
Benjamin Péret has been lurking in my
subconscious all of my life. When I read the volume "From the Hidden
Storehouse" in the Field Translation Series from Oberlin, I entered the
frightening, hilarious room which contains my dreams' nightmares. The
English translation by Keith Hollman sizzles and the book contains
works from four other volumes by Péret, offering a rich slice of the
work by a poet who never abandoned surrealism.
Le Grand Jeu (The Big Flame) 1928
De Derrière Les Fagots (From the Hidden Storehouse) 1934
Je Ne Mange Pas De Ce Pain-Là (I Won't Stoop to That) 1936
Je Sublime (I Sublimate) 1936
Un Point C'est Tout (That's All There Is To It) 1947
The
introduction to the text by Charles Simic not only sheds light on the
shadowy world of Péret, but on the former poet laureate's own work as
well.
This website is a treasure chest full of details on the work and life of Péret.
One poem from the Oberlin collection. (May the copyright gods protect me.)
A Thousand Times
for Elsie
Among the gilded debris of the gasworks
you will find a chocolate bar that will flee at your
approach
If you run as fast as an aspirin bottle
you will end up way behind the chocolate
which upsets the countryside
like shoes with holes
on which a traveling cloak is thrown
so the passers-by aren't frightened by the spectacle
of this nudity
which makes the teeth chatter in the boxes of face
powder
and the leaves fall from trees like factory smoke-
stacks
And the train passes without stopping at the little
station
because it isn't hungry or thirsty
because it's raining and it doesn't have an umbrella
because the cows haven't come back yet
because the route isn't safe and it doesn't like
to meet drunks or thieves or cops
But if larks lined up at the kitchen doors
to be roasted
if water refused to cut the wine
and if I had five francs
There would be something new under the sun
there would be loaves of bread on castors which
would smash in the police stations
there would be nurseries for growing beards
where sparrows would raise silkworms
there would be in the hollow of my hand
a small cold Chinese lantern
gilded like a fried egg
and so light that the soles of my shoes would fly off
like a false nose
so the bottom of the sea would be a telephone
booth
where no one would ever receive a call
