poet Yves Bonnefoy

Yves Bonnefoy

Comments about Yves Bonnefoy

  • Fabrizio Frosini 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 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 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 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 (01)

I woke up, it was the house where I was born,
Sea foam splashed against the rock,
Not a single bird, only the wind to open and close the wave,
Everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes,
As if the hills were hiding a fire
That somewhere else was burning up a universe.
I went onto the veranda, the table was set,
The water knocked against the legs of the table, the sideboard.
And yet she had to come in, the faceless one,
The one I knew was shaking the door
In the hall, near the darkened staircase, but in vain,
So high had the water already risen in the ...

Read the full of The house where I was born (01)

They Spoke to Me

They said to me no, don't take any, no, don't touch, that is burning
hot. No, don't try to touch, to hold, that weighs too much, that
hurts.

They said to me: Read, write. And I tried, I took up a word, but it
struggled, it clucked like a frightened hen, wounded, in a cage of
black straw, spotted with old traces of   blood.

TRANSLATED BY MARY ANN CAWS