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Young Writers Society


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While you ponder this, enjoy a poem:


Voice of Robert Desnos, The (1927)
by Robert Desnos

So like a flower and a current of air

the flow of water fleeting shadows

the smile glimpsed at midnight this excellent evening

so like every joy and every sadness

it is the midnight past lifting its naked body above belfries and poplars

I call to me those lost in the fields

old skeletons young oaks cut down

scraps of cloth rotting on the ground and linen drying in farm country

I call tornadoes and hurricanes

storms typhoons cyclones

tidal waves

earthquakes

I call the smoke of volcanoes and the smoke of cigarettes

the rings of smoke from expensive cigars

I call lovers and loved ones

I call the living and the dead

I call gravediggers I call assassins

I call hangmen pilots bricklayers architects

assassins

I call the flesh

I call the one I love

I call the one I love

I call the one I love

the jubilant midnight unfolds its satin wings and perches on my bed

the belfries and the poplars bend to my wish

the former collapse the latter bow down

those lost in the fields are found in finding me

the old skeletons are revived by my voice

the young oaks cut down are covered with foliage

the scraps of cloth rotting on the ground and in the earth

snap to at the sound of my voice like a flag of rebellion

the linen drying in farm country clothes adorable women

whom I do not adore

who come to me

obeying my voice, adoring

tornadoes revolve in my mouth

hurricanes if it is possible redden my lips

storms roar at my feet

typhoons if it is possible ruffle me

I get drunken kisses from the cyclones

the tidal waves come to die at my feet

the earthquakes do not shake me but fade completely

at my command

the smoke of volcanoes clothes me with its vapors

and the smoke of cigarettes perfumes me

and the rings of cigar smoke crown me

loves and love so long hunted find refuge in me

lovers listen to my voice

the living and the dead yield to me and salute me

the former coldly the latter warmly

the gravediggers abandon the hardly-dug graves

and declare that I alone may command their nightly work

the assassins greet me

the hangmen invoke the revolution

invoke my voice

invoke my name

the pilots are guided by my eyes

the bricklayers are dizzied listening to me

the architects leave for the desert

the assassins bless me

flesh trembles when I call



the one I love is not listening

the one I love does not hear

the one I love does not answer.


If a story is in you, it has to come out.
— William Faulkner