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One
An elegant testimony to the beautiful and the good, Serge Patrice Thibodeau's "One" pays homage to the vibrancy and vigor of life, backdropped against the precarious immediacy of the everyday.
From the tiny trunk of opening lines taken from Paul Valery, Thibodeau unpacks a vision of human consciousness that exists in a state of singular wonder, creating a universe that is at once faithful and ever-changing like the tidal bore -- the landscape of mascaret. Thibodeau boldly blends anecdotes, pop-ups, leitmotifs, ecological awareness, and the inner world in variations on the theme of wholeness.
From the tiny trunk of opening lines taken from Paul Valery, Thibodeau unpacks a vision of human consciousness that exists in a state of singular wonder, creating a universe that is at once faithful and ever-changing like the tidal bore -- the landscape of mascaret. Thibodeau boldly blends anecdotes, pop-ups, leitmotifs, ecological awareness, and the inner world in variations on the theme of wholeness.
- GenresPoetry
64 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2006
4 people want to read
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 25, 2022
Stories given voice: the tides of the mascaret at dawn, its ice bronze;
alone, one hears all the voices, silent before the exquisite,
facing the blizzard, entering it, penetrating the breath
of the whirling white joy that slips between the pages
* * *
One forgets; one wishes to forget: the past, those who have passed on,
a breath; the mascaret draws in memories with the tide only for those
who venture into the water unwitnessed, lost time welling up in the throat,
and the eye, seeing nothing, is sown, sprouts, blossoms;
* * *
An attitude, while listening,
sets the image back in place, and the sound
from where it comes and from which it arises;
it's the television scanning the street,
* * *
An earthen pot, a pot filled with earth,
the space shuttle threatened
by lightning, the gaunt pack ice,
a green lung collapses,
* * *
Joy is in the air, being bandied about;
it's beginning again, seasons, joy
and everything hidden between the lines
of its hand, winding choreographies
alone, one hears all the voices, silent before the exquisite,
facing the blizzard, entering it, penetrating the breath
of the whirling white joy that slips between the pages
of a book open wide
into the gaping sphere,
- luminescent as a desert isle -
a one-bodied pulse
at its centre.
- pg. 13
* * *
One forgets; one wishes to forget: the past, those who have passed on,
a breath; the mascaret draws in memories with the tide only for those
who venture into the water unwitnessed, lost time welling up in the throat,
and the eye, seeing nothing, is sown, sprouts, blossoms;
an abandoned lighthouse,
the aftertaste of having loved,
- loved whom? whose one and only? -
the salt meadow quenches thirst,
the echo persisting through fields of wheat.
- pg. 21
* * *
An attitude, while listening,
sets the image back in place, and the sound
from where it comes and from which it arises;
it's the television scanning the street,
the all-exposed, the never-naked,
playing out, one pixel at a time,
- the tree trunk has narrowed -
the sloped, washed-out roof,
the slanted spine of the horizon.
- pg. 37
* * *
An earthen pot, a pot filled with earth,
the space shuttle threatened
by lightning, the gaunt pack ice,
a green lung collapses,
as if nothing is happening,
acting as if there's nothing to say;
- a blade gleams, cuts through the dark -
a thin strip of hope slips
into a dislodged vault.
- pg. 45
* * *
Joy is in the air, being bandied about;
it's beginning again, seasons, joy
and everything hidden between the lines
of its hand, winding choreographies
of time's passage,
stained glass windows dimmed,
- the poles suddenly attracting -
a makeshift bridge
under artillery shells.
- pg. 54
Displaying 1 of 1 review