Translated Extracts from Chantal Danjou

By and | 1 February 2019

Rehabilitation of the Inferno
If Yellow


an odour of cut grass
she who walks falters
land of deceiving linearity
like creases in a pillow
black and white slumber
one foot in a dream the other harried
bust opening its closet
of emotions closet turned display case
where butterflies sleep
structure of the void that inhabits us
odour of blanched grass
shadow of the elder tree adds moistness
flash of salt pans
butterflies disrupting contours
vertigo yet again
she who walks the we
takes us here and there
unpetals poppies
behind her orchard limbs of the absolute
paralyse slowly O ending of the body
at the end of the dream frame of us
tangible of some hidden path where to rest
then colza seemingly green-yellow
yellow! Then odour with no colza no orchard
no shade neutralised world

broom on the side of the roads
what being is held deep down?
Neither fauna nor flora nor mineral nor human
this and that such brilliant designations
so bright that the dark cave preceding
has paled that genera gyrate
that yellow gets louder and louder!
Ah! Superb and crowned are the living
marching from no longer marching
this from shade that from light
luminous voice crossing borders
rhythm of bushes this-that
thick as stars
death-their slowly falling to…
What well masks the asphalt?
What sieve collects yellow after yellow?
Gobble-beauty broom wings cut out
in blue too blue beam of lines
silence-chronicle bend and…
swan-roads-their blacks
sailing towards the fire
lied-shape lied-shape
landscape compression
capital letters under anvil
bottles cans clinking

under the marquee that dances?
That stopped dancing?
Big wind Thing
creeps in abstractions
sometimes thereby amplified
sometimes spreading a veil of dust
or catching fire or unmasking a human
shape its leg arm leg arm
diurnal elasticity night tension
love Thing too
jackets thrown onto embers
gyre or eclipse Thing
when will you engage with that which dances?
Faces pierce the dark
hanging like festive lanterns
light footed monsters are born
time is black as a wood stove
odour is a beautiful labyrinth
men women writhing like forests
it—other of Thing—pours stillness into jars
glasses and dishes frost shatter
the acrobat steps into fear
in the city everything is still
trees show off their fake growths

belly bared for the dance
as round as a mirror
O ballerina-dancer!
bellies turn into face spaces
ready for absorption
as if these were wings to hide in
and hands how strange
butterfly-beige cross your destinies
the marquee is that instant
when things slip or float
man held man with strings
with little flags
with gnarled branches
by the horns
through the monkey on his back
and in the end—they say—man got extinct
the Thing came back
from between foliage nights roofs
perhaps it fell
from one of those curvaceous thighs
Ah! Look at it go!
How it threatens to trip them!
How hard it is!
Enormous and shapeless
islet in the mist

does one know of any other kinship branching off
mute face with one eye always shut tighter
from dark to light patio with hydrangeas
huge flowers bit by bit transformed
into these anthropomorphic suns
these stern faces of grace
hankering after sublime hatchings
stems reaching out for the affrighted
face—how quickly they grow
to hide it! Streams course through it
from times immemorial—how old!
Centre piece of the garden like a white statue
bird song wings night out of the night
long so called supple papyri modulation
time of buzzards train coursing through fields
redolent face sagging face herb basket
train chug-chugging ever more slowly through each
contorting body—the infinite is near—hisses train
drops man in a field with mountains
in the background—see you—says the man
and the train chugs on through the valley pondering
the death by landscape of the humanoid.
At last! A sigh. Lighter, it brushes through the lavender
that used to fill fabrics and places with its fragrance

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