‘Artaud’s Hammer': A Dissident Series Carries On


Antonin Artaud by René Char

I haven’t the voice to sing your praise, great brother
If I bent over your body which light is going to scatter
Your laugh would repel me

The affection between us, during what
We improperly call a fine storm
Falls several times, kills, digs & burns,
Then is reborn afterwards
In the softness of the mushroom.

You don’t need a wall of words
To raise your truth,
Nor sea-scrolls to anoint
Your profundity,
Nor this feverish hand that surrounds
Your wrist and lightly
Lead you to cut down a forest
Whose axe is our entrails

It’s enough—re-enter the volcano

As for us,
Since we may weep, may assume
Your relief or ask, “who’s Artaud “


From the ‘Artaud’s Hammer’ Portfolio © Gerard Bellaart
[Cold Turkey Press, 2013]

Of this cluster of dynamite from which
No particle is broken off

Nothing is changed for us,
Nothing except this chimera
Quite alive with the hell
That takes leave of our anguish

Translation David Rattray
copied 1968 by Gerard Bellaart

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