Mute Objects of Expression Read Online Free
Author: Francis Ponge
cushions hauled along on our backs,
Where we can only just burrow under,
Crest under wing, sometimes a foot,
Like a tramp resting on his bundles,
A traveler, head down on his valise
On a hard bench amidst the jostling . . .
You there, with your round basket, heroic brood hens,
Feathers standing on end, terror at its tips,
Do we even understand your physical distress? . . .
Light hamper easily pulverized,
Whose breastbone alone is flanked by flesh,
Stump-armed hunchback mounted on matchsticks,
Of waddling gait or hopping steps,
Shoulder feeble and forever dislocated,
Though I can spread it as a wing,
The sternum of a rachitic like a vesselâs keel
Much needed for balance in flight
But painful in a crouched position,
Anxious head, eyes wide and sometimes cataleptic,
Long supple neck, finally a bony beak covering
Very long jaws devoid of teeth.
Not a gram of fat on any limb.
In my hull Iâve stashed all away,
My gizzard filled with September seeds.
Acid gnats assure my diarrhea.
By its particular weight I know my stomach,
A stomach my wings loft to the skies
Better nerve-scribed than autumn leaves,
Articulated better than sails of a junk . . .
And I have my talons, my ferocious beak
For moments when I feel disposed to rage.
Whether I grip the branch or peck the bark,
The horn of my beak or talons equals steel.
NEW NOTES FOR MY BIRD
Once unfurled, I must take to the air,
Against a backdrop of sky, of harvests, of tilled fields,
Sleep-deprived to show off my wingspan
Which can never be studied at leisure;
And I pull myself back together again upon landing â
Limbs tucked away like blades of a pocketknife â
The top feathers settling in a way
That allows no further view of the articulations.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Other animals flee as man approaches
But only to dive into the closest burrow.
As for me, the line I inscribe on the album of the skies,
Before it fades, holds in prolonged attention
An eye thatâs anxious not to lose me in the cloudsâ crosshatching . . .
Meanwhile, in the woods, mysterious exchanges,
Intense diplomatic activity in the treetops,
Precipitate withdrawals, fearful attempts,
Brief ambassadorial jaunts, polite approaches,
And nobles deeply penetrating the leaves...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Weâre also gliders with muscular motors,
Elastics torqued up in a special way,
And are, on our own, self-catapults.
All in All There Still Remains:
1. The scattered undisciplined flocks.
2. Birds like wooden spigots that creak and squeak, that cheep and chirp . . .
Turning back to the first sentence of this notebook of observations, where I said (instinctively), âItâs very likely that we understand birds better since weâve been making airplanes,â this is how I wish to conclude:
If I have applied myself to the bird with all the attention, all the ardor of expression at my beck and call, and even at times giving precedence (through a reasoned modesty of reason) to intuitive expression over simple description or observation â that is so that we may manufacture perfected airplanes, have a better grip on the world.
We will make marvelous strides, man will make marvelous strides if he returns to things (just as we must return to the level of words in order to express things properly) and applies himself to studying them and expressing them, trusting simultaneously his eye, his reason, and his intuition, with no encumbrance to keep him from pursuing the novelties they contain â and knowing how to consider them in their essence as in their details. But at the same time he must remake them in the logos starting from the materials of the logos , which is to say speech.
Only then will his knowledge, his discoveries be solid, not fugitive, not fleeting.
Expressed in logical terms, which are the only human terms, they
Where we can only just burrow under,
Crest under wing, sometimes a foot,
Like a tramp resting on his bundles,
A traveler, head down on his valise
On a hard bench amidst the jostling . . .
You there, with your round basket, heroic brood hens,
Feathers standing on end, terror at its tips,
Do we even understand your physical distress? . . .
Light hamper easily pulverized,
Whose breastbone alone is flanked by flesh,
Stump-armed hunchback mounted on matchsticks,
Of waddling gait or hopping steps,
Shoulder feeble and forever dislocated,
Though I can spread it as a wing,
The sternum of a rachitic like a vesselâs keel
Much needed for balance in flight
But painful in a crouched position,
Anxious head, eyes wide and sometimes cataleptic,
Long supple neck, finally a bony beak covering
Very long jaws devoid of teeth.
Not a gram of fat on any limb.
In my hull Iâve stashed all away,
My gizzard filled with September seeds.
Acid gnats assure my diarrhea.
By its particular weight I know my stomach,
A stomach my wings loft to the skies
Better nerve-scribed than autumn leaves,
Articulated better than sails of a junk . . .
And I have my talons, my ferocious beak
For moments when I feel disposed to rage.
Whether I grip the branch or peck the bark,
The horn of my beak or talons equals steel.
NEW NOTES FOR MY BIRD
Once unfurled, I must take to the air,
Against a backdrop of sky, of harvests, of tilled fields,
Sleep-deprived to show off my wingspan
Which can never be studied at leisure;
And I pull myself back together again upon landing â
Limbs tucked away like blades of a pocketknife â
The top feathers settling in a way
That allows no further view of the articulations.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Other animals flee as man approaches
But only to dive into the closest burrow.
As for me, the line I inscribe on the album of the skies,
Before it fades, holds in prolonged attention
An eye thatâs anxious not to lose me in the cloudsâ crosshatching . . .
Meanwhile, in the woods, mysterious exchanges,
Intense diplomatic activity in the treetops,
Precipitate withdrawals, fearful attempts,
Brief ambassadorial jaunts, polite approaches,
And nobles deeply penetrating the leaves...
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Weâre also gliders with muscular motors,
Elastics torqued up in a special way,
And are, on our own, self-catapults.
All in All There Still Remains:
1. The scattered undisciplined flocks.
2. Birds like wooden spigots that creak and squeak, that cheep and chirp . . .
Turning back to the first sentence of this notebook of observations, where I said (instinctively), âItâs very likely that we understand birds better since weâve been making airplanes,â this is how I wish to conclude:
If I have applied myself to the bird with all the attention, all the ardor of expression at my beck and call, and even at times giving precedence (through a reasoned modesty of reason) to intuitive expression over simple description or observation â that is so that we may manufacture perfected airplanes, have a better grip on the world.
We will make marvelous strides, man will make marvelous strides if he returns to things (just as we must return to the level of words in order to express things properly) and applies himself to studying them and expressing them, trusting simultaneously his eye, his reason, and his intuition, with no encumbrance to keep him from pursuing the novelties they contain â and knowing how to consider them in their essence as in their details. But at the same time he must remake them in the logos starting from the materials of the logos , which is to say speech.
Only then will his knowledge, his discoveries be solid, not fugitive, not fleeting.
Expressed in logical terms, which are the only human terms, they
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