
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
About this book
The first full-length English translation of this celebrated French poet offers a penetrating and encompassing collection touching on death, domesticity, nature, language itself, andâalwaysâthe body.
French literary icon Marie-Claire Bancquart (1932â2019) is known for an uncanny inhabitation of the concrete, finding whole worlds, even afterlives, in daily instances and spaces. "If I could seize a little nothing / a bit of nothing, " she muses, "all things would come to me / those that dance / in its cloth." The tiniest moments can be acts of utterance, defiance, communion, and immortality. Yet death does indeed appear in the everyday, though it's more than a fact of existence. It is fiction as well, small cunning stories we create so we're not merely waiting for it: "one sets / close by / the pot of orange flowers / the here and now / to block the view."
Here, the infinitesimal has no end; the smaller life gets, the deeper and more carefully Bancquart has us pause to notice its offerings. Though for her "the body" is the surest, most trustworthy way of knowing, the mystery of language is often referenced, and reverenced. And translator Jody Gladding, an award-winning poet herself, beautifully carries forward Bancquart's lifetime of distinctive work. Every Minute Is First is lean, lucid yet philosophical poetry, reflecting visceral life and experiential thought, walking in the dark with a light, lighting wordsâor alighting on themâin their own incandescent power to make the long-lived journey meaningful.
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Information
Table of contents
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- 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, itâs 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 oâclock in the morning, without you
- Replanting the hellebore
- I desire you in our time
- Worried about
- Twenty or thirty centuries ago
- Itâs sad
- Scent of linden trees
- At dayâs end things join up
- Under the curses of birds
- âWhat 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 Iâm 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
- That trembling
- Iâm 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
- Donât 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 donât want
- Against my cheek
- âSee you shortly, in the unknownâ
- To the heights of incandescence
- When do you want to divorce yourself?
- When I think of you, I transform into tree-lined paths
- I donât 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
- âAnd nevertheless I pressed against your face my own
- Youâve got a run in your peritoneum
- Sitting in the park
- Collect a seed
- Weâre always holding the end of the world, no matter where
- A very ripe apricot gets smashed
- Pain: explosion, spasms
- What did you do, if not
- Iâm writing a letter to I donât know whom
- In my body thereâs
- Holes in the bark
- Every morning I form
- Donât wake me sleeper
- Small noise, rain
- Following the edge of an island
- ⌠But so far off, so unrealized, the peace Iâm seeking!
- New world?
- End-of-life accompanist
- Itâs possible/impossible
- With your chagrin, you meant to stay alone
- Itâs 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 doesnât have a name
- How I searched for you, life
- Why this feeling of exile
- A very large white pigeon
- These are my âSorrowsâ Iâm 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
- About the Author