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TRACINGS by Gilles Ortlieb-Letters from Rocher Noir: Patrick Mac’Avoy
Tracés, Gilles Ortlieb, Lettres de Rocher noir. Patrick Mac’Avoy
La Revue de. Belles-Lettres. – n°2 (2012, 4 décembre)
Lacan and the English Language
Haven’t I admitted risked unpacked all of it
my obsessed male vulgarity humbly
reeled off the sleeping intimate daydreams
of glorious asses yours graceful as well
pulp filled mysterious curves
infinite delectation and contemplation
haven’t I embraced the soul of this body the body of this soul
adoration-thirst at the source of your raspberry vulva
handsome cunt of soft wool sweet wound of non-violence
night mouth of passion with sprays of shooting stars
solar orgasm amphoras of space without fear
oh in your bath of petals silk garlands
in your weakness your strength your devotion
for a moment of water of fire and totality
to become you a single instant solar
please a thousand times open your vulnerable body to me
well short of and way beyond the miserable suffering and boring mind body
marvelous body that dances comes travels and never lies
your skin of fine sand where the drawings of my palm disappear
beneath the indefatigable waves skin that diffuses life orangey glow
my country of surviving forests
I’m awaiting your first rain your song your blood
bared wet crack orchid under the moss
fascinating wild immobile flame
say will you offer me again and again
your gazelle and trout thighs
will you let me put on your sensitive slit
and the rough areola a spit of snow
a hot and pure flake and plunge my eyes
into your innocent eyes when my finger ringed with sky
plays with the bud of live coal
tomcat penis shellfish muscle
oh my tender barbarian you see I drool I wash
I lick I have neither pride nor dignity
I speak in your mouth I speak in your breast
how happy you make me to accept to welcome
my body and my raw words
fountain of insults the opposite of insults
O my accomplice against the solitudes
I inhale your breath the drug I adore
I listen deep inside you to a flower language
your breathing rolls me over turns me around
how you know how to pull on my heart at the end of its stem
gather my preciously ugly balls
and against the lips of your pussy
offer the frail bird a drink of electric life
run your sap finer than any oil
I awaken to all consistencies
nuances of tenderness eternal candle
the light of which bathes us like landscapes
in the perfect rest on the back side of orgasm
first let my folly mold exult
in your contours the arch of your back and the majestic gift
of the docile rump volume of the world of all wealth
dazzling well-rounded buttocks vase of my ecstasies
beloved bowls domes hills where I have built my house
with a view on the meadow of your back and the peninsula waist
and your face buried in its pout
under your hair puddle at twilight
yes let me nibble on the nape of your princess’s neck
my sally flushes out your essential cry
your original nature and unique timbre
your triumphal defeat unfurled like a wing
and like wings also your dancer’s legs
the nights of full moon your eternal youth
your freedom mine may you love
all who attract you and may they be
gypsies and noble Touaregs yes without neglecting me
love without measure
yes anoint me with your elegant mudra
your deep mudra your delicious orders
clouds of butterflies
and your passivity ready unnamed super intense presence
my glans in turn lotus and mango
yes the absolute encounter
yes spill the sperm and the poem inside you
lover my title of nobility
and even during sleep the vibrations continue
a part of us makes love by telepathy
yes open my chest like shutters
and my weapon my storm stomach
before nor after
to the rainbow
gaze
yes
Amour feuillage sexe racine N’ai je pas tout avoué risqué déballé ma vulgarité de mâle obsèdé humblement débité les rêves intimes éveillés endormis de culs glorieux le tien gracieux aussi courbes mysterieuses pleines de pulpe delectation et contemplation infinies n’ai je pas embrassé l’âme de ce corps le corps de cette âme adoration-soif à la source de ta vulve groseille beau con de laine douce blessure de non violence bouche de nuit de la passion aux gerbes d’étoiles filantes orgasme solaire amphore de l’espace sans peur oh dans ton bain de pétale guirlandes de soie dans ta faiblesse ta force ta devotion pour un moment d’eau de feu et de totalité pour devenir toi un seul instant soleil je t’en prie ouvre moi mille fois ton corps vulnerable en deça au delà de l’esprit corps miserable souffrant et fatiguant et chiant corps merveilleux qui danse jouit voyage et ne ment jamais ta peau de sable fin où s’effacent les dessins de ma paume aux vagues inlassables peau qui diffuse la vie lueur orange mon pays de forêts rescapées J’attends ta première pluie ton chant ton sang a nu cramouille orchidée sous la mousse fascinante sauvage flamme immobile dis m’offriras-tu encore et encore tes cuisses gazelles et truites me laisseras-tu poser sur ta fente sensible et l’aréole rugeuse un crachat de neige un flocon chaud et pur et plonger mes yeux dans tes yeux innocents quand mon doigt bagué de ciel joue avec le bourgeon de braise vive pénis de matou muscle de coquillage oh ma tendre barbare tu vois je bave je lave je lèche je n’ai ni orgueil ni dignité je parle dans ta bouche je parle dans ta gorge comme tu me fais bonheur d’accepter d’acceuillir mon corps et mes mots bruts fontaine d’injures inversion de l’injure O ma complice contre les solitudes j’inhale ton haleine ma drogue adorée j’écoute au fond de toi un langage de fleur ton souffle me roule me retourne comme tu sais tirer mon coeur au bout de sa tige receuillir mes couilles à la laideur précieuse et contre les babines de ta chatte offrir l’oiseau frêle à boire la vie éléctrique couler ta sève plus fine qu’aucune huile je m’éveille à toutes consistances nuance de la tendresse chandelle éternelle don’t la lumière nous baigne comme des paysages dans le repos parfait à l’envers de l’orgasme d’abord laisse ma folie pétrir exulter de tes galbes ta cambrure et le don majestueux de la croupe docile volume du monde de toutes richesses fesses éblouissantes épanouies vase de mes extases coupes dômes collines bien aimées avec vue sur la prairie de ton dos et la taille presqu’île et ton visage enfoui avec sa moue sous ta chevelure flaque de crepuscule oui laisse moi mordiller ta nuque de princesse ma sallie débusque ton cri essential ta nature originale au timbre unique ta défaite triomphale déployée comme une aile et comme ailes aussi tes jambes de danseuse les soirs de pleine lune ta jeunesse éternelle ta liberté la mienne puisses-tu aimer tous ceux qui t’attirent et puissent-ils être gitans at nobles Touaregs oui sans me délaisser aimer sans mesure oui sacre moi de ton mudra élégant ton mudra profond tes ordres délicieux nuées de papillons et ta passivité à point innomé présence surintense mon gland à son tour lotus et mangue oui la rencontre absolue oui déverser en toi le sperme et le poème amant mon titre de noblesse et même pendant le sommeil les vibrations continuent une part de nous fait l’amour par télépathie oui ovrir ma poitrine comme des volets et mon arme et mon ventre d’orage avant ni après à l’arc en ciel regard oui Nala (Patrick MacAvoy) Bombay, 1983
I would leave, fists in my torn pockets;
My jacket too becoming ideal;
Leaving under the sky, Muse! and I would follow you;
Oh! la! la! what splendid loves did I not dream of!
My only trousers had a big hole.
- Dreaming Little Thumb, I would scatter as I went
Rhymes. My inn was at the Great Bear.
- My stars in the sky made a sweet swishing sound
And I would listen to them, sitting on the roadsides,
On those good September evenings when I would feel dew
Drops on my forehead, like a fortified wine;
When, rhyming in the midst of the fantastic shadows,
Like lyres, I pulled the elastics
of my wounded shoes, one foot close to my heart!
Ma Bohème
Je m’en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J’allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j’étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là ! là ! que d’amours splendides j’ai rêvées !
Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
– Petit-Poucet rêveur, j’égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande-Ourse.
– Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou
Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;
Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !
Cahier de Douai (1870)
Behind its apparently simple surface, Rimbaud’s sonnet Ma Bohème, hides ulterior meanings in plain sight- meanings that are helpful for the interpretation of explicitly enigmatic poems of his, such as the sonnet Voyelles. It seems as though all Rimbaud is packed into this sonnet, which manifests the Hierogamic marriage of Heaven and Earth, at the center of several other important Rimbaud poems. Another important feature of his poetry is also front and center, something I will call outside-ness for lack of a better term- the holes in his torn pockets, the “ideal” jacket, the big hole in his trousers, the Great Bear, or Big Dipper as inn, the leaving or going “under the sky.” There is a major fantasy here of going inside the outside or filling the hole, so to speak, of finding intimacy in exteriority. The fantasy is explicitly referred to as “splendid loves” that are dreamt of, as “fantastic shadows.” The objects of the fantasy are the Muse, the constellation, with its stars rustling their petticoats, a sound that carried erotic significance in the 19th Century. In French, the adjective “doux,” stronger than “sweet” in English, leaves little doubt as to the erotic charge of this sound.
The allusion to Little Thumb, or Le Petit Poucet, a fairytale familiar to French readers, that features elements of Hansel and Gretel, Jack and the beanstalk and Puss in boots, tells the story of the youngest of seven brothers abandoned in the forest by their poverty-stricken parents, who manages to find his way back by leaving a trail of pebbles, and who eventually rescues his family from poverty by stealing an ogre’s money and seven league boots. These two occult (because buried in the story and because they relate to occult tradition) occurrences of the number seven help overdetermine the other two occult occurrences of the number in the text, the mention of September, which contains the French seven, and the Great Bear/Big Dipper, aka Septentrion, so named for the seven stars of the constellation pointing North. Now, the religious symbolism of the number seven cannot be underestimated. It represents not only the divine, but as the combination of three and four, heaven and earth, the encounter between the human and the divine, which figures mightily in Rimbaud’s Lettre du Voyant, where he calls on the poet to be Promethean, a “thief of fire.” But here, the relationship to the divine is truly a marriage, a physical union, as in the Hieros Gamos- divine sex ritually represented. Dew on the forehead in the first tercet, in a month named seven, amounts to an anointment by the divine, the dew also being compared to wine fortified by cocaine, as Vin Mariani was at the time. Dew was an important ingredient in alchemy as well, precisely because, like Mercury, it spoke of a transmission from Above to Below. Dom Pernety, in his Dictionnaire Mytho-Hermétique of 1758, states that many alchemists “consider the dew of the months of May and September the prime matter of the Hermetic work.”
The final tercet would seem to allude to Orpheus, famous for his lyre, an instrument invented by Mercury, that Orpheus perfected. The parallels between Rimbaud and Orpheus are too numerous to list here, but what better commentary on Rimbaud’s poetry in general, its Promethean ambition, its realization of the Hermetic “as above, so below” principle, than to be anointed by the divine precisely “when, rhyming amidst the fantastic shadows” and pulling his shoelaces “like lyres.” If transmuting the laces of “wounded shoes” into lyres isn’t a Hermetic operation worthy of alchemy’s mud into gold, what is? The “wounded shoes” could also allude to the wounded king or fisher king of Arthurian legend, keeper of the Holy Grail, an object reminiscent of the seven-league boots, Orpheus’s lyre, the Philosopher’s Stone, all with divine properties available to humans.
The sonnet ends on an interesting pun, and the organ associated with emotional authenticity, the heart, as though telling the reader: no irony here, this is real feeling. A flexible young man, a boy of sixteen really, is sitting by the side of the road, and in a semi-lotus like position, is tugging at his laces so hard that his foot is brought up, level to his chest, his right foot, for it to be next to his heart. But as much as his feet mattered to Rimbaud (“the man with soles of wind”) there is also another foot that relates to the heartfelt: the poetic foot, the poem’s heartbeat. French, unlike English, puts virtually the same stress on every syllable. So that, in French prosody, syllable and foot are virtually identical (I say virtually, because the last syllable of certain phrases may be stressed for rhythmic purposes) and poetic forms, like the Alexandrine, are known by the number of feet- so the term “foot” is more common in French poetry, even though there are a greater variety of feet in English, known by their specific names: Iamb, trochee, etc.
Paris, Nov., 1970, the poet Patrick Mac’Avoy, in his mid 20’s, discusses what it means to be a candidate for one of the most important literary prizes in France, the Prix Goncourt, a few days before the award.
Patrick Mac’Avoy Interview
Trans. by Jacques Houis
Subtitles added by Christian Roberts
I: Patrick Mac’Avoy, you’ve already written two novels; you have another one coming out next Spring. Does the Prix Goncourt represent something that can eventually help you?
P: No, absolutely not! The Prix Goncourt, If I had it, I would think I’d written a very, very bad book! In any case, for me it represents something essentially commercial. It concerns, let’s say, the petty bourgeoisie.
I: Let’s suppose, the Prix Goncourt Jury changes, and some leave the tribe. What would you do with it? Would you use it anyway? Would you accept it?
P: No, I think I would refuse any reward whatsoever, as I would any punishment.
I: Don’t you think that the Prix Goncourt, assuring a certain financial security, you could then write what you wanted, much more freely?
P: It would make me write turkeys. Financial security doesn’t make you create good things, anyway. You need some. But this kind of glory, very artificial in the final analysis, is worthless to a writer. On the contrary, it can sink him, especially a young one.
Mac’Avoy, Patrick. “Le Prix Goncourt Pourquoi Pour Qui?” Ina.fr. Office national de radiodiffusion télévision française. Accessed April 26, 2021. https://www.ina.fr/video/CPF10005685/le-prix-goncourt-pourquoi-pour-qui-video.html.
Quelles sont les affres de l’écrivain à quelques jours de la remise du prix Goncourt et qu’est-ce qui peut changer dans la vie de ce dernier lorsqu’il est récompensé par un tel prix. Témoignages de deux postulants Michel TOURNIER et Patrick MC AVOY.Interview de Maurice GENEVOIX se remémorant le jour de son prix pour son roman “Raboliot” et sur les avantages et inconvénients d’un tel prix. Insert d’archives de Maurice Genevoix jeune. Roland DORGELES explique comment se passent les délibérations. Armand SALACROU raconte quelques anecdotes de vote et constate le peu de répercussion sur les oeuvres préalables de l’auteur.Georges CHARENSOL explique les raisons de la création du prix Renaudot en 1925.Deux libraires évoquent l’aspect flatteur d’avoir un prix Goncourt chez soi et le responsable de la librairie poétique Jean BRETON regrette que les journalistes ne s’intéressent pas autant aux prix de poésie. Jean-Louis BORY insiste sur l’aspect éphémère du prix et sur ses dangers. Paul COLIN, prix Goncourt 1950, interroger dans ses terres se souvient. Au lendemain du prix Goncourt, témoignage de Michel TOURNIER sur son livre “le Roi des Aulnes” et sur son amour de la photographie.
Published by Editions Saint-Germain-des Prés (Collection Blanche), 1983
Jacques Houis: The Millerton Mission 