Yann Rousselot's Blog, page 2
August 26, 2021
Seahorse: in the round, Basswood, tung oil finish
View this post on InstagramA post shared by Yes R (@anominou5)
Something connects wood carving to the ocean. I picture the sailors of older seas, the soldiers, slaves, pirates, or explorers whittling whales and octopods and seashells out of driftwood. Learning with the roll of the ship underfoot, learning new skills to avoid going mad with isolation.
Turns out, conveniently, that aquatic life lends itself to wood sculpture because of the soft lines, the streamlined silhouettes. The seahorse was a fun experiment with deep U gouges for the body, and the rotary tool sanding disk was useful in shaping the head and snout. It turned out more cartoony than anatomically correct, and I’m pretty sure it’s not even called a snout, which seems to indicate I have a lot to learn about seahorses when I revisit this animal in my carving.
Seahorse: in the round, Basswood, tung oil finish, 09/2020
View this post on InstagramA post shared by Yes R (@anominou5)
Something connects wood carving to the ocean. I picture the sailors of older seas, the soldiers, slaves, pirates, or explorers whittling whales and octopods and seashells out of driftwood. Learning with the roll of the ship underfoot, learning new skills to avoid going mad with isolation.
Turns out, conveniently, that aquatic life lends itself to wood sculpture because of the soft lines, the streamlined silhouettes. The seahorse was a fun experiment with deep U gouges for the body, and the rotary tool sanding disk was useful in shaping the head and snout. It turned out more cartoony than anatomically correct, and I’m pretty sure it’s not even called a snout, which seems to indicate I have a lot to learn about seahorses when I revisit this animal in my carving.
July 18, 2019
SquareRoot of Love:Broken Heart-Sarasota/Paris
Back in February I participated the 2019 Square Root of Love:Broken Heart project, a humbling and powerful evening of poetry. This special edition commemorated the tragedy of the Parkland, FL high-school massacre. A difficult subject, but an important conversation.
The event featured readings and multimedia projections from a range of talents including David Barnes, Antonia Alexandra Klimenko, Cecilia, Llompart, Rethabile Masilo, Camille Andrea Rich, Moe Seager, Daniel Wilner, and Nina Zivancevic.
Special thanks to Ed Bell and Kristina Vaughan for organising the Paris chapter, and John Sims for giving us the opportunity to participate in this series.
My untitled contribution is just a drop in the bucket, and I know words are cheap and I am physically far removed from this tragedy, but I like to believe every word counts. This subject cannot become normalized.
*****
Let it burn.
Let’s talk designer drugs and standardized testing
all the way to austerity economics.
Scorch the Earth, I mean it.
Do it for the kids.
The late-game player knows nothing good
ever happens in easy mode.
The benchmark is veteran.
Teach the adrenal cortex to think for itself and:
a) Clamber up and out the mouth,
b) Walk in schoolboy shoes,
c) Take the safety off,
d) All of the above.
Corrode, corrode, corrode.
Callus them to survive.
Read the tea-leaves of torn cuticles,
the tinsel of white metal and flak.
Teach them to cut
eye-holes in sleep masks
for this is what we call adult: the best
a human can get.
The threshold is suicidal ideation.
The litmus test is solvency.
Let it burn and:
a) Unlearn the Declaration of Human Rights,
b) Forget the principles of flight,
c) Lead by example and never look back,
d) All of the above.
With love as your guide,
embrace work ethic and repetitive strain,
give your best self to performance metrics.
Cover your vitals, hand over heart,
and repeat after me:
Corrode, corrode, corrode
until the soil grows black with potential.
October 4, 2018
“In This Dead End” by Ahmad Shamloo
They come sniffing at your mouth
Lest the words ‘I love you’ lurk within
They come to search your heart
These are strange times, my darling
As for love,
They whip it bloody
All along the city ramparts
We bury Love in the back room of the house
In this gnarled and frozen dead end
They feed the flames
With the kindling of song and poetry
Do not risk a thought
These are strange times we live in, my darling
Whoever pounds on the door at night
Has come to murder light
We bury Light in the back room of the house
And now here the butchers come,
Stationed at every crossroad
They bring cutting boards and bloody cleavers
These are strange times we live in, my darling
They cut corners from smiling lips
Cut songs from the throat
We bury Joy in the back room of the house
The canaries are lain on the coals
Burning with lilies and jasmine
These are strange times we live in, my darling
Iblis triumphant,
Blind drunk at the banquet of our grief
We bury God in the back room of the house
“In This Dead End” by Ahmad Shamloo
Translation of a translation by Yann Rousselot
***
“En cette impasse” – Ahmad Shamloo
On vient sentir ta bouche
Que tu n’aies dit je t’aime
On vient sentir ton coeur
Quelle étrange époque vivons-nous, ma toute gracieuse
Quant à l’amour,
On lui donne le fouet
Le long des remparts sentinelles
L’amour, on l’enfouit au fond d’une arrière-cour
En cette impasse torve, torturée par le froid
Brille l’amour
Par la grâce nourricière des chants et des poèmes
Ne te risque pas à penser, ma toute gracieuse
Quelle étrange époque vivons-nous
Celui qui, nuitamment, martèle à notre porte
Est venu en meurtrier de la lampe
La lumière, on l’enfouit au fond d’une arrière-cour
Et voici que viennent les bouchers
Veillant à tout passage
Ils apportent la planche et les hachoirs en sang
Quelle étrange époque vivons-nous, ma toute gracieuse
Et ils équarrissent le sourire sur les lèvres
Et les chants sur la bouche
La joie, on l’enfouit au fond d’une arrière-cour
Les canaris sont couchés sur la braise,
brûlante de jasmin et de lys
Quelle étrange époque vivons-nous, ma toute gracieuse
Iblis est triomphant,
Ivre, attablé au banquet de nos deuils
Dieu, on l’enfouit au fond d’une arrière-cour.
Traduit pour Libération par Reza Afchar Naderi. Petits Chants de l’exil, 1980.
/
On renifle ta bouche
Pour savoir si tu as dit « je t’aime »
On renifle ton cœur
Drôle de temps, ami-e
Et à côté du garde-fou
On fouette
L’amour
Il faut cacher l’amour dans l’arrière-chambre de la maison
Dans cette impasse tortueuse du froid
Pour alimenter le feu
On brûle des chants et poésies
Ne te risque pas à penser
Drôle de temps, ami-e
Celui qui au crépuscule cogne à la porte
Est venu pour assassiner la lampe
Il faut cacher la lumière dans l’arrière-chambre de la maison
Voici que les bouchers
Se postent aux carrefours
Billots et haches ensanglantés à la main
Drôle de temps, ami-e
Et on mutile le sourire sur les lèvres
Et la chanson dans la gorge
Il faut cacher l’enthousiasme dans l’arrière-chambre de la maison
On fait griller les canaries
Sur un feu de lys et de jasmin
Drôle de temps, ami-e
Le diable ivre de victoire
Fait ripaille à notre banquet de deuil
Il faut cacher Dieu dans l’arrière-chambre de la maison
Traduit par Marie Ladier-Fouladi, à partir de celle de Chahrâchoub Amirchâhi et Alain Lance, Iran Poésie & autres rubriques, Paris, Maspero, 1980.
***
دهانت را می بویند مبادا گفته باشی دوستت دارم
دلت را می پویند مبادا شعله ای در آن نهان باشد
روزگار غریبی است نازنین
و عشق را کنار تیرک راهوند تازیانه می زنند
عشق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
شوق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
روزگار غریبی است نازنین
و در این بن بست کج و پیچ سرما
آتش را به سوخت بار سرود و شعر فروزان می دارند
به اندیشیدن خطر مکن
روزگار غریبی است نازنین
آنکه بر در می کوبد شباهنگام
به کشتن چراغ آمده است
نور را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
دهانت را می بویند مبادا گفته باشی دوستت دارم
دلت را می پویند مبادا شعله ای در آن نهان باشد
روزگار غریبی است نازنین
نور را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
عشق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
آنک قصابانند بر گذرگاهان مستقر با کُنده و ساطوری خون آلود
و تبسم را بر لبها جراحی می کنند
و ترانه را بر دهان
کباب قناری بر آتش سوسن و یاس
شوق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
ابلیس پیروز مست سور عزای ما را بر سفره نشسته است
خدای را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
خدای را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد
احمد شاملو
May 10, 2017
30/04/2017: Le Bordel de la Poésie – The Blue Angel
Le Bordel de la Poésie “Blue Angel” event was a great success, with stunning performances by poets, pianists, painters, and literary prostitutes in a luxury Parisian duplex. Below you can enjoy a selection of photos but, if you’re curious, be sure to check out the full album, signed Romain Chocart.
May 2, 2017
Four poems published in At Large Magazine
Big thanks to Chris Campanioni and Malik Ameer Crumpler for making this a reality, and of course thank you Florida Man, the gift that keeps on giving.
Click through to read about Florida Man and Electrovulva.
At Large Magazine is dedicated to creating “collectable content through contemporary visual dialogue along with commentary on art, travel, fashion, and men’s lifestyle interests — and to have fun doing it.”
February 1, 2017
Three poems published in The Opiate
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If like me you are fascinated and intrigued by the super-heroic antics of Florida Man, two of my latest poems on the theme are online at The Opiate, alongside some stellar writing by Malik Crumpler and Samuél Lopez-Barrantes. Check it out and follow the magazine on Facebook and Twitter if you want some meaty, narcotic writing in your feeds.
FLORIDA MAN SAYS HE HAD NO IDEA BEATING AN ALLIGATOR TO DEATH WAS ILLEGAL
FLORIDA MAN IGNORES WARNING AND IS STRUCK AND KILLED BY TRAIN
The third poem, Hug Drugs, will be featured in the volume 9 Spring print issue, which you can pick up or order online on The Opiate’s website.
January 18, 2017
Runaway Poets spoken word series, ep. 8: Yann Rousselot (2 poems)
Wonderful production by Steve Nahaj, who partied with us on Nuit Blanche to capture these wicked shots of Paris by Night. “The Museum of Miniatures” is featured in my collection Dawn of the Algorithm (check the side-bar!), and the second poem will be included in a chapbook I am currently working on, 100% about Florida Man’s and Florida Woman’s adventures in Florida, in collaboration with fellow poet Cecilia Llompart.
Check out the Runaway Poets series for some quality spoken word and a glimpse into the lives of writers across the world.
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July 28, 2016
Two poems published in issue 10 of Those That This
Two of my more dark and distressing poems, Nightlogic and S.E.T.I., are online in issue 10 of Those That This, an excellent underground literary magazine curated by fellow poet and spoken-word artist Malik Crumpler.
Malik has been curating fantastic poetry, music, and visual media for a number of years, and the fruits of his work are all free to browse, so be do yourself a favour and check it out.
