts and has lived in France for extended periods over the last twenty-five years. Her most recent poetry collection is I entered without words. She lives and works in East Calais, Vermont.

Inhaltsangabe

Preface
Other
In
On the Brink of Life
Yes, the Interval
Earth
Out of Scale
Forward
Falters, Wears Out
Grass Between the Lips
Alone
This Dark Tree
Red-Hot
In the woods leaves
If we speak in fables, it’s just
After having followed the formidable path, I will be
I hang my life
What is this face
What drives you
Black the water
The throat awakens full of dirt
When evening comes
Cut the round loaf, villager
Hearing
September, eleven o’clock in the morning, without you
Replanting the hellebore
I desire you in our time
Worried about
Twenty or thirty centuries ago
It’s sad
Scent of linden trees
At day’s end things join up
Under the curses of birds
—What did you say? Lost empires
Writing
Little breaths, the moments of our lives
Our presence
Our lungs breathe
The decorum of words
The patient in the recovery room
The poor stone I’m holding
Very dark matter
At that time, to represent an absurdity or strong emotion
Yes, heavy, the blood
The mirror retains
Into my spinal column
To be traversed
Tremble
As for me, I inhabited a large bird
How many trees in the course of this journey XXX
That trembling
I’m endlessly obsessed with one desire
Briefly
Each thing according to
On window panes, curtains, books, camp the invisible
 . . . At the border of the inexorable
No, I will not swallow
If I could seize a little nothing
Yes, I sank
I came back to life. Oh, monorail world, transport me
Don’t descend
There are bruised words
Strange, the objects in certain categories
You know what it means
Can we
Inhale the strong odor of the streets
We don’t want
Against my cheek
“See you shortly, in the unknown”
To the heights of incandescence
When do you want to divorce yourself
When I think of you, I transform into tree-lined paths
I don’t believe in heaven
To approach a word
Every minute is first, when the garden
As though
Return the love of the least things
For the music of stones
—And nevertheless I pressed against your face my own  
You’ve got a run in your peritoneum
Sitting in the park
Collect a seed
We’re always holding the end of the world, no matter where
A very ripe apricot gets smashed
Pain: explosion, spasms
What have you done, if not
I’m writing a letter to I don’t know whom
In my body there’s
Holes in the bark
Every morning I form
Don’t wake me sleeper
Small noise, rain
Following the edge of an island
. . . But so far off, so unrealized, the peace I’m seeking
New world
End-of-life accompanist
It’s possible/impossible
With your chagrin, you meant to stay alone
It’s as if there were an earth above
. . . But what if it were absurd, our turmoil
Sick
Then a scene imposes itself upon you, impossibly banal: a man
She doesn’t have a name
How I searched for you, life
Why this feeling of exile
A very large white pigeon
These are my “Sorrows” I’m writing
So soft, the gray of the sky sometimes occupied by white
Nevertheless love
As if the earth
In a little while, I will no longer be, you will no longer be
Notes