To Catherine Pozzi
Twentieth-century French metaphysical poet and a lover of Paul Valéry;
she died from pulmonary tuberculosis in 1934, leaving behind 6 poems.
Ever you would the sullen blooms on altars
Give to this gappy obliterate hole, the praise you’ve only so
Many names for: all of them mean: gone-away
Woman. You’re best
at nothings, vanishings, the shape of joy is
White star-poems. – ever just some light or air. not lots.
Scopolamine for the real, medical
Pain: needle patterns should be
Elsewhere (these maps tell such bare-faced lies), medical veins
A red herring. the marks ought to be where Paul
Lifted up your hair (in both his hands) – woman, out of your
Head on the tb
Painkillers, (in your poems he’s often vous)
Dying a bit in this French night-train: for
Some reason still bothering to sing a few
New lines to yourself, god alone knows why.
© Chloe Stopa-Hunt, 2011
- Date June 19, 2015
- Tags Chloe S-H Catherine Pozzi