By Madeleine Monette
no beginnings
only courageous leaps
into the continuous flow of things
no before to glorify
in a false jewel-box darkness
where they hold their breath
bad habits and head packed full
evasively docile
no decisive past
that blindly predicts us
nothing but the unimaginable
and the unimagined
the real is all in the waiting
to be written on the vocal thread
vision gentle or brawny
in whose eyes?
raging or penetrating
in what corner of the earth?
where gray women
move mutely?
where girls of light
talk play smile knowingly?
struggle and negotiate
try their hand at rebellion
dance and find themselves
taller more powerful
but wronged raped doted upon?
without the walls receding much
or but seemingly
and then again?
from the wives hidden
under stones
to revenge porn’s
assaults
everything is relative
evidently
perplexed, the poet reveals
the violent divisions
the mortal boxings in
he this she that or the opposite
she counters spectacle
alerted and impatient
veins run through her words
lived life takes form there
if this unfurling is painful
kindness will survive
imagination’s ways
ugliness in itself isn’t everything
what to do with a fleeting past
more changeable than the sky
around its dried-out bones
imagining is excavation
out in the open
impelled to write
refusing clarity
choosing slips and skids
and migrations of the mind
“The whole history of the world
is in your body”
writes Kiki Smith on the walls
watching herself leave her own bit by bit
thrill of the ambiguous feminine
archetypes revised on a grand scale
from fragile skin to cosmos
the fight for life
is a quest to gather
where the other is the animal
the human tribe and
our nights’ starry sky
of women at peace
if the universe is a poem
that escapes us
no legends, no sanctuary books
no holy memories of men
but boundless existence
and tales dreams theories
with open intervals
neither this nor that nor the opposite
truth opens wide its mouth
the world is pieced together again
in the body’s intelligence
endurance of voluntary muscle
and habitable flesh
beyond rage
in vertical writing
embracing our fears
unfolds us limitlessly
the poet starts over
from confusion’s false nothing
from the silence of what just won’t come
without roots or origins
detached from power
she, the poet
"elle, la poète"
de Madeleine Monette
pas de commencements
que des sauts courageux
dans le flot continu des choses
pas d’avant à glorifier
dans le noir de faux écrins
où l’on retient son souffle
mauvais plis et tête pleine
avec une docilité floue
pas de passé décisif
qui nous prédit en aveugle
rien que l’inimaginable
et l’inimaginé
le réel n’est qu’attente
il s’écrira sur le fil de la voix
vision douce ou musclée
aux yeux de qui?
rageuse ou pénétrante
dans quel coin de terre?
là où des femmes grises
évoluent en sourdine?
là où des filles de lumière
parlent jouent ironisent?
se débattent et négocient
s’essaient à la rébellion
dansent et se découvrent
plus grandes en puissance
mais lésées malmenées adulées?
sans que reculent trop les murs
ou juste en apparence
et encore?
depuis les épouses cachées
sous les pierres
jusqu’aux assauts
de la porno-vengeance
tout est relatif
à l’évidence
perplexe la poète expose
les découpages violents
les mises en boîtes mortelles
lui ceci elle cela ou l’inverse
elle met en échec le spectacle
dans une impatience mobilisée
des veines courent dans ses mots
en eux le vécu prend forme
si le déploiement est douloureux
la bienveillance survit
aux voies de l’imagination
la laideur en soi n’est pas tout
que faire d’un passé fuyant
plus variable que le ciel
autour de ses os desséchés
l’imaginaire est une fouille
à découvert
sous l’impulsion d’écrire
se refuser à la clarté
choisir les dérapages
et les migrations de tête
si l’univers est un poème
qui nous échappe
pas de légendes ni de livres sanctuaires
pas de mémoires d’hommes sacrées
mais l’existence sans bornes
et des récits rêves théories
aux intervalles ouverts
ni ceci ou cela ni l’inverse
la vérité ouvre grand la bouche
le monde se recompose
dans l’intelligence du corps
endurance de muscle volontaire
et de chair habitable
au-delà de la colère
dans l’écriture verticale
une plongée dans nos peurs
nous déplie sans limites
la poète repart à neuf
du faux rien de la confusion
du silence de ce qui ne vient pas
sans racines ni origines
détachée du pouvoir
oui elle, la poète
The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
I am new to The Creative Process, but happy to have discovered it thanks to Hélène Cardona, whom I met through the Parliament of Francophone Women Writers. Arts and literature are essential in this often cruel and indifferent world, as they stir empathy and give us a concrete sense of our humanity, and expose gripping links between the personal and the social.
What was the inspiration for your creative work?
The French original and unabridged version of "she, the poet" was written under the title "she, the artist" for the first Arts Biennial of Rabat, Morocco, where only women artists were invited under the theme "An Instant Before the World". It was later translated and reworked as an answer to "A Call to Poets Around the Word", to protest against the repression of poets in Afghanistan, especially under the Taliban. An excerpt appeared in France in "No jail can confine your poem" ("Nulle prison n'enfermera ton poème"), in collaboration with House of Poetry in Exile (BaamDaad). As a member of the Parliament of Women Writers since its foundation in 2018, I often reflect on women's writing, in North America and elsewhere in the world.
Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation?
I'm an urban woman, and I fear for both our cities and natural world. In 2017, I created an artist book with the French artist Véronique de Guitarre, titled "La mer, au feu / A Sea Fire". The poems were written after Hurricane Sandy struck the East coast of the United States in 2012. As a post-tropical cyclone, Sandy caused a vast fire amid flooding at high tide, in a small community by the Atlantic Ocean. Not far from Manhattan, houses were flooded and on fire. Another devastating climate spasm. The impact of climate change, flush with earth and sea. As a writer, I feel that artists need to make the urgency of the situation as personal as they can, for each one of us.
