Lorand Gaspar


Born
in Târgu Mureş, Romania
February 28, 1925

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Né à Târgu Mureş en Transylvanie orientale le 28 février 1925, est un poète, médecin, historien, photographe et traducteur français d’origine hongroise.

Prix Guillaume-Apollinaire en 1967.
Prix Goncourt de la poésie pour l’ensemble de son œuvre, en 1998.

Average rating: 4.03 · 31 ratings · 7 reviews · 20 distinct works
Égée, Judée

3.33 avg rating — 6 ratings — published 1980
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Sol absolu et autres textes

4.25 avg rating — 4 ratings — published 1982
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Earth Absolute & Other Texts

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4.67 avg rating — 3 ratings
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The Word at Hand: With a Se...

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4.67 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 1995 — 2 editions
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Derrière le dos de dieu

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 2010
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Arabie heureuse et autres J...

really liked it 4.00 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 1997
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Corps corrosifs

3.50 avg rating — 2 ratings — published 1978
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Patmos et autres poèmes

3.33 avg rating — 3 ratings — published 2001 — 2 editions
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Feuilles d'observation

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating
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Gisements

it was amazing 5.00 avg rating — 1 rating — published 1968
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“A mon sens, dans ma façon de « voir », de « comprendre », l’image, la vision que propose ma photo, ne veut surtout rien « garder », seulement proposer un sentiment de découverte, d’approfondissement soudain, de perception de ce que j’appelle ouverture, de clarté qu’on pourrait dire intuitive.”
Lorand Gaspar

“scattered cracking sounds
bristling gaps in the wood
every now and then the red mark
of a gunshot splinters

of a language forgotten or, who knows,
in a state of shards, bursting
leaps, uproars and stellar
winds or the simple
rubbing together of our silences

if they too should suddenly catch fire
these flames, are they like a dance
seeking in the night its roots
felt and lived the whole length of a life

the night outside is white,
in the hearth, ardent and fragile
beating of the embers of our lives —

from "Nuits”
Lorand Gaspar

“the air veined with balancings
in the rootless spaces where endless
worlds are formed and dissolve

snow duvet dancing in the night
beating in the heart’s ear
of a language so close to being here —

memory of snow on the skin
melted flakes of past images
edgeless night on the edge of memory

clouds assemble and dilate
the straw thrown into the light
bright plovers turning under the wind

I listen again to what ear throat
fingers and brain extract in a moment
from the endless flowing stream of things

a water that transports friable words
which we pass from hand to hand
from mouth to ear, bits of mourning and clarity —

low voices and the footsteps become clear
the embers of a life roll on without brakes
red of a morning, of another sunset

in the gorges, on the broken stonefields
someone within me listens relentlessly
to the inaudible beating in things.

from " Nuits”
Lorand Gaspar



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