R.M. Engelhardt's Blog: Burn Brightly, page 51
July 28, 2011
Kerouac...
Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild...
July 24, 2011
Dead At 27: Rock'N'Roll Music's Infamous Death Club |
July 17, 2011
Unsung Heroes ... Writer Thomas Wolfe
July 15, 2011
batteredshoes:
Demon Dog
July 11, 2011
There's more to life than books, you know, but not much more....

There's more to life than books, you know, but not much more. —Morrissey
July 10, 2011
Poems Published On StrangeRoad...
Ahhhhhhh.. Poetic
Thomas Wolfe and Jack Kerouac
Unicorns, God...
July 9, 2011
Was Marlowe Really Murdered?
The Murder of Christopher...
UnSung Poets : Joyce Kilmer WW1
Indian Motorcycles 1930-1939
1930-1939
The Art Deco era hits the Indians adorned in a full...
July 5, 2011
Unsung Poets…
ARAGON
There exists a black kingdom...

Unsung Poets…
ARAGON
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There exists a black kingdom which the eyes of man avoid because its landscape fails signally to flatter them. This darkness, which he imagines he can dispense with in describing the light, is error with its unknown characteristics. Error i…s certainty's constant companion. Error is the corollary of evidence. And anything said about truth may equally well be said about error: the delusion will be no greater.~ Louis Aragon
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Louis Aragon
(born Oct. 3, 1897, Paris, Fr. — died Dec. 24, 1982, Paris) French poet, novelist, and essayist. He was introduced by André Breton into avant-garde circles, and the two cofounded the Surrealist review Littérature in 1919. From 1927 he was increasingly a political activist and spokesman for communism, which resulted in a break with the Surrealists. Among his works are the novel tetralogy Le Monde réel, 4 vol. (1933 – 44), describing the class struggle of the proletariat; the huge novel Les Communistes, 6 vol. (1949 – 51); novels of veiled autobiography; and volumes of poems expressing patriotism and love for his wife. He was editor of the communist weekly of arts and literature, Les Lettres françaises, 1953 – 72.
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L'amoureuse
Elle est debout sur mes paupièresEt ses cheveux sont dans les miens,Elle a la forme de mes mains,Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,Elle s'engloutit dans mon ombreComme une pierre sur le ciel.Elle a toujours les yeux ouvertsEt ne me laisse pas dormir.Ses rêves en pleine lumièreFont s'évaporer les soleils,Me font rire, pleurer et rire, Parler sans avoir rien à dire
In English:
The Beloved
She is standing on my eyelidsAnd her hair is wound in mine,She has the form of my hands,She has the colour of my eyes,She is swallowed by my shadowLike a stone against the sky.Her eyes are always openAnd will not let me sleep.Her dreams in broad daylightMake the suns evaporateMake me laugh, cry and laugh, Speak with nothing to say.
Burn Brightly
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