By Guillaume Apollinaire
En 1913, Apollinaire publie Alcools, son optimal recueil. qui rassemble quinze ans de poésie. S'il est alors influencé par un symbolisme sur le déclin, il s'en démarque par d'audacieuses options : l. a. ponctuation disparaît et des innovations récentes, comme l'avion ou l'automobile, font leur entrée en poésie. Mais Alcools est aussi une oeuvre contrastée, où l. a. journey Eiffel et le pont Mirabeau côtoient des champs de colchiques et des forêts légendaires, où l'agitation du progrès se mêle aux motifs consacrés de l'amour perdu et du temps qui passe. Tantôt clairs comme le son des cloches rhénanes, tantôt sombres comme les geôles de l. a. criminal de los angeles Santé, ces poèmes ouvrent l. a. voie à un nouveau lyrisme. Partagés entre culture et modernité, ils reflètent l. a. créativité bouillonnante d'une époque sur le aspect de basculer dans le chaos de l. a. Grande Guerre.
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Well, now,” said Dr. ” “it’s my leg,” I said. I saw the lady writing on the clipboard. she wrote LEG. ” asked the Dr. “it hurts,” I said. PAIN wrote the lady. then she saw me looking at the clipboard and turned away. ” the Dr. asked. “they didn’t give me a form,” I said. ” Florence pulled a form out from her clipboard, handed it to me. “fill that out,” said Dr. ” then they were gone and I worked at the form. it was the usual: name, address, phone, employer, relatives, etc. there was also a long list of questions.
It wasn’t a bad life. it was certainly more interesting than what most men were doing. at one time he was probably the most famous writer in the world. many tried to write like he did drink like he did act like he did but he was the original. then life began to catch up with him. he began to age quickly. his large bulk began to wither. he was growing old before his time. finally it got to where he couldn’t write anymore, “it just wouldn’t come” and the psychiatrists couldn’t do anything for him but only made it worse.
Coffee, waiting for the grass to dismiss the frost… they tell you nothing at all. we have everything and we have nothing— days with glass edges and the impossible stink of river moss—worse than shit; checkerboard days of moves and countermoves, fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as in victory; slow days like mules humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed up a road where a madman sits waiting among blue jays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey gray. good days too of wine and shouting, fights in alleys, fat legs of women striving around your bowels buried in moans, the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves that robbed you.