Three by Reverdy

Amedeo Modigliani, Pierre Reverdy (1915)

Fetish

Little puppet, little lucky charm, the marionette affrays herself at my window at the discretion of the wind. The rain has wet her face and dress, rubs itself off of her hands. She’s lost a leg. But her ring remains, and with it, her power. In winter she knocks at the glass with her little blue shoe, an ecstatic dance in the cold that warms up her heart, the heart of a wooden charm. At night she raises her arms in supplication to the stars.

Further Than That

At the little window, under the roof tiles, watch. And the lines of my eyes and the lines of hers intersect. She said to herself, I will have the advantage of height. But the shutters opposite are pushed shut and the irritating examination is fixed. I have the advantage of the shops to look at. But finally we must climb up—or else it’s better to come down, and go somewhere else, arm in arm, where no one can see us. 

Always Alone

Does the smoke come from their chimneys or from your pipes? I preferred the acutest angle of this room in which to be alone. The opposite window is open. Will she come?

In the street bridged by our arms no one lifted their eyes, and the houses bowed down.

Once the roofs touch, we no longer dare to speak. We’re afraid of all the screams—the chimneys are extinguished. It’s so dark.