Básně G[uillaumea] Apollinairea: Vybrané z knih: Hnijící kouzelník, Alkoholy, Kalligramy. Front Cover. Guillaume Apollinaire. F. Muzika, – 68 pages. 8vo ( x mm.), copy number 13 of a limited edition of 99 copies, signed by the translator on the flyleaf and beneath the limitation. Apollinaire’s own words, quoted in Guillaume Apollinaire, Alkoholy života, ed. Adolf Kroupa and Milan Kundera, Prague: Československý spisovatel, , .
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Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Preview — Alcools by Guillaume Apollinaire. Alcools by Guillaume Apollinaire. Alcools, first published in and one of the few indispensable books of twentieth- century poetry, provides a key to the century’s history and consciousness.
Champion alkohopy “cubism,” Guillaume Apollinaire fashions in verse the apollinnaire equivalent of what Picasso accomplishes in his cubist works: Apollinaire has been so influential that without him th Alcools, first published in and one of the few indispensable apollinare of twentieth- century poetry, provides a key to the century’s history and consciousness.
Apollinaire has been so influential that without him there would have been no New York School of poetry and no Beat Movement.
This new translation reveals his complex, beautiful, and wholly contemporary poetry. Printed with the original French on facing pages, this is the only version of this seminal work of French Modernism currently available in the United States.
Paperbackpages. Published August 25th by Wesleyan first published To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Alcoolsplease sign up. Lists with This Book.
Feb 01, Mariel rated it it was amazing Recommends it alkkholy I’ve lived like a fool and I’ve wasted my time Alkoholt dare not look at your hands I want to weep all the time Zone Everyone is old but you.
They were here first and are still here in their stale after life. But here on this new street they are young and you are aljoholy young. Their bed time piety, your staying up late to old, Jesus is the walking away beauty of parents pedestal. He’s the cool older girl with the who you want to be.
Pray into everybody’s age. Out of their mouths the breath to ascend. Me I’ve lived like a fool and I’ve wasted my time You dare not look at your hands I want to weep all the time Zone Everyone is old but you. Mechanical flight plans court the birds. Time forgets the fish in the lower. Automobile biographies, concrete wombs hide the sky. I wanted to watch the rosebug apart of the rose’s heart too. I know the shame and the paollinaire in big picture too big for me.
Real life, the kind inside calendars and the history book kind. The face of crocodiles history and the rosebug history. I feel ashamed in both kinds but the second kind is when I feel like real life is real even if I don’t feel real. My pity aches along the seams of her belly I humble my mouth to her grotesque laughter It’s always like that. On one alkohkly that’s not for the devil but just for them. You’re not in Australia where the water flows backwards. The river under Mirabeau Bridge is gone, is night.
Others will appollinaire and go. You’re night inside day. This would be great sung to a Johnny Marr guitar riff. I loved the “and expectation always violent”. I void my heart and apollinare Into barrels of Hades I shit the entire sky I’d rather be happy I’d alkohoy be a child Reply of the Zaporogian Cossacks to the Sultan of Constantinople Horny animal flesh natural.
Whore sweat and cheap. He’s still waiting for her. I have read different translations than Donald Revell’s. Apollinaure guess there are debates on best versions blah blah blah. But ‘misery doubles destiny’ is freaking great. Sometimes someone else would have turned a better phrase but it’s all on phases of fire of Apollinaire.
Guillaume apollinaire alkoholy — Поиск по картинкам — [RED]
I can’t read french either. I don’t believe in you misery and I will wait akloholy your empty kingdom. So I don’t take the love poems on my shoulder for angels in the same way as I do other Apollinaire poems.
It’s a wound infestation. So it worked for me like that. The ground is poisonous but pretty in autumn Saffron Cow eyes slow eyes mute mouth apollniaire eating seeing mouth eyes. The Saffrons are underfoot and heart mouth eyes in bellies they eat saffrons. The color of eyes of mothers and daughters loved who were not loved back like the yellow purple irises don’t see you back. I still love saffrons.
They don’t have to love me back.
Alkoholy (sbírka) – Wikipedie
apolllnaire But it’s a haunting, that cow grind in what isn’t for them. My barefoot brain inclined for the evening Like a naked king the walls are waking Beaten flesh and fresh-cut roses Palace Bellies are deaf and dreams blinded by the false sun prophets.
King’s hardened lap holds a apollinnaire face echoing better dreams of the Orient. Apollinaire’s imagery is a brain meat. I love that when your thoughts are the you are what you eat can’t save yourself. I’m going back to a lot what you made happen like that paranoia ladder to hell and what is the environment nudging the odds.
I’m finding cases for both sides in these poems.
The love poems that don’t want to remember how to give love’s empty arms another name. But the homesickness when your brain is simmering an else. I love Apollinaire’s humor. His tongue is in mouth and butt cheeks. It’s that curious sense of apolllinaire that doesn’t chase the ghosts in the eye windows. That’s my favorite kind. I’m good with that kind.
It leaves a space for the homesickness. The alkohloy accosted me With otherworldly looks Until their faces Became undismal Earth and sky losing Their fantastic look The house of the Dead Apolliaire memory. If everyone who has died stood up at one time. Aloholy themselves, ghost themselves. Whenever a bell rings another corpse gets their earth flight. The living make friends with corpses and apillinaire must remember friendships echo.
If they died they only have to wait. Nothing is so ennobling As having loved dead men and women You become so pure that you attain Universal Glaciers of memory You are strong enough to live You need no one The dead cannot remember them but the living can remember the aollinaire.
What if they weren’t afraid of death, if they were afraid, going to these friends. This way the death and the life must be much the same. Loving is a memory. It’s sad, though, like scrying for an answer to a headstone or Alzheimer’s patients or a child who doesn’t know what you’re talking about when you tell them about something you shared when they were much younger.
If they are beyond and so above it all will you care about what you cared about less. Then when they leave you you’ve only got silent shells. I love the risk in following the living brain wants. The sun is ended and your hiding place is an incurable appetite. Maybe the apolliaire is a door that only opens some of the time. It’s like a magical world in a novel.
The way back that worked one time is a stranger now.
You could feel like shit about it and it still won’t budge. The future is a looming sky painting kind of door. It’s just a picture unless you look at it in the right way or right time. If they knew you they would be with you a little.