Poems by Francis
Ponge (from Another Republic)
The Pleasures of the Door
Kings
do not touch doors.
They
know nothing of this pleasure: pushing before one gently or brusquely
one of those large familiar panels, then turning back to replace it—holding
a door in one’s arms.
…The
pleasure of grabbing the midriff of one of these tall obstacles to a
room by its porcelain node; that short clinch during which movement stops,
the eye widens, and the whole body adjusts to its new surrounding.
With
a friendly hand one still holds on to it, before closing it decisively
and shutting oneself in—which the click of the tight but well-oiled
spring pleasantly confirms.
Water
Below
me, always below me is water. Always with lowered eye do I look at it. It is like
the ground, like a part of the ground, a modification of the ground.
It
is bright and brilliant, formless and fresh, passive yet persistent in
its one vice, gravity; disposing of extraordinary means to satisfy that
vice—twisting, piercing, eroding, filtering.
This
vice works from within as well: water collapses all the time, constantly
sacrifices all form, tends only to humble itself, flattens itself on the
ground, like a corpse, like the monks of certain orders. Always lower—that could be its motto;
the oppositie of excelsior.
*
One
might almost say that water is mad, because of its hysterical need to obey
gravity alone, a need that possesses it like an obsession.
Of
course, everything in the world responds to this need, which always and
everywhere must be satisfied. This
cabinet, for example, proves to be terribly stubborn in its desire to stay
on the ground, and if one day it found itself badly balanced, would sooner
fall to pieces than run counter to that desire.But to a certain degree
it teases gravity, defies it; does not give way in all its parts: its cornice,
its moldings do not give in. Inherent in the cabinet is a resistance that
benefits its personality and form.
LIQUID,
by definition, is that which chooses to obey gravity rather than maintain
its form, which rejects all form in order to obey gravity—and which
loses all dignity because of that obsession, that pathological anxiety. Because
of that vice—which makes it fast, flowing, or stagnant, formless
or fearsome, formless and fearsome, piercingly fearsome in cases;
devious, filtering, winding—one can do anything one wants with it,
even lead water through pipes to make it spout out vertically so as to
enjoy the way it collapses in droplets: a
real slave.
The
sun and the moon, however, are envious of this exclusive influence, and
try to take over whenever water happens to offer the opening of great expanses,
and above all when in a state of least resistance—spread out in shallow
puddles. Then the sun exacts
an even greater tribute: forces it into a perpetual cycle, treats it like
a gerbil on a wheel.
*
Water
eludes me…slips between my fingers. And even so! It’s not even that
clean (like a lizard or a frog): it leaves traces, spots, on my hands that
are quite slow to dry or have to be wiped. Water escapes me yet marks me,
and there is not a thing I can do about it.
Ideologically
it’s the same thing: it eludes me, eludes all definition, but in
my mind and on this sheet leaves traces, formless marks.
*
Water’s
instability: sensitive to the slightest change of level. Running
down stairs two at a time. Playful, childishly obedient, returning as soon as called if one
alters the slope on this side.
The Horse
Many times the size of a man, the horse has flaring
nostrils, round eyes under half-closed lids, cocked ears and long muscular
neck.
The
tallest of man’s domestic animals, and truly his designated mount.
Man,
somewhat lost on an elephant, is at his best on a horse, truly a throne
to his measure.
We
will not do away with the horse, I hope?
He
will not become a curiosity in a zoo?
…Already
now, in town, he is no more than a miserable substitute for the automobile,
the most miserable means of traction.
Ah,
the horse is also—does man suspect it?—something else besides!
He is impatience nostrilized.
His
weapons are running, biting, bucking.
He
seems to have a keen nose, keen ears, and very sensitive eyes.
The
greatest tribute one can pay him is having to
fit him with blinders.
But
no weapon…Whereby
the temptation to add one. One
only. A horn. Thereby the unicorn.
The
horse, terribly nervous, is aerophagous.
Hypersensitive,
he clamps his jaws, holds his breath, then releases it, making the walls of his nasal cavities vibrate
loudly.
That
is why this noble beast, who feeds on air and grass alone, produces only
straw turds and thunderous fragrant farts.
Fragrant
thunderisms.
What
am I saying, feeds on air? Gets drunk on it. Sniffs it, savors it, snorts it.
He
rushes into it, shakes his mane in it, kicks up his hind legs in it.
He
would evidently like to fly up into it.
The
flight of clouds inspires him, urges him to imitation.
He
does imitate it: he tosses, prances…
And
when the whip’s lightning claps, the clouds gallop faster and rain
tramples the earth…
Out
of your stall, high-spirited over-sensitive armoire, all polished and
smoothed!
Great
beautiful period piece!
Polished
ebony or mahogany.
Stroke
the withers of this armoire and immediately it has a faraway look.
Dust
cloth at the lips,feather mop at the rump, key
in the lock of the nostrils.
His
skin quivers, irritably tolerating flies, his shoe hammers the ground.
He
lowers his head, leans his muzzle toward the ground and consoles himself
with grass.
A
stepstool is needed to look on the upper shelf.
Ticklish
skin, as I was saying…but his natural impatience is so profound,
that inside his body the parts of his skeleton behave like pebbles in
a torrent!
Great
saint! Great horse! Beautiful behind in the stable…
What
is this splendid courtesan’s behind that greets me, set on slim
legs, high heels?
Giant
goose of the golden eggs, strangely clipped.
Ah,
it is the smell of gold that assails my nostrils!
Leather
and manure mixed together.
Strong-smelling
omelette, from the goose of the golden eggs.
Straw
omelette, earth omelette, flavored with the rum of your urine, dropping
from the crack under your tail…
As
though fresh from the oven, on a pastry sheet, the stable’s rolls
and rum balls.
Great
saint, with your Byzantine eyes, woeful, under the harness…
A
sort of saint, humble monk at prayer, in the twilight.
A
monk? What am I saying?…A
pontiff, on his excremental palanquin! A pope—exhibiting to all
comers a splendid courtesan’s behind, generously heart-shaped,
on slender legs ending elegantly in high-heeled shoes.
WHAT
IS THIS CL
THESE
DULL THUDS IN THE STALL?
WHAT’S
GOING ON?
PONTIFF
AT PRAYER?
SCHOOLBOY
IN DETENTION?
GREAT
SAINTS! GREAT HORSES (HORSES OR HEROES?), OF THE BEAUTIFUL BEHIND IN
THE STABLE,
WHY,
SAINTLY MONK, ARE YOU WEARING RIDING BREECHES?
—INTERRUPTED
DURING HIS MASS, HE TURNED HIS BYZATINE