#PoetryTakeMeAway

ON THE ROAD TO SAN ROMANO

Poetry is made in a bed like love
Its rumpled sheets are the dawn of things
Poetry is made in the woods

It has the space it needs
Not this one but the one they condition

The eye of the kite
Dew on the horsetail
The memory of a steamy bottle of Traminer on a
[silver tray
A tall pillar of tourmaline by the sea
And the road of mental adventure
That climbs steeply
Stops and immediately tangles

It's not something to shout from the rooftops
It's inappropriate to leave the door open
Or to call witnesses

The fish stalls, the hedges of great tits
The tracks at the entrance of a grand station
The reflections of the two banks
The furrows of bread
The bubbles of the stream
The days of the calendar
The hypericum

The act of love and the poetic act
Are incompatible
With reading the newspaper aloud

The sense of the sunbeam
The blue gleam that links the axe blows of the woodcutter
The thread of the heart-shaped or trap kite
The rhythmic beating of the beaver's tail
The diligence of lightning
The throwing of confetti from the top of old staircases
The avalanche

The room of enchantments
No gentlemen, this is not the eighth chamber
Nor the vapors of the dormitory on Sunday night

The figures of dance performed transparently over the ponds
The delineation of a woman's body against the wall at
[ knife throwing
The clear spirals of smoke
The curve of the sponge from the Philippines
The gems of the coral snake
The passage of ivy through the ruins
She has all the time before her

The poetic embrace like the carnal embrace
As long as it lasts
Prevents the perspectives of the world's misery

André Breton