Alcools (French Edition)

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1. French Translation Coup alcool?
2. Alcools (french Edition) by Apollinaire Guillaume!
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There is a generic blurb on the back which says nothing specific to this book it is sufficiently generic to apply to any "anthology" -- which alcools is not, anyway. The spine has nothing on it no title or author. One person found this helpful. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase.

On Kindle for Android, each and every accented character is broken looking like a broken web page where character set has been improperly converted , making it absolutely unreadable. Avoid this at all cost! See all 3 reviews. There's a problem loading this menu right now.

Learn more about Amazon Prime. Get fast, free shipping with Amazon Prime. Get to Know Us. English Choose a language for shopping. Explore the Home Gift Guide. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs. I still love saffrons.

They don't have to love me back. But it's a haunting, that cow grind in what isn't for them. My barefoot brain inclined for the evening Like a naked king the walls are waking Beaten flesh and fresh-cut roses Palace Bellies are deaf and dreams blinded by the false sun prophets.

King's hardened lap holds a woman's face echoing better dreams of the Orient. Apollinaire's imagery is a brain meat. I love that when your thoughts are the you are what you eat can't save yourself. I'm going back to a lot what you made happen like that paranoia ladder to hell and what is the environment nudging the odds. I'm finding cases for both sides in these poems.

The love poems that don't want to remember how to give love's empty arms another name. But the homesickness when your brain is simmering an else. I love Apollinaire's humor. His tongue is in mouth and butt cheeks. It's that curious sense of humor that doesn't chase the ghosts in the eye windows. That's my favorite kind. I'm good with that kind. It leaves a space for the homesickness.

The corpses accosted me With otherworldly looks Until their faces Became undismal Earth and sky losing Their fantastic look The house of the Dead Apocalyptic memory. If everyone who has died stood up at one time. Shadows themselves, ghost themselves. Whenever a bell rings another corpse gets their earth flight. The living make friends with corpses and memory must remember friendships echo. If they died they only have to wait.

Nothing is so ennobling As having loved dead men and women You become so pure that you attain Universal Glaciers of memory You are strong enough to live You need no one The dead cannot remember them but the living can remember the dead. What if they weren't afraid of death, if they were afraid, going to these friends. This way the death and the life must be much the same. Loving is a memory. It's sad, though, like scrying for an answer to a headstone or Alzheimer's patients or a child who doesn't know what you're talking about when you tell them about something you shared when they were much younger.

If they are beyond and so above it all will you care about what you cared about less. Then when they leave you you've only got silent shells. I love the risk in following the living brain wants. The sun is ended and your hiding place is an incurable appetite. Maybe the past is a door that only opens some of the time. It's like a magical world in a novel. The way back that worked one time is a stranger now. You could feel like shit about it and it still won't budge. The future is a looming sky painting kind of door. It's just a picture unless you look at it in the right way or right time.

If they knew you they would be with you a little. I wish they would. Monster of my hearing you pule and roar Thunder is your hair Your talons sing like birds Monstrous touch perforates poisons me My eyes wash far away The virgin stars are my unproven masters The beast of stinks has a lily-head And the loveliest monster Tasting of laurel must despair The Betrothal View all 6 comments.

Dec 09, Eadweard rated it really liked it Shelves: Nov 25, Jenna rated it it was amazing Shelves: If you were never quite sure what the word "lyricism" meant, read this book. Apollinaire pays his due to formal constraints such as meter and rhyme, yet never gets bogged down by them.

Like wily Hermes with his winged sandals, Apollinaire leaps athletically from image to image as though following the directives of some wild angelic muse, rather than obeying the dictates of ordinary terrestrial logic. The result is an exciting, spontaneous, unpredictable poetry whose substance it would be impossi If you were never quite sure what the word "lyricism" meant, read this book. The result is an exciting, spontaneous, unpredictable poetry whose substance it would be impossible to render as mere prose. Moreover, Apollinaire is such a master of his medium that his heart-wringingly romantic vision is never obscured by the poetic techniques he uses to express it.