France
Paris
An entire generation
I’m addressing myself to the poets who were present
Friends
Apollinaire is not dead
You were following an empty hearse
Apollinaire is a magus
It was he who smiled at you from the silk flags draped from the windows
He amused himself tossing flowers and wreaths at you
While you passed along behind his hearse
Then he bought a little tricolor cockade
I saw him appear that very evening on the boulevards
He sitting astride the hood of an american truck and flourishing a huge
international flag that flew like an airplane
VIVE LA FRANCE
Time passes
Years flow past like clouds
The soldiers returned
To their homes
In their own country
And behold a new generation arises
The dream of TIRESIAS’ BREASTS comes true!
Young Frenchmen, half english, half black, half russian, a little belgian, italian,
ammanite, czech
One with a Canadian accent, another with hindu eyes
Teeth face bones joints contour gait smile
Each seems slightly foreign yet all are at home amongst us
In the midst of them, Apollinaire, like that statue of the Nile, father of waters, stretched
out with kids flowing from every part of him
Between his feet, under his armpits, through his beard
They resemble their father and diverge from him
And they all speak Apollinaire’s language