"White Piano holds an acute sense of what poetry is, its danger. . . . Brossard knows well that 'life is only good for living' and that living is incarnated in the material of language, that sounds, those carriers of sense, can propel it in front of the world." – Le Devoir
Between the verbs quivering and streaming, White Piano unfolds its variations like musical scores. Pronouns and persons, poetry and prose: White Piano, superbly translated from the French, narrates a constellation of questions and offers a "language that cultivates its own craters of fire and savoir-vie."
Nicole Brossard is one of North America's foremost practitioners of innovative writing.
About the Author and Translators Colophon ABOUT THIS BOOK Between the verbs quivering and streaming, White Piano unfolds its variations like a musical score. With a play of resonance between pronouns and persons, between prose and poetry, and narrating a constellation of questions, this new book of poetry by the internationally renowned Nicole Brossard offers readers a ‘language that cultivates its own craters of fire and savoir-vie.’ first English edition English translation
of the face Eyelids3 don’t confuse head and face from up close it’s round easier with hair bolting horses reared up but for the neck knocked red to the ground Eyelids I all night the mouth pulses respiratory solution its own heat is what keeps it moist with cold-blooded sincerity that hems between dialogues Eyelids II now the eye’s in the nO urge to somersault in space a slow crevice anticipates its own erasure Eyelids III half a life, half a sonata white panic
dozes her face fingered by wind she says: this is devious landscape we will have to count our belongings tsunami of words with your palm you wanted to reverse fear you wanted it just as the vaporetto arrived art unfolds sketches of night deceptive pronoun effects art raises the rebellious side of words scolded in Emma’s head once again we thought of all that water fleeing we spoke of tables overturned of crimson dresses gone to pink under crumbling ceilings anyway we
that chafes the depth of thoughts in the plupresent of fear and ecstasy in the simple present of our intelligent tissues anon a landscape that rises like an ancient beast flexible from throat to sex capable of flight and sudden plunges of inebriate blue the present wants the present up to the ears then pain marks who is present; in the distance, cicadas phrases unfurled 2ice without infinitive at the time of the best sketches of solitude versatile migrant pauses to talk no more
morning returns and the inner world is outspread with shores of organic silence The Inside of Someone: other version okay so it’s thick with images of slow skiffs and cliffs in the midst of dead languages okay so too much absolute crashes in the gut The Inside: version3 even if no one’s there the essential rolls eager with innards and infancy draws its own lines of life anecdotes not quite cannibal even in the absence of pronouns the essential absorbs the heat of the frescoes