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The Poetry of Surrealism: An Anthology
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October 17, 2008
This is one of my all-time favorite collections. All focusing on Surrealist poetry and it may be my first real introduction to Surrealist literature. I was raised with Surrealist poetry via my parents, but this book is the first volume where I bought it myself. So it has a sentimental value as well as a great introduction to that world.
January 23, 2022
This anthology includes poems by Guillaume Apollinaire, Pierre Reverdy, Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, André Breton, Louis Aragon, Paul Eluard, Jean (Hans) Arp, Benjamin Péret, Robert Desnos, Antonin Artaud, René Daumal, Jacques Prévert, and Aimé Césaire...
From Guillaume Apollinaire...
From Tristan Tzara...
From Philippe Soupault...
From André Breton...
From Louis Aragon...
From Paul Eluard...
From Jean (Hans) Arp...
From Benjamin Péret...
From Antonin Artaud...
From René Daumal...
From Aimé Césaire...
From Guillaume Apollinaire...
My room is shaped like a cage
The sun slips its arm in through the window
I always said there was nothing like smoking to create a few fine mirages
So I light up my cigarette with a sunbeam
I don't want to work anymore now I want to smoke- Hotel, pg. 8
From Tristan Tzara...
a e ou o youyou you i e ou o
youyouyou
drrrrdrrrrdrrrrgrrrrgrrrr
fragments of green time go drifting around my room
a e o ii ii i e a ou ii ii stomach
clock watch I want to grab its navel flab
cacrap crap crap and let go the centre of the four quarter-hours
hey where are you going to now iiiiiiupft
sea that scene-shifter a o u ith
glowworms within us
inside our intestines and our directions
but the captain studies the indications given by the compass
and the concentration of colours flies apart
stork snapshot in the drugstore now are my memory and an ocarina
horizontal silkworm propagation of oceanoscopic floating objects
the local madwoman is rearing all the jesters for the royal court
hospital becomes canal
canal becomes violin
and on the violin there is a ship
and on its port side the queen is there among the immigrants on the way to mexico- Bonita, pg. 88
From Philippe Soupault...
My long nose sticks out like a knife
and my eyes are bloodshot from laughing
In the middle of the night I take in the milk and the moon
and run without turning about
If the trees are afraid behind me
Who cares
How beautiful indifference is at midnight
Where are all these people going
the pride of the city
streetcorner musicians
the crowd dances at top speed
and I'm just an anonymous passerby
or someone else whose name I've forgotten- Life-Saving Medal, pg. 115
From André Breton...
The Marquise de Sade regained the interior of the erupting volcano
Whence he had come
With his beautiful hands still in ruffles
His eyes of a young girl
And that intelligence at the rim of panic that was
His alone
But from the salon phosphorescent with visceral lamps
He did not cease to hurl mysterious commands
That breached the moral night
Through the breach I see
The great creaking shadows the old sapped husk
Dissolve
So that I may love you
As the first man loved the first woman
In utter freedom
This freedom
For which fire itself was made man
For which the Marquise de Sade defied the centuries with his great abstract trees
With his tragic acrobats
Caught in the gossamer of desire- "The Marquise de Sade...", pg. 127
From Louis Aragon...
My word
Hand caught in the door
Stuck tight old boy stuck tight
In other words
Or
The password please
Many thanks
Now I hold the key
The bolt begins to twist like a tongue
Therefore- Safety Lock, pg. 151
From Paul Eluard...
She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is inside mine,
She is the shape of my hand,
She is the colour of my eyes,
She is surrounded by my shadows
Like a rock by the sky.
Her eyes always opened
She never lets me sleep
Her dreams in broad daylight
Make sunlight evaporate,
Make me laugh, cry and laugh,
Speak without a thing to say.- The Beloved, pg. 173
From Jean (Hans) Arp...
a droplet of man
a soupçon of woman
complete the beauty of the bouquet of bones
it's time now for an aubade
in the fur of fire
the wind arrives running on the soles of its feet
like the horse on its four wheels
space has a vertical aroma
space has a vertical aroma
the wind arrives running on the soles of its feet
it's time now for an aubade
in the fur of fire
a droplet of man
a soupçon of woman
complete the beauty of the bouquet of bones- A Droplet of Man, pg. 206
From Benjamin Péret...
Stink stink stink
What's that stink
It's Louise XVI that bad egg
and his head drops into the basket
his rotten head
since the cold is terrific this 21st of January
It rains blood it rains snow
and all sorts of other filth
that flourishes out of his ancient corpse
like a dog croaked on the bottom of a pail
in the midst of dirty laundry
who has had plenty of time to start decomposing
like the fleur-de-lys on the garbage can
which the cows refuse to nibble
for they give off an odour of true divinity
god the father of all mud
who gave to Louis XVI
the divine right to croak
like a dog in laundry-pail- Louis XVI Goes to the Guillotine, pg. 240
From Antonin Artaud...
With a bitter flavour tonight, jealous
Of some obscure whore
Cavernous, black, weighted down by the pollution
Drifting between the moon and ourselves
Splenetic moon upon the sea
She was an aggravated moon
Like the thoughts of comebody extremely sick
Of the essence of the universe
In the incredible obscurity
Where this moon was rising
The summer calm
Held out its cloudy boughs- Moon, pg. 290
From René Daumal...
They sit at table
They eat not
Nor do they touch their plates
Yet their plates stand straight up
Behind their heads.- The Last Supper, pg. 318
From Aimé Césaire...
Transfixing muscles and blood
devouring all eyes this intense bright mass of foliage
crowning with truth our usual lights
a ray a spray from the triumphant sun
by means of which
justice will be done
and every arrogance washed away
Household vessels and human flesh slip away into the thick neck of the waves
silences by way of contrast have begun to exert the most substantial pressures
Around the circumference of the circle
among the public activities along the riverbanks
the flame
stands solitary and splendid in its upright judgement- Judgement of the Light, pg. 358
June 27, 2020
Over 300 pages of mind bending poetry from the French Surrealists of the 1920’s-40’s. Most of the translations are by anthologist Michael Benedikt who was the editor of the Paris Review at the time the collection was published. Also included are translations by some major figures in English-language poetry like John Ashbery, Charles Simic, and Robert Bly. The influence on many later poets is apparent through the heavy use of abstraction, weird imagery, and subjectivism. As Benedekit points out in the introduction (written in 1974), surrealism directly influenced many American poets of the 50’s and 60’s such as the Beats and the New York School. Arguably, this influence trickled down to have a much wider effect on culture throughout the world.
The most popular figures associated with Surrealism today are probably painters like Salvador Dali, Rene Magritte, Joan Miro or filmmaker Luis Bunuel. This book highlights the literary wing of the movement that included writers like Guillaume Apollinaire from whom the group took its name and Andre Breton who wrote manifestos and recruited/kicked out members from its inner circle. As one might expect, the poetry is characterized by abstraction, clashing opposites, dreamlike imagery, unexpected shifts in tone, and merging of elements that shouldn’t go together. Best enjoyed with the logical brain turned off although the poems do occasionally make sense. Some of my favorites besides the aforementioned were Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, Robert Desnos, and Aime Cesaire.
Surrealism emphasized the psychic reality of pure thought uninfluenced by the demands of logic, the laws of aesthetics, or morality. The images and words of the surrealist movement prefigured many later developments such as psychedelicism (e.g. the Beatles 67-68, Bob Dylan’s lyrics 65-66) and abstract film (e.g. David Lynch, Alejandro Jodorowsky). In its raw original form presented in this anthology, it almost never feels hackneyed or cliche. The spirit of surrealism lives on in the 21st century and in some ways with the rise of non-sequitur internet humor, Adult Swim, social media, etc. we live in an unprecedentedly surreal era. So in a way the surrealists were prophets.
I Am a Horse by Jean Arp
I’m riding in a train
that’s absolutely packed
in my compartment
every seat is occupied by a lady
holding a man on her lap
the air is intolerably hot
the atmosphere is stifling
all the passengers
have gigantic appetites
they eat nonstop
suddenly the men begin to whine
they want to be breast-fed
they want to be suckled
they want to be nurse
They unbutton the women’s blouses and clasp their breasts
They fill themselves with nice fresh milk
Only I do not suckle on anyone
nor am I suckled by anyone
nobody sits on my lap either
for I am a horse
I sit op straight and solid
with my hind legs
on the railroad train seat
and prop myself up snugly
using my forelegs
I neigh energetically heeheehee
and on my chest shine
all nicely aligned
the six buttons of sex appeal
just like bright buttons on a uniform
O how small this world is
how big cherries
(translated by Michael Benedikt)
The most popular figures associated with Surrealism today are probably painters like Salvador Dali, Rene Magritte, Joan Miro or filmmaker Luis Bunuel. This book highlights the literary wing of the movement that included writers like Guillaume Apollinaire from whom the group took its name and Andre Breton who wrote manifestos and recruited/kicked out members from its inner circle. As one might expect, the poetry is characterized by abstraction, clashing opposites, dreamlike imagery, unexpected shifts in tone, and merging of elements that shouldn’t go together. Best enjoyed with the logical brain turned off although the poems do occasionally make sense. Some of my favorites besides the aforementioned were Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, Robert Desnos, and Aime Cesaire.
Surrealism emphasized the psychic reality of pure thought uninfluenced by the demands of logic, the laws of aesthetics, or morality. The images and words of the surrealist movement prefigured many later developments such as psychedelicism (e.g. the Beatles 67-68, Bob Dylan’s lyrics 65-66) and abstract film (e.g. David Lynch, Alejandro Jodorowsky). In its raw original form presented in this anthology, it almost never feels hackneyed or cliche. The spirit of surrealism lives on in the 21st century and in some ways with the rise of non-sequitur internet humor, Adult Swim, social media, etc. we live in an unprecedentedly surreal era. So in a way the surrealists were prophets.
I Am a Horse by Jean Arp
I’m riding in a train
that’s absolutely packed
in my compartment
every seat is occupied by a lady
holding a man on her lap
the air is intolerably hot
the atmosphere is stifling
all the passengers
have gigantic appetites
they eat nonstop
suddenly the men begin to whine
they want to be breast-fed
they want to be suckled
they want to be nurse
They unbutton the women’s blouses and clasp their breasts
They fill themselves with nice fresh milk
Only I do not suckle on anyone
nor am I suckled by anyone
nobody sits on my lap either
for I am a horse
I sit op straight and solid
with my hind legs
on the railroad train seat
and prop myself up snugly
using my forelegs
I neigh energetically heeheehee
and on my chest shine
all nicely aligned
the six buttons of sex appeal
just like bright buttons on a uniform
O how small this world is
how big cherries
(translated by Michael Benedikt)
June 12, 2010
This is a wonderful collection of French Surrealist poetry. The selection is excellent, although I am a bit sorry that the original French is not provided.
Unfortunately it seems extremely difficult these days to find books by these individual poets (unless you're French). And I wonder as well if this particular anthology, which I bought used, is still in print. My friends! So many little fires are being extinguished like dying tongues! Get hold of them while they still burn.
I can't help but compare this to The Random House Book of 20th Century French Poetry, sometimes unfavorably. Random House has a broader selection of poets (ok, they aren't ALL surrealists) and it includes the French. The broader selection, however, also means the Random House volume generally offers less of each poet. Benedikt’s The poetry of surrealism: An anthology kicks Random's ass, for example, when it comes to Benjamin Péret and Antonin Artaud. (If you like Péret, however, and you do, I suggest getting From the Hidden Storehouse: Selected Poems, a book that will set you free.) Benedikt makes a better selection of Louis Aragon as well, but omits “Poem to Shout in the Ruins,” which seems to me a huge mistake (Random has it).
Let’s spit the two of us let’s spit
On what we loved
I also think the quality of Random House’s translations is a bit better. In his volume, Benedikt does the bulk of them himself with a few exceptions (in both books, much of Pierre Reverdy is translated wonderfully by John Ashbery).
Here I offer Éluard’s famous “L’Amoureuse” translated by Samuel Beckett in Random House and by Benedikt in Poetry of Surrealism:
L’Amoureuse – Paul Élaurd
Elle est debout sur mes paupières
Et ses cheuveux sont dans les miens
Elle a la forme de mes mains,
Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,
Elle s’engloutit dans mon ombre
Comme une pierre sur le ciel.
Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts
Et ne me laisse pas dormer.
Ses reves en pleine lumière
Fond s’évaporer les soleils,
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien è dire.
Lady Love (transl. Samuel Beckett in Random House)
She is standing on my lids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the colour of my eye
She has the body of my hand
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say
The Beloved (transl. Michael Benedikt in Poetry of Surrealism)
She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is inside mine,
She is the shape of my hand,
She is the color of my eyes,
She is surrounded by my shadows
Like a rock by the sky.
Her eyes always opened
She never lets me sleep
Her dreams in broad daylight
Make sunlight evaporate,
Make me laugh, cry and laugh,
Speak without a thing to say.
Personally I think Beckett does a better job of it, allowing the charm of the original rhyme to come through, among a couple other points (his rendering of “et ses cheuveux sont dans les miens” is superior, imo, also "stone" vs "rock"). Just to make life tough, I like Benedikt’s final line more.
As I always think when I get to this point: It would just be better if we were all fluent in French. Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is – if you can’t get or don’t want to invest in individual volumes – you should have this AND Random House. They are both 10 stars. Nothing can match the beauty and fun and feeling of the modern French poets.
Unfortunately it seems extremely difficult these days to find books by these individual poets (unless you're French). And I wonder as well if this particular anthology, which I bought used, is still in print. My friends! So many little fires are being extinguished like dying tongues! Get hold of them while they still burn.
I can't help but compare this to The Random House Book of 20th Century French Poetry, sometimes unfavorably. Random House has a broader selection of poets (ok, they aren't ALL surrealists) and it includes the French. The broader selection, however, also means the Random House volume generally offers less of each poet. Benedikt’s The poetry of surrealism: An anthology kicks Random's ass, for example, when it comes to Benjamin Péret and Antonin Artaud. (If you like Péret, however, and you do, I suggest getting From the Hidden Storehouse: Selected Poems, a book that will set you free.) Benedikt makes a better selection of Louis Aragon as well, but omits “Poem to Shout in the Ruins,” which seems to me a huge mistake (Random has it).
Let’s spit the two of us let’s spit
On what we loved
I also think the quality of Random House’s translations is a bit better. In his volume, Benedikt does the bulk of them himself with a few exceptions (in both books, much of Pierre Reverdy is translated wonderfully by John Ashbery).
Here I offer Éluard’s famous “L’Amoureuse” translated by Samuel Beckett in Random House and by Benedikt in Poetry of Surrealism:
L’Amoureuse – Paul Élaurd
Elle est debout sur mes paupières
Et ses cheuveux sont dans les miens
Elle a la forme de mes mains,
Elle a la couleur de mes yeux,
Elle s’engloutit dans mon ombre
Comme une pierre sur le ciel.
Elle a toujours les yeux ouverts
Et ne me laisse pas dormer.
Ses reves en pleine lumière
Fond s’évaporer les soleils,
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien è dire.
Lady Love (transl. Samuel Beckett in Random House)
She is standing on my lids
And her hair is in my hair
She has the colour of my eye
She has the body of my hand
In my shade she is engulfed
As a stone against the sky
She will never close her eyes
And she does not let me sleep
And her dreams in the bright day
Make the suns evaporate
And me laugh cry and laugh
Speak when I have nothing to say
The Beloved (transl. Michael Benedikt in Poetry of Surrealism)
She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is inside mine,
She is the shape of my hand,
She is the color of my eyes,
She is surrounded by my shadows
Like a rock by the sky.
Her eyes always opened
She never lets me sleep
Her dreams in broad daylight
Make sunlight evaporate,
Make me laugh, cry and laugh,
Speak without a thing to say.
Personally I think Beckett does a better job of it, allowing the charm of the original rhyme to come through, among a couple other points (his rendering of “et ses cheuveux sont dans les miens” is superior, imo, also "stone" vs "rock"). Just to make life tough, I like Benedikt’s final line more.
As I always think when I get to this point: It would just be better if we were all fluent in French. Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is – if you can’t get or don’t want to invest in individual volumes – you should have this AND Random House. They are both 10 stars. Nothing can match the beauty and fun and feeling of the modern French poets.
February 24, 2013
Apparently the only compendium of its kind. I can't recommend it enough. Many writers featured here I was unaware of (Daumal, Arp, etc.) and consistently excellent translations. Nice bios and intros for each person and their place in the Surrealist world. Goes all the way up to Aime Cesaire. Woefully out of print.
October 14, 2007
One of the books that has a great influence on my sensibility. A Must read.
July 10, 2011
Favorites were Apollinaire, Breton, Aragon, and Daumal. First major exposure to the writers that influence some of my favorite contemporary writers greatly and I can certainly see why.
March 14, 2012
Wide selection marred by inferior translation and poets who are surrealist only in the loosest sense.
December 9, 2013
Somewhat of a beginner's guide to the precursors of Surrealist poetry.
Want to Read
May 31, 2009Read this a long time ago - want to read it again.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews