Louis Armand
Louis Armand Poems
Morning birds on telephone wires talking in secret
brain language. Another 4th of May. Grew old and then.
Last night, listening at words for intimation of.
(The avid crowd. The child-teacher, sunkeneyed,
...
Out of the sprawl slouching through the money jungle -
a sound like feet on stairways going up and
down never stops and love is a doleful saxophone
in a cubicle room. Some things are not the way
...
i got much more from some charts of the sea i obtained in copenhagen—from these i could measure the distances & for a judgment of heights
Jørn Utzon
1. concrete primal naked forms—
the anti-constructs of
...
fixed in mundane matter the prone body—
penumbral man—dissipates, the trace
of an utterly contingent "this" . . .
or dispossessed & devoured by space—
...
nuanced like afterthoughts
the delicate arrangement of the foreshore
in variegated shades
of complacency, other vagaries—
...
A roof and walls remind that taxes and rent make sense
mostly in colder climates. Gathering in the life-forces -
bottles, jars, cured meats. Prescriptions of ersatz.
Morning for morning, necessity creates junk, given up
...
Sick of being governed by what's withheld -
the machines were right, they taught us
to be stupid like them and not suffer. The rest
was easy, lulled by dreamless TV eyes -
...
Mouths full of smoke
in a tavern on Gottwald embankment.
The future, so said, isn't what it
used to be. The tribe seated in
...
(for Eddie Berrigan)
Continuities lie in wait, long after
you've closed the book.
To undergo once more but for the
...
To this brave new world how do you speak about
a question that primarily concerns you?
All told (as says Apollinaire) this obsolete
world makes you snore. A radio under the
...
(to John Forbes, et al.)
1. It begins and in spite of everything (sleeplessness,
fear of attack) is almost serene. Shooting speed
in a room behind the GPO, each letter
...
We play at degrees of being alive. Walking
along the Seine, past the Bibliothèque, a circus,
a wax museum. The ordinary is so freakish,
unsettling, impossible to ignore. Where to next?
...
1. The reasons were never clear - only that we
acted as we did, setting out as though by accident
across the open stage-space. It represented
the only distance we knew - one more new
...
Louis Armand Biography
Louis Armand, (born 1972, Sydney) is a writer, visual artist and critical theorist. He has lived in Prague since 1994. Armand’s work has been described as “Avant-garde […], best appreciated by readers prepared to abandon the baggage of identity-driven poetry and systematically naturalist prose." He has published eight novels, The Combinations (2016), Cairo (2014; longlisted for the Dublin IMPAC Award), and Breakfast at Midnight (2012; described by 3:AM's Richard Marshall as "a perfect modern noir"). In addition, he is the author of ten collections of poetry – most recently, East Broadway Rundown (2015) The Rube Goldberg Variations (2015), & Synopticon (with John Kinsella, 2012) – & of a number of volumes of criticism, including Videology (2015) & The Organ-Grinder’s Monkey: Culture after the Avantgarde (2013). His poetry has appeared in the anthologies Thirty Australian Poets, The Best Australian Poems, Calyx: 30 Contemporary Australian Poets & The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry. In 1997 he received the Max Harris prize for poetry at the Penola Festival (Adelaide) and in 2000 he was awarded the Nassau Review Prize (New York). His screenplay Clair Obscur won honourable mention at the 2009 Trieste Film Festival.< In 2004, Armand founded the Prague International Poetry Festival, and since 2009 has co-organised the Prague Microfestival. He is a member of the editorial board of Rhizomes: Studies in Cultural Knowledge and founding editor (1994) of the online journal HJS (Hypermedia Joyce Studies). He is the founding editor of VLAK Magazine, and directs the Centre for Critical & Cultural Theory at Charles University, Prague.)
The Best Poem Of Louis Armand
Boy With The Red Piano
Morning birds on telephone wires talking in secret
brain language. Another 4th of May. Grew old and then.
Last night, listening at words for intimation of.
(The avid crowd. The child-teacher, sunkeneyed,
making the obvious into riddles.) But now
isn't what it was. A green bottle with a contrary
message, washed up from destinations beyond
the vanishing point. Subtract one and add
two more. "Do we own our guilt?"
Out there where smoke rises from golem-depths,
time is the form and pressure of an art you're merely
witness to. Like the fingers of a deaf piano tuner,
you think. And the boy with the red piano
banging its keys with tiny fists; a locked door
with a key sticking out of it: left to your own
devices, will you discover what connects them?
The midday siren - Plečnik's giant pacemaker,
rattling and whirring. Crossing the park
someone waves. The muted now sound of a piano
from an open window - subject and countersubject -
as if: to take a stance, for or against, one thing
or another. The time of day, the inauspicious weather.
Or a habit that barely forms before everything else
depends on it.
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