Joseph Guglielmi

Joseph Guglielmi was born in 1929 in Marseille. Among his many books of poetry are Aube (Paris: Seuil, 1968), Pour commencer (Paris: Action poétique, 1975), Le Jour pas le rêve (Paris: Orange Export, Ltd., 1977), Du blanc le jour son espace (Nîmes: Editions Terriers, 1979), La Préparation des titres (Paris: Flammarion, 1980), Fins de vers (Paris: P.O.L., 1986), Das, la mort (Marseille: Parenthèses, 1986), Le Mouvement de la mort (P.O.L., 1988), Poésie, poésie (Paris: Jean-Luc Poivret, 1990), Joe's Bunker, suivi de L'Eté (P.O.L., 1991), and K ou Le Dit du passage (P.O.L., 1992). He has written two works of criticism: Le Dégagement multiple (Paris: Le Collet de buffle, 1977) and La Ressemblance impossible: Edmond Jabès (Paris: Editeurs français réunis, 1978).

Selected Publications in English:

Ends of Lines , extract. Translated by Michael Palmer and Norma Cole. o·blek^[*] 5 (Spring 1989): 131–36.

Le Mouvement de la mort , extracts. Translated by Norma Cole. In Violence of the White Page: Contemporary French Poetry , edited by Stacy Doris, Phillip Foss, and Emmanuel Hocquard. Special issue of Tyuonyi , no. 9/10 (1991): 103–6.

"Passing." Translated by Serge Gavronsky. Shearsman , n.s., 6 (1992): 7–9.

"Passing" and extract from "Joe's Bunker." Translated by Serge Gavronsky. Hot Bird MFG 2, no. 6 (1993).

Serge Gavronsky: I've always been struck by the energy that arises from your work, which is rather rare in contemporary French poetry. Were I to generalize, I might even say that you are a unique phenomenon in French poetry since, judging from the texts of yours that I've read and the opportunities I've had to hear you read in public, the nature of your voice sustains the decision in your poetry to exist as an electrifying experience.

Joseph Guglielmi: That compliment, my friend, goes right to my heart! I don't think energy is the result of a particular decision; it's rather like an electric current that either passes through or doesn't. But I would still have to say that language itself, in its natural state, already contains an energy charge. Between words, in order for them to make sense, in order for meaning to occur, there must be some sort of energy; without it, there's no poetry, there's no language.

SG: As you know, since you're a reader of American poetry, at least in a certain kind of American poetry the oral aspect is preponderant. There is a "performance" factor, an insistence on the polish of the delivery, a concern for public reception of works read out loud to an audience. I believe this sort of practice carries over into the content of the work itself since, consciously or unconsciously, the poet begins to "hear" his or her poetry, an experience which then, at least in part, dictates the nature of his or her poetry and constitutes a sort of updated Whitmanesque poetics, as opposed to both a Wallace Stevens strand and what is referred to as "academic" poetry in the U.S. This emphasis on the projected voice, on orality, as typified by the Beats, seems to me to have pushed écriture into the background. Would you talk about the place of that vocal quality in your work?

JG: At least two stages have got to be taken into account in answering your question. The first one is the writing, and perhaps in that first stage there is already a foreshadowing of orality. For example, in my Fins de vers , I tried to write using an eight-foot line, a rhythmic eightfooter, not rhymed, of course! And when I read it out loud I try to discover this rhythm in the writing, and I find it and at the same time transform it, increasing its tension so as to underline the scansion.

When I scan the lines, I try to give them maximum energy (as you've noted), an expressive energy. I'm not adding meaning but expression, to make the reading more "brawny"! That way, the line communicates to the listener through a tension, a scansion.

SG: In La Préparation des titres , it's clear you like to insert lines from foreign languages, especially English, into your French poem. What does their presence correspond to? Even readers who do not understand a foreign language must, I imagine, be struck by this insertion, and for those who do understand, it is an added semantic and phonic attraction. Could you talk about the way these insertions function in your writing?

JG: If I might answer in two ways, the first would simply be that I like doing it, that it's fun! But in a more serious vein, let me add that, as you know, I've been translating American poets such as Larry Eigner, Rosmarie Waldrop, Clark Coolidge, and at this moment, an American poet living in Paris, Joseph Simas. This linguistic activity, that is, translation, gives me a great deal of pleasure, even if at times it makes me sweat! To answer your question then, sometimes I simply use these languages—I was about to say that I stuff them, but I'll say I place them in my work, I use them to articulate my texts. Sometimes when I put an American line in my poem it adds an even greater element of energy, because English, for me, is a very musical language. All you have to do is listen to a blues singer, or even a Shakespearean actor . . . There's a special musical quality that really touches me, and I try to pepper my own verse with it a bit, for a little more energy, power.

SG: When you translate American poets, to say nothing of your translations from the Italian, do you feel a difference, one that's only noticeable to the translator, a difference between the nature of the English language and the presence of the French—that is, when you go from English to French, do you feel a loss, an enrichment, a displacement?

JG: When I go from English to French I often feel a loss. First of all, as I've just said, there's a loss of musicality and also a loss on the level

of expression. There's a relief in English writing, a force, an energy (to use the word again) that is often lost in French, although something else may be gained. But that musicality is lost, and I would say the same thing for Italian. I once attended a meeting of poets at the Pompidou Center—there was a Russian poet, an American, and many French poets. But let me tell you, I was really struck by how flat French sounded beside the Russian and American readings! I'm certainly not asking for a bel canto , but there wasn't that song, that sort of folly that those other languages convey. Unfortunately, French has a rather flat musical line. It's a flat language. You know, in the south of France, when you talk like a northerner, like a Parisian, they say you're talking "sharply," "pointedly." And I certainly don't have that accent! [Guglielmi has a strong southern accent.]

SG: I agree with what you're saying, though I know poets in Paris who are quite happy with this restriction that the French language imposes on their work and who, as a consequence, concern themselves with problems of écriture rather than the breath line in poetry. The type of reading you mentioned, at times a bit flamboyant, is rarely found among Paris poets, although a certain fellow by the name of Artaud clearly wanted to break with that tradition!

JG: Not to be unjust, I should point out that work on language is also very important for me. Like you, I too have been very interested in both Francis Ponge and Edmond Jabès. This questioning of language by language itself (if I might simplify a bit) is really the essence of poetry. Alongside that, I do raise the problem of public diction, which is a specific problem and one that characterizes my own work, but for all that, I certainly don't neglect the work on language, which is the poet's work as found in Jacques Roubaud, Claude Royet-Journoud, Anne-Marie Albiach, Jean Daive, and others. These are people who are interested in all the problems of diction, including public readings. Perhaps they don't ask the same questions I do, but they do, quite insistently, ask similar ones.

SG: You've just alluded to Jabès, and I know that you've written about him . . .

JG: A whole book, even!

SG: Right, sorry! With Jabès, who is a poet—that is, he wrote poems during his early years in Cairo—there is something that has always struck me as an apparent paradox; namely, he seems to be a materialist metaphysician, someone who asks questions about Judaism, about Being, Exile, and the Desert, all the while insisting, with equal conviction, on the lives lived by ordinary human beings in their own milieus. As a consequence, his language is at once "philosophic" and current, a spoken language that one might easily associate with prose. He's marvelously able to synchronize these levels of language, which indicate to the reader separate and apparently distinct preoccupations. But when I think of some of the poets we know, I do not see a similar complexity of intention, and when the question of Being is raised, it seems to be too psychoanalytically motivated, that is, too autobiographical—even, and perhaps especially, when it is defined in a post-Mallarméan enterprise. Are you yourself touched by some of these themes, by some of these translations of themes into a working poetic language?

JG: All these questions are of special interest to me, and at this moment I'm preparing a paper on Jabès that I'll be giving at the Cerisy "Décade" in his honor this summer (1987).^[*] But I think what touches me most in Jabès is his subversiveness. He speaks about Judaism, but—and isn't that one of the traits of Judaism, that is, to be subversive?—he exercises an option in interpreting important Jewish texts, interpreting them rather freely, and . . . isn't it always the same thing—if you're an asshole, you'll come away with an asshole interpretation! If not, then not. I find that Jabès has given the question of Judaism an absolutely subversive interpretation, and I'm certainly not the only one to have said this. Didn't he title one of his recent books Subver -

[*] The "Colloque de Cerisy-La-Salle" in 1987 honored at its traditional ten-day conference the Egyptian-born French poet and writer Edmond Jabès (1912–91). See Joseph Guglielmi, "Le Journal de lecture d'Edmond Jabès," in Ecrire le livre: Autour d'Edmond Jabès (Seyssel: Champ Vallon, 1989). Guglielmi had previously written the afterword to the second edition of Edmond Jabès, Je bâtis ma demeure (Paris: Gallimard, 1975), 325–33.

sion above Suspicion ?^[*] And so, with Judaism as his starting point, Jabès questions écriture, politics, ethics, aesthetics. I think he confronts nearly all the great questions that exist and, though they will never be resolved, remain fundamental.

[*] Edmond Jabès, Le Petit Livre de la subversion hors de soupçon (Paris: Gallimard, 1982).

Joe's Bunker

My own bunker is you
because poetry isn't
a bunker, but for some
poetry is a bunker,
For me  a godsent spring^[*
] and joyous omens, sic
of musical  translations
oblivions for legs and feet.
Or private public recourse
suborning the music so
music private public
Almond paste shaped like moons
of tradition the muddy flow,
dreamy dreamer, running grey
is deathless or immortal
reading black space motions of ghosts

[*] Italics indicate words written in a language other than French in the original poem.

the moon over the bunker
like a hat over a heart

And dialogue with monsters,
sirens who hide
in the black black of the sea sea.
In the incessant myth-ocean
its level graft of moon
versified in French for his
pains; catalog cut out
an adieu, mental punctuation
like, like YOGADRISHTI
Yoga power of vision.
The earth beauteous belle, clear
Beauty clear and fair the air
Bunker makeup of your mouth
Hand playing with spare scorpions,
impaled by a million lives.
And the white lollipop stick,
of the rotting, stupid moon
Fish rotting head to tail,
shit-debris of the mind,
A nice day in the universe
scrutinized naked in the mirror ,
mirror of angels' dust
The cavalcade, fragment of a word
or metaphysical moon
On that thing of an airport
between thighs and a bud
its vernacular clarity
Moon like cream in my coffee,
moon bunker of space
Abandoned full moon
post the worthless line
on the facade of old summer
Scheming
         the company

Bunker,  Seven Songs of Hell
bloated belly and naily hands,
Screaming rain with mutts,
thrown into mealy mouths,
Iron river under trees,
hands, vein music
press the blood upward
Blush at moments of love
or pick up an old poem
With breasts in the shape of a
cross, cut the lines
shorter
to attract
        attention!

Pilot the flesh further
Injustice for Eliot
Quis hic locus, quae regio ,
what tongue tonguing the
prey
    and what image returns ?
Those who exhaust the line,
their pigsty comfort
in the style of contentment!
Establishment  of death,
the heart, the body, the eye.
What a picture, the punster,
awake, half-open lips.
To live for the inexpressible!
The bodies you can touch
in the bunker of the flesh
Real words in your body
already asleep, you are alone
near the sea of Albisola
or any sea!
So recently churned over.
The island
    Pentacle trembling
Its body, an enormous octopus
with its humid breasts . . .
Breasts, milkwood,
The sign Mahamudra,
bunker lips
            in the center
flatter their color circle
After a smoked rose
or a belly liquor drunk
The frog leaping out of void .

How
         to hold the poem,
typecase where the mind
and sleep join till black?
Bright night. A strip
of flesh, the city reflected,
and forms erected in fear
Everything holds on the flat sky
in a Reverdy figure
that flames made bleed
the bunker of the hollow moon,
grating metal on the horizon.
An enamel cascade
and cold through its handsome body
Continue to seek out
karma isn't a bunker
Or energy  escapes us,
universal difficult !
Too body, body, body !
Our will the instru
ment of a struggle against the
book-bunker or mother's milk!
Take the one Under Milk Wood
drinking all the earth's alcohol
yelling out his kisses in verse
some of them long  but are so
rhythmical leaping and dancing
between the stars and the chimneys
Spawn of the living art and mind
Sharp moments of the language
unlocking the secret, piercing
the night
          black torch in sunrise ,

When poets are in bed
soft and white in their skins
enjoying the sun in bed
rhythms leaping and dancing
between star and chimney
Tulips also
        moments
sharpened moments of language
to free the secret,
Black torches at the dawn
of verse horizon of meaning,
displacement of the map
a couple of letters with sla
shes of anterior lives,
A lightness next to writing
a tongue loosened,
Tongue in pidgin italian
or the autopsy of chance
Gusto della tua saliva
con il fuoco sulla bocca
Scan those plaintive sounds
il lamento fra i cocci .
And that maritime town
so long ago out of you
man of invisible nights
colors having passed
All his wrongs and his reasons:
Solo nella stanza vuota ,
hollow and which spoke to the dead.
There would be a final book,
metonymic light
its
   prosaic reservoir
brilliant with a muted luna ,

tiny lux  and the ball
with an encaustic sky
and
    train noise  in firmament

Joe's Bunker

Mon bunker à moi c'est toi
car la poésie n'est pas
un bunker, mais pour certains
poésie est un bunker,
For me un printemps d'aubaines
et joyeux augures, sic
de traductions musical
oblivions for legs and feet.
Or private public recourse
suborning the music so
musique privée publique
Amandes en pâte de lune
de tradition le flot boueux,
rêveur, rêvasseur, running grey
is deathless or immortal
reading black space motions of ghosts

la lune sur le bunker
comme un chapeau sur un coeur^[*]

Et dialogue avec les monstres,
les sirènes qui se cachent
au noir noir de la mer mer.
Dans l'incessant mythe-océan
son niveau enté de lune
mis en vers français pour sa
peine; catalogue creusa
l'adieu, mental ponctuation
comme, comme YOGADRISHTI
Pouvoir yoga de la vision.
La terre belle beauté, clear
Beauty clear and fair the air
Bunker de ton fard de bouche
Main joueuse de scorpions secs,
empalés d'un million de vies.
Et le bâton blanc de sucette
de lune stupide, pourrie
Le poisson de la tête-bêche,
le débris-merde de l'esprit,
A nice day in the universe
à nu scruté dans le mirror,
miroir poussière des anges
La cavale, un fragment de mot
ou lune métaphysique
Sur le truc aéroport
entre les cuisses et le bud
sa clarté vernaculaire
Lune comme un café crème,
lune bunker de l'espace
Abandon de lune pleine
afficher le vers indigne
au fronton du vieil été
Machiner
         la compagnie

Bunker,  Sept Chants de l'Enfer
ventre large et mains onglées,
Pluie hurlant avec les clebs,
jetés dans les bouches bouchues,
Un fleuve de fer sous les arbres,
les mains, musique des veines
presser le sang vers le haut
Rougir aux moments d'amour
ou reprendre un ancien poème
Vec les seins en forme de
croix, couper les vers
plus courts
pour attirer
        l'attention!

Piloter la chair plus loin
Injustice for Eliot
Quis hic locus, quae regio,
quelle langue léchant la
proie
    and what image returns?
Ceux qui épuisent le vers,
leur porcherie de bien-être
in the style of contentment!
Establishment de la mort,
le coeur^[*]  le corps, le regard.
Quelle image, le faiseur,
l'éveil, lèvres entrouvertes.
Vivre pour l'inexprimé!
Les corps que tu peux toucher
dans le bunker de la chair
Les mots réels dans ton corps
dorment déjà, tu es seul
près de la mer l'Albisola
ou n'importe quelle mer!
Tout fraîchement retournée.
L'île
    Pentacle tremblant
Son corps, une énorme pieuvre
avec ses gorges humides . . .
Une gorge, bois de lait,
Le signe Mahamudra,
bunker des lèvres
            au centre
flatter leur cercle couleur
Après une rose fumée
soit liqueur du ventre bu
The frog leaping out of void.

Comment
         tenir le poème,
casseau où joindre l'esprit
et le sommeil jusqu'au noir?
La nuit qui brille. Une lame
de chair, la ville reflet,
et formes dressées dans la peur
Tout se tient sur le ciel plat
à figure Reverdy
que la flamme faisait saigner
le bunker de la lune vide,
métal qui grince à l'horizon.
Une cascade d'enamel
and cold through its handsome body
Continuer à chercher
le karma c'est pas a bunker
Ou l'energy nous échappe,
universelle difficult!
Trop body, body, body!
Notre volonté instru
ment de lutte contre le
livre-bunker ou loloche!
Prenez celui Under Milk Wood
buvant tout l'alcool de la terre
criant ses baisers en vers
plus ou moins longs but are so
rhythmical leaping and dancing
between the stars and the chimneys
Spawn of the living art and mind
Sharp moments of the language
unlocking the secret, piercing
the night
        black torch in sunrise,

Quand les poètes sont au lit
douillets et blancs dans leur peau
jouir du soleil au lit
rythmes sautés et dansés
entre étoile et cheminée
Tulipes aussi
        moments
moments aiguisés du langage
pour débloquer le secret,
Noires torches à l'aurore
du vers horizon du sens,
déplacement de la carte
quelques lettres avec jam
bages de vies antérieures,
Légers à côté d'écrire
d'une langue déliée,
Tongue in pidgin italian
or l'autopsie du hasard
Gusto della tua saliva
con il fuoco sulla bocca
Scander ces sons à la plainte
il lamento fra i cocci.
Et la ville maritime
si longtemps sortie de toi
homme des nuits invisibles
des couleurs ainsi passées
Tous ses torts et ses raisons:
Solo nella stanza vuota,
vide et qui parlait aux morts.
Il y aurait un dernier livre,
lumière métonymique
son
    réservoir prosaïque
brillant de muette luna ,

petite lux  et la boule
avec le ciel encaustique
et
    bruit de train  in firmament