poet Yves Bonnefoy

Yves Bonnefoy

Yves Bonnefoy
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  • Fabrizio Frosini (5/15/2018 10:03:00 AM)

    Yves Jean Bonnefoy, poet and essayist, born 24 June 1923; died 1 July 2016.

    “I would like to bring together, almost identify, poetry and hope.” Poet, essayist, art and literary critic, translator and editor, Yves Bonnefoy sought throughout to make clear the ground on which this hopefulness was to be built.

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  • Fabrizio Frosini (5/15/2018 10:02:00 AM)

    Bonnefoy spent his career contesting the way that we tend to replace the reality of things and other people with an image or concept, which deprives us of a more direct and immediate experience he called the experience of “presence”, in which one has a fleeting apprehension of the essential oneness of all being. Supreme poet of the earth, Bonnefoy sought to bring a world smothered by abstraction back to life:

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  • Fabrizio Frosini (5/15/2018 10:01:00 AM)

    God who are not, put your hand on our shoulder,
    Rough-cast our body with the weight of your return,
    Finish blending our souls with these stars,
    These woods, these bird cries, these shadows and these days.
    Give yourself up in us the way fruit tears apart,
    Have us disappear in you. Reveal to us
    The mysterious meaning in what is merely simple
    And would have fallen without fire in words without love.

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  • Fabrizio Frosini (5/15/2018 10:00:00 AM)

    Bonnefoy was elected to the Collège de France in 1981, the first poet since Paul Valéry. Often spoken of as a potential Nobel prizewinner, he received many literary awards, doctorates and other honours.

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Best Poem of Yves Bonnefoy

The house where I was born (04)

Another time.
It was still night. Water slid
Silently on the black ground,
And I knew that my only task would be
To remember, and I laughed,
I bent down, I took from the mud
A pile of branches and leaves,
I lifted up the whole dripping mass
In arms I held close to my heart.
What to do with this wood where
The sound of color rose from so much absence,
It hardly mattered, I went in haste, looking for
At least some kind of shed, beneath the load
Of branches that were full of
Rough edges, stabbing pains, points, cries.

And voices that cast shadows ...

Read the full of The house where I was born (04)