Willard Bohn Reading Apollinaires Calligrammes PDF

Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes
Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes
Willard Bohn
Bloomsbury Academic
An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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To Anita and Heather,
sans lesquelles je ne peux pas vivre
Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Acknowledgments x
Introduction 1
1 Revolution and Renewal 5

“Liens” 7
“Les Fenêtres” 11
2 Simultaneous Exercises 29
“Lundi rue Christine” 29
“Arbre” 36
“A travers l’Europe” 50
3 Miraculous Encounters 61
“Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” 61
“Un Fantôme de nuées” 79
4 Visual Poetry 93
“Lettre-Océan” 93
“La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” 107
5 The War Poetry 123

“La Nuit d’avril 1915” 124
“L’Adieu du cavalier” 132
“Dans l’abri-caverne” 137
“Océan de terre” 141
6 More War Poetry 153

“Il y a” 153
“Le Chant d’amour” 159
viii Contents
“Chevaux de frise” 162

“Tristesse d’une étoile” 167
7 Order and Adventure 173

“La Victoire” 173
“La Jolie Rousse” 187
Conclusion 195
Appendix198
Bibliography 248
Index 256
List of Illustrations
2.1 Augusta Le Baron-desves, Le Marchand de Coco, Paris,

Musée Carnavalet 43
4.1 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Lettre-Océan” 94
4.2 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Figue, l’oeillet et la pipe” 108
4.3 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou” 109
4.4 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou”
(Gallimard) 111
5.1 Canon de 75 modèle 1897 serviced by Apollinaire and his crew.
Bibliothèque de la Ville de Paris, Fonds Adéma 126
5.2 A French gas mask, Paris, Musée de l’Armée 145
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I would like to thank Chris Young and the Interlibrary Loan
staff at Illinois State University, without whose help in tracking down articles
this book could never have been written. I am also greatly indebted to Anne
Hyde Greet and Ian Lockerbie, whose edition of Calligrammes and copious
notes have been my constant companion as I analyzed these nineteen poems.
Published in 1980, it is still the best translation available and the only one that
is fully annotated. I would also like to acknowledge my debt to Claude Debon’s
diplomatic edition of Calligrammes, with its extremely useful bibliography and
notes. It not only saved me a huge amount of time but also ensured that I
did not miss anything. Finally, after forty years of teaching Calligrammes at
Brandeis University, the University of California at Santa Cruz, and Illinois
State University, I am grateful to my students for asking questions that spurred
me to dig deeper and deeper into Apollinaire’s poetry.
Introduction
The present volume examines almost all of the more demanding poems in
Calligrammes. Given its careful attention to detail and its ambitious scope,
I have had to limit it to nineteen poems. Each section examines all of the
previous scholarship for the work in question, provides a detailed analysis, and,
in quite a few cases, offers a new interpretation. Some of the poems, such as
“Arbre” and “Chevaux de Frise,” have received relatively little critical attention.
Others, such as “Les Fenêtres” and “La Jolie Rousse,” have generated many
more studies. Indeed, by 2008, when Claude Debon published her diplomatic
edition of Calligrammes, “Les Fenêtres” had become the subject of the largest
number of articles. Regrettably, it has not been possible to include an analysis
of “Les Collines.” Not only is it much too long, but several excellent studies
already exist. This book marks the one hundredth anniversary of Calligrammes,
which was published shortly before the end of the First World War. As much as
anything, it serves as a memorial to Apollinaire, who completely revolutionized
modern poetry.
Unlike the poems in my previous book Reading Apollinaire’s Alcools (2017),
which are arranged in roughly chronological order, those in the present volume
tend to follow the order in which they appear in Calligrammes. Beginning
with “Liens” in 1913 and concluding with “La Jolie Rousse” five years later,
they fall into two main groups: experimental poetry and war poetry. The poet
himself subtitled the collection Poèmes de la paix et de la guerre. Among other
things, the poems provide glimpses of Apollinaire’s personal history, from his
passionate affair with Louise de Coligny-Châtillon to his frontline courtship
of Madeleine Pagès and his eventual marriage to Jacqueline Kolb. In addition,
they chronicle Apollinaire’s eventful life at the Front, first as an ordinary
artilleryman then as a member of the infantry, where he was promoted to
2 Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes
first lieutenant. Because he only managed to join the army in December 1914,
Apollinaire was spared the horrible fate that befell so many initial volunteers.
The French army suffered the worst casualities of the entire war in August and
September, with 235,000 men dead or missing in action.1 However, the days
ahead were also filled with carnage and were equally horrendous. The Franco-
Prussian War had been fought with swords, horses, and single shot rifles. The
addition of airplanes, machine guns, and poison gas made modern warfare
a much more dangerous proposition. Although Apollinaire was wounded by a
piece of shrapnel in 1916, he was lucky to escape with his life.
From the beginning, I planned to make Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes
a collective venture. In addition to incorporating the work of previous scholars,
many of whom I knew personally, and the work of current scholars, many
of whom I also know, it includes an up-to-date review of recent Apollinaire
criticism. For nineteen poems at least, the book will acquaint future critics
with past and present scholarship, summarize the major arguments, and serve
as a point of departure for new investigations. If I have somehow failed to
acknowledge an article or an author, I apologize in advance. However, the
volume is much more than a collection of previous studies. I have subjected each
poem to a meticulous line-by-line analysis and conducted a series of dialogues
with other critics. I have also examined earlier interpetations in the light of
current knowledge and judged them accordingly. Throughout this process, my
final goal has been to illuminate each of the nineteen compositions. In more
than a few cases, the reader will find that this procedure has produced a brand
new interpretation. Since the third generation of Apollinaire scholars is already
quite active, one can look forward to more interpretations in the future.
Since one of my readers asked me to say a word about my critical
methodology, let me say that I have attempted to be completely objective.
I realize that total objectivity is an illusion, if not a myth, but at least I have
tried to be objective. While my analyses are inevitably colored by my own
predelictions, that is the unavoidable nature of literary criticism. What I mean
by “objectivity” is that I have tried to remain completely neutral, carefully
weighing competing interpretations and coming to logical conclusions. It also
means I have thought long and hard about certain problems, in many cases
disagreeing with previous analyses and proposing new ones. Finally, it means
Introduction 3
that I do not have a hidden agenda or a special brand of criticism I am trying

to promote. Like the French explication de texte, which has taught generations
of students how to read and how to think, my approach is partially text-based.
The critic’s task is to divide the text into its different parts and to show how they
work together to produce a particular effect. Unlike the traditional explication,
my approach also considers the interaction between the author, the text, and
the reader. The critic’s task is ultimately to explain how these factors contribute
to our final understanding of the poem. Although the following analyses may
appear monolithic to some readers, they are in no way intended to inhibit
further discussion. On the contrary, I hope they will serve as jumping-off
points for future discussions.
The same reader, whom I thank for his comments, was also interested in
learning about changing interpretations of Apollinaire’s work over the years.
He was concerned that my presentation of past criticism was essentially
ahistorical. One reason for that is that my analyses basically follow the French
model. Since discussion usually takes place in the present tense, a kind of
leveling occurs in which temporal differences are partially obscured. Another
reason is that my analyses strive above all to be synthetic. They combine
previous theories, suggestions, and discoveries into a kind of critical collage in
which, at least initially, each is just as important as all the others. Although this
approach makes it easier to compare and contrast certain ideas, it is inevitably
ahistorical. I should add that the poet has attracted serious interest only in
the last sixty years or so. In 1967, when I began doctoral studies under Michel
Décaudin, Apollinaire studies were merely twelve years old. Astonishingly, his
works were not even included in the national curriculum.
In retrospect, the author of Calligrammes seems a more impressive figure
than the poet who wrote Alcools. By 1918 Apollinaire’s poetic credentials were
well established. In addition, he had become a widely-respected spokesman for
modern art, the leader of the Parisian avant-garde, and an officer in the French
army. Apollinaire had re-invented visual poetry, been wounded in the war, and
had co-founded the Theater of the Absurd. Not only had he invented the term
“surrealism,” but he had also introduced the future Surrealists to each other,
who, following his death in 1918, adopted the neologism for their movement.
In France, the first few decades of the twentieth century were dominated by
two great poets: Apollinaire and Paul Valéry. Whereas the second individual
belonged to the Symbolist movement, whose star was gradually waning, the
first was destined to become the father of modern French poetry.
***
A word about French prosody may be useful for readers whose background
is in other languages and other literatures. Since French poetry has a syllabic
foundation rather than an accentual one, the length of a line is determined
by its number of syllables rather than by its number of feet as in English. The
most common lengths are octosyllables, decasyllables, and alexandrines,
which contain twelve syllables. The silent “e” at the end of a line is not counted.
Neither is the silent “e” at the end of the sixth syllable in alexandrines or after
the fourth syllable in decasyllabic poetry. These two breaks are known as the
caesura. The two segments are called hémistiches. Some of the more popular
rhyme scheme employ rimes croisées (ABAB), rimes embrassées (ABBA), and
rimes suivies—also called rimes plates (AABB). However, composing a poem
in French is more complicated than composing a poem in English. The rhymes
may have one phonetic element (rimes pauvres), two phonetic elements (rimes
suffisantes), or three phonetic elements (rimes riches). Rhymes that are too
easy, like bonheur and malheur, are called rimes banales and are discouraged.
As if that were not enough, rhymes are divided into masculine (ending with an
accented vowel) and feminine (ending with an accented vowel plus a mute “e”).
Traditionally the two rhymes are supposed to alternate. Modern French
poetry takes considerable liberties with these classic rules or, as in the case
of vers libres, ignores them altogether. This is a bare bones description. More
information can be obtained from a book such as Maurice Grammont’s Petit
Traité de versification française.
Note
1 Bruno Cabanes, Août 1914: La France entre en guerre (Paris: Gallimard, 2014), 123.
1
Revolution and Renewal
Introducing Calligrammes to the members of the Club du Meilleur Livre

in 1955, Michel Décaudin observed that, despite the volume’s astonishing
diversity, an unexpected harmony exists between all the poems.1 Serious
remarks are juxtaposed with humorous ones, gaiety with melancholy,
happiness with anxiety, tenderness with ribaldry, puns with pure poetry, the
past with the future, and tradition with the avant-garde. Despite the poems’
obvious differences, one might add, they consistently reflect Apollinaire’s
persistent optimism and his vigorous personality. His enthusiasm for life
is evident everywhere, even (especially!) in the battlefield poetry, written
under difficult conditions in the midst of unspeakable carnage. The same
observation applies to Apollinaire’s continual creativity. Besides a certain “élan
vers l’avenir,” Claude Debon identifies “une volonté sans cesse réaffirmée de
créer du nouveau” that manifests itself throughout the volume.2 Susan Harrow
also detects extensive Cubist influence as Apollinaire “probes the fractured
experience of a subjectivity shaped by quotidian events and by the desire to
wrest free of the real through fantasy and dream-work.”3
These various qualities not withstanding, the history of the reception of
Calligrammes has been rather disappointing. Published in 1918, the volume
received quite a few decent reviews but was also accompanied by widespread
incomprehension. As Claude Debon remarks, “la nouveauté du recueil et en
particulier les calligrammes sont passés sous silence ou, au mieux, considérés
avec indulgence.”4 The few reviewers who praised the book did so for all the
wrong reasons, some of them stressing its patriotism and others insisting on
its classical inspiration. Compared to Alcools, which became a classic relatively
quickly, Calligrammes failed to make much of an impression on most readers.
This unfortunate situation continued for the next eighty years and has
persisted up to the present day. Not surprisingly, the number of articles and
books published about the first volume far exceed those about the second.
Many critics found the visual poetry to be childish and the war poetry rather
boring. Following the war, in addition, many European artists and writers
adopted a conservative aesthetics—the so-called Return to Order. Europe was
exhausted economically, morally, and artistically. People yearned for a return
to normalcy: the days of endless experimentation were over. Not until the
1970s, when the second generation of Apollinaire critics came of age, did the
visual poetry begin to be taken seriously. Ignored for more years than that,
the war poetry has begun to be rehabilitated only recently.
Entitled “Ondes,” the first section of Calligrammes consists of poems
that were mostly composed during 1913 and 1914. These years witnessed a
flurry of intense experimentation as poets and painters competed to see who
could produce the most important artistic breakthroughs. Alluding to radio
waves in particular, the name evokes the telegraphic style that characterizes
the poetry in this section. As immediately becomes apparent, the prosody in
“Ondes” is much less restrictive than that in Alcools. However, Apollinaire’s
decision to eliminate punctuation dates from the previous volume. “Avec
cette suppression,” Michel Butor declares, “Apollinaire obtient une nouvelle
‘couleur’ typographique et nous oblige à une lecture différente, détachant
chaque vers.”5 Like punctuation, classical meter and classical rhyme have
also been abandoned. Incorporating different techniques, Scott Bates
notes, his synthetic style allows him to inject “even more of the twentieth
century into his simultaneous vision of it.”6 Expressing his passion for
contemporary life, Harrow adds, the poems in “Ondes” capture “the sheer
diversity of material experience.”7 Apollinaire found the poetic experiments
quite exhilarating and recalled them fondly in later years. Unfortunately,
just as he was getting into his poetic stride, they were interrupted by the
First World War. Although Apollinaire held a Russian passport, and was
thus exempt from the draft, he volunteered for the French army and was
sent to artillery school. Discussing his experimental poems in a letter to
Madeleine Pagès from the front, dated July 30, 1915, he remarked: “ils
resortissent à une esthétique toute neuve dont je n’ai plus depuis retrouvé
les ressorts.”8
Revolution and Renewal 7
“Liens”
Characterized by ambiguity and a constant oscillation between attachment and

detachment, Debon remarks, “Liens” appeared in Montjoie! on April 14, 1913—
before Apollinaire had conceived the idea of publishing a second volume of
poetry.9 Indeed, his first collection Alcools would not appear in print until six
days later. Since “Liens” is the very first poem in Calligrammes, one suspects it
was intended to serve as a preface. In actuality, as gradually becomes apparent,
it was conceived both as an introduction and as a manifesto—like “Zone” in
Alcools. Interestingly, “Liens” is the only poem in the volume that is printed
entirely in italics. Although the function of this typeface is primarily emphatic,
in French usage italics sometimes take the place of quotation marks. With a
little effort one can imagine Apollinaire uttering the words himself. Addressing
the reader personally, he confides his most intimate thoughts.
Cordes faites de cris
Sons de clochers à travers l’Europe

Siècles pendus
Rails qui ligotez les nations

Nous ne sommes que deux ou trois hommes
Libres de tous liens
Donnons-nous la main.
Written in free verse like so many other poems in Calligrammes, “Liens”

exemplifies the poet’s collage style. Sentences and stanzas are abruptly
juxtaposed with each other like objects in a Cubist painting. Continuing the
theme announced by the poem’s title, the first five stanzas illustrate various
kinds of bonds. To Debon, the cords recall a poem by Paul Fort, while the cries
evoke Baudelaire’s “Les Phares.”10 Mario Richter signals their resemblance to
lines of verse, especially those printed in italics as in “Liens.”11 As several critics
have pointed out, the poem’s title is ambiguous. Do the “liens” in question
constitute a positive force, one wonders, or a negative force? Do they represent
connections or constraints? Garnet Rees believes Apollinaire was trying to
free himself from Alcools and thus that the bonds represent “constrictions
on the poet.”12 According to Timothy Mathews, however, “Liens” and “Les

Fenêtres” announce that the poet’s latest project is “not a headstrong rejection
of the experience encountered in Alcools.”13 On the contrary, he maintains,
Apollinaire seeks to transform this experience into a poetry that reflects a
different world filled with new demands. Seen in this light, the “liens” would
seem to exert a unifying force on Europe and the world in general.
Regardless of the scenario one chooses, the poem’s ambiguity continues
unabated. The first three “liens” are purely metaphoric. Because the cries and
bells can be heard throughout Europe, Apollinaire compares them to cords
binding the continent together. They are something every country shares
with its neighbors. Counterbalancing the two spatial metaphors, the “siècles
pendus” introduce a temporal metaphor. Linked together historically to form
a chain, the centuries seem to be hanging vertically like a string of dead bodies.
Since the experiences they embody are in the past, and thus “dead,” Apollinaire
compares them to hanged men dangling from a gibbet. Perhaps this is the
source of the cries uttered in the first line. As Greet and Lockerbie observe,
lines 2 and 3 suggest the simultaneity of space and time in the modern world.14
Similarly, Richter concludes that the cords are “corde spazio-temporale.”15
Whereas the sound of the cries expands horizontally, the bells are hanging
vertically like the hanged men. The same critic notes that “Cordes faites de
cris” could conceivably refer to vocal cords or even to stringed instruments.
Nevertheless, the poem’s ambiguity refuses to disappear. Are the cries in the
first line cries of pleasure, one wonders, or are they cries of pain? Are the bells
in the second line celebrating a wedding, or are they sounding a death knell?
There is simply no way to be sure.
Although the next four lines appear at first to dissolve the initial ambiguity,
they compound it still further. According to Marc Poupon, railroad tracks
extending from one country to another symbolize connection and comradeship:
“La camaraderie, mieux encore que les trains, abolit les distances.”16 Because
they link different countries together they enable goods and people to travel
easily from one region to the next. Debon concurs with Poupon’s assessment
and expands the rails’ symbolism to embrace “solidarité.”17 And yet, Mathews
observes, “rails that unite people also bind them.”18 The introduction of the
verb ligoter changes the situation dramatically. Whether the nations are
“tied up” or “tied together,” the comparison to prisoners is unavoidable. The

countries are actually constrained by the rails instead of being liberated by
them. The previous illusion of comradeship and solidarity crumbles before
our eyes. Even worse, Apollinaire boasts in the next two lines that he and a few
friends (doubtless including Picasso) are “libres de tous liens.” The traditional
bonds that hold a community together mean nothing to them. This statement
recalls a line from “Il Pleut”: “Ecoute tomber les liens qui te retiennent en haut
et en bas.” In order to liberate their creativity, Apollinaire declares, he and his
friends need to separate themselves from the stifling crowd. At this point, he
invites his companions to join hands in what, ironically, looks like a gesture
of solidarity. Although they have shed the external bonds that threatened to
suffocate them, the bonds of friendship are too precious to abandon. The next
two stanzas list additional examples of “liens”:
Violente pluie qui peigne les fumées

Cordes
Cordes tissées
Câbles sous-marins
Tours de Babel changées en ponts
Araignées Pontifes
Tous les amoureux qu’un seul lien a liés
D’autres liens plus ténus
Blancs rayons de lumière
Cordes et Concorde.
Recalling “Il Pleut” once again, the first line evokes a violent storm. Besides
describing the downpour, the latter poem depicts the rain visually. At the
verbal level, Apollinaire compares the streams of rain to women’s voices,
marvelous encounters, and bonds. In “Liens,” by contrast, they resemble the
teeth of a fine-toothed comb combing through the mysterious smoke that has
suddenly materialized. “Cordes tissées” refers both to the underwater cables
in the next line and to the Spiders in line 6. Braided rather than woven, the
first telephone cable was laid between France and England in 1891. Because
the cable transmits multiple voices simultaneously, Apollinaire compares it to
a horizontal Tower of Babel that bridges the gap between different countries.
“Pontife” derives from the Latin for “bridge builder” and thus continues the
previous metaphor. Employing an image that occurs elsewhere in Apollinaire’s

writings, the last line gives the metaphor a ribald twist. The single bridge that
springs up between lovers all over the world, he jokes, is the “pont de chair”
that joins them together while they are making love.
Composed of only three lines, the next stanza adds another example to the
list: sunbeams. Following the violent rain storm, the sun appears and bathes
the scene in its light. Night gives way to day and darkness to light. The scene
recalls Noah’s experience following the Flood. Connecting heaven and earth,
sunlight is a more tenuous “lien” but one endowed with tremendous symbolic
value. According to the Bible, Richter reminds us, it is the origin of life itself.19
Like flame, moreover light was one of Apollinaire’s favorite symbols. “J’aime
l’art d’aujourd’hui,” he proclaimed in Les Peintres cubistes, “parce que j’aime
avant tout la lumière.”20 The wordplay between “Cordes” and “Concorde” in
the last line groups all the “liens” together and introduces a note of harmony.
Despite their obvious differences, they have a great deal in common. Citing
a line from “La Chanson du mal-aimé,” Richter compares them to strings
on a solar lyre.21 In addition, Debon believes the final lines “ceignent l’avenir
d’une aura mystique.”22 The world will experience a brand new harmony, she
concludes, reflecting and perhaps inspired by new forms of communication.
The last two stanzas introduce an entirely different subject:
J’écris seulement pour vous exalter

O sens ô sens chéris
Ennemis du souvenir
Ennemis du désir
Ennemis du regret
Ennemis des larmes
Ennemis de tout ce que j’aime encore.
These lines are surprising to say the least. After combining the “liens” in
a harmonious vision stressing their commonality, Apollinaire reminds us
that he and his friends detest “liens.” They have freed themselves from the
demands of society and the world in general, presumably by withdrawing into
their poetry or, in Picasso’s case, his art. The next step requires that they free
themselves from themselves—from the demands imposed by their minds and
their bodies. The first two lines describe the strategy Apollinaire has adopted
himself. Hoping to obliterate his past, he concentrates all his attention on
his five senses: sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell. His poetry is devoted
exclusively to his physical sensations. As Philippe Renaud declares, “il montre
une détermination très nette de s’installer au coeur du présent.”23 Memory,
desire, regret, and tears have become Apollinaire’s enemies. Interestingly, Rees
points out, these used to represent major sources of inspiration.24 His obsession
with living in the present moment is entirely new. The problem, as critics have
generally recognized, is that Apollinaire’s project requires him to completely
re-make himself, to completely restructure his personality—a difficult plan at
best. Renaud characterizes it as “un refus de la profondeur psychologique.”25
The very last line is crucial in this regard. It is also extremely ironic. Striving to
rid himself of the impediments he has just enumerated, Apollinaire discovers
he is still strongly attracted to them. For this reason Margaret Davies finds the
last section full of nostalgia.26 The real theme of the poem, Greet and Lockerbie
conclude, is “divided sensibility.”27 In their view, the final line confirms the title’s
ambivalence. Despite his best efforts, Apollinaire is ultimately betrayed by his
own emotions. In the last analysis, the poem is not ironic so much as tragic.
“Les Fenêtres”
Captivated by Robert Delaunay’s prismatic views of airplanes and Parisian

landmarks, Apollinaire accompanied the artist to Berlin in January 1913,
for an exhibition of his paintings at the Der Sturm Gallery. At Delaunay’s
request, he had composed a poem for the exhibition’s catalogue, which also
appeared in Poème et Drame the same month. By this time, Apollinaire had
become familiar with the painter’s theories and with his principal themes.
The two men had spent hours and hours discussing these subjects. Since
the poem was intended to celebrate Delaunay’s art, Apollinaire chose a title
that emphasized his artistic vision: “Les Fenêtres.” Like windows themselves,
the metaphor implies, Delaunay’s paintings are transparent rather than
opaque. Viewers do not look at them so much as through them. However, the
comparison is not with sash windows—windows that slide up and down—but
with casement windows, windows hinged at the side that open outward. The
entire poem revolves about this central metaphor, which is repeated twice
more for emphasis. Like Delaunay’s paintings, “Les Fenêtres” opens outward
to encompass the entire world.28
Interestingly, the nineteen works at the Der Sturm Gallery included a
series of paintings organized around the very same theme: Les Fenêtres
(three paintings), Les Fenêtres simultanées, Les Fenêtres-simultanéité, Fenêtres
ouvertes simultanément, Fenetres, Les 3 Fenêtres, and La Fenêtre sur la ville, no
3.29 Although Apollinaire had finished the poem before arriving in Berlin, one
suspects the title refers to this group of pictures. However, Delaunay himself
claimed on two separate occasions that “Les Fenêtres” was indebted to a single
work.30 Unfortunately, he identified a different painting each time. Writing in
1913, he claimed the poem was “influenced” by Fenêtre sur la ville (1911–12),
which he described as the “premier germe de la Couleur pour la couleur.”
Eleven years later, he claimed it was “inspired” by a painting entitled Fenêtres
simultanées (1911). “C’est un des premiers documents de poème simultané”
he added, “et le premier poème sans ponctuation.” Both works appear to
have been included in the Berlin exhibition. Regrettably, since the artist used
many of the same titles over and over, it is impossible to identify either one
with any certainty. In defense of Delaunay’s claim, the poem only mentions a
single window, which opens on line 12 and provides a spectacular conclusion.
Nevertheless, the title of the poem is undeniably plural. “Les Fenêtres” evokes
multiple windows—the window in the poem, the windows in other paintings
by Delaunay, and windows in general.
Following his experience with “Zone,” composed slightly earlier, Apollinaire
decided to employ a similar style in “Les Fenêtres”—with some important
differences. Although contemporary readers found the first poem shocking
and thoroughly disorganized, its prosody was fairly traditional. Most of the
verses not only rhymed but resembled alexandrines. Impressed by Delaunay’s
bold new vision, Apollinaire created an unrhymed verse form that was
equally daring. This was not blank verse, as Renée Linkhorn claims, but a
kind of exacerbated free verse.31 The number of syllables was not fixed, and
the rhythm varied greatly from one line to the next. Linkhorn herself divides
“Les Fenêtres” into three sections: lines 1–9, lines 10–32, and lines 33–36 (the
conclusion). However, this division ignores the decisive break after line 23,
when the scene shifts abruptly to the Caribbean. As will become apparent, the
poem falls neatly into two unequal halves.
Much, probably far too much, has been written about the origin of “Les
Fenêtres.” André Billy claimed Apollinaire wrote it in a café with the help
of several friends, Delaunay that he composed the poem in his studio.32
What interests us here is not the work’s origin but rather the shape it finally
assumed. Writing to Madeleine Pagès on July 30, 1915, Apollinaire declared
“j’aime beaucoup mes vers depuis Alcools . . . et j’aime beaucoup, beaucoup
‘Les Fenêtres.’”33 Since this was the first poem to employ his revolutionary new
style, his pride was certainly understandable. At first glance, “Les Fenêtres”
resembles a shopping list more than a poem. Written in a bare, telegraphic
style, it is characterized by concision and brevity. Each line consists of a single
isolated phrase, often lacking a verb, which is juxtaposed with two equally
isolated lines above and below. With few exceptions, each line is totally isolated
on the page. There are no conjunctions or other grammatical devices to link
various themes and motifs together. In an earlier letter sent to Madeleine
on July 1, 1915, Apollinaire confided: “J’ai fait mon possible pour simplifier
la syntaxe poétique et j’ai réussi en certains cas, notamment un poème: ‘Les
Fenêtres.’”34
Like many of the poems in Calligrammes, “Les Fenêtres” is informed by a
cubist aesthetic. For better or worse, no fixed points of reference exist to orient
the reader. Allusions to the future, the present, and the past mingle with little
regard for each other. The kaleidoscopic passage of events is recorded in hasty
notations and dislocated phrases. Space and time are telescoped one moment
then expanded the next. As Greet and Lockerbie note, external elements play an
unusually large role in “Les Fenêtres.”35 The poem sometimes seems to consist
entirely of objects, puns, and bits of conversation. Maciej Zurowski is struck
by its resemblance to Cubist collages, which incorporate postage stamps, bits
of newspaper, and printed material.36 In both cases, Mathews interjects, the
objects “remain open-ended, nobody’s possession and mastered by nobody.”37
One of the poem’s most astonishing aspects, Debon adds, is “l’impossibilité
d’assigner une origine à l’énonciation.”38 Although disembodied voices are
heard from time to time, none of them seem to be identifiable—least of all
the narrator’s voice. Words simply materialize on the page with no indication
of their origin or, for that matter, their destination. For all practical purposes,
“Les Fenêtres” has no narrator—disembodied or otherwise. The poem is an
objective portrait of a world in which Apollinaire is conspicuously absent.
Although some critics persist in calling “Les Fenêtres” a “poème-conversation,”
Margaret Davies remarks, “this is not strictly true.”39 While it may contain
snatches of conversation—and this is far from certain—at best they are only
snatches. The bulk of the poem is concerned with other things entirely. Debon
insists the term should really be applied to a poem like “Lundi rue Christine,”
which consists in large part of spoken dialogue.40 “Les Fenêtres” is best described
in more general terms—as a “simultaneous poem.” Not only was Delaunay the
first person to see Apollinaire’s finished composition, but he was also the first to
name it. “C’est un des premiers documents de poème simultané,” he announced,
applying a term he had previously reserved for his painting. Ian Lockerbie defines
simultanism (or simultaneity) as “la juxtaposition dynamique d’éléments qui,
dans le monde réel, sont séparés.”41 Debon expands this definition to include
actions that take place at different times or in different locations. “Il s’agit . . . de
rompre avec la linéarité temporelle du discours, ou de la narration, pour aplatir
en quelque sorte le temps.”42 K. R. Dutton’s definition is oriented more toward
practice than theory. According to him, poetic simultanism requires three
things: the absence of punctuation, simplified syntax, and puns.43 By contrast,
Apollinaire’s definition was much simpler. Discussing Delaunay’s paintings in
December 1912, he concluded: “cette simultanéité, c’est la vie même.”44
Not only was “Les Fenêtres” Apollinaire’s first simultaneous poem, Delaunay
proclaimed, but it was also his first poem with no punctuation.45 Interestingly,
he deleted the punctuation marks in Alcools at about the same time. Since
the manuscript had already gone to the printer, Apollinaire waited for the
proofs before carrying out his plan—in early November 1912.46 Much has
been written about his shocking decision, which received widespread publicity
when Alcools appeared in print. Many of the reviewers paid more attention
to this disquieting feature than to the poetry itself. Among the possible
models that could have persuaded Apollinaire to take this drastic step, Michel
Décaudin cites Stéphane Mallarmé, Georges Rouault, and F. T. Marinetti,
among others, who also dispensed with punctuation at one time or another.47
Critics have claimed that Apollinaire wanted to make a big splash when
Alcools was published, which is probably true. More than anything, however,
he was concerned with how the volume would be perceived. Eliminating the
punctuation was one way to stress the poetry’s modernity.
That Alcools and “Les Fenêtres” were subjected to the same operation at
practically the same time is provocative to say the least. Although definitive
proof remains to be discovered, the poem seems to have been the first to
undergo this treatment. The abolition of punctuation was part—and only
part—of a larger program by Apollinaire to develop a brand new style. Struck
by the radical nature of Delaunay’s art, which he had been commissioned to
celebrate in “Les Fenêtres,” Apollinaire created an equally radical poetic genre—
the poème simultané. Although this is not the place for a detailed comparison,
the two aesthetics had more than a few things in common. Traditional
perspective was banished in both the paintings and the poems, for example.
While much of Delaunay’s art was representational, moreover, it was far from
realistic. His experiments with prismatic colors, in particular, allied him to the
abstract painters. Simultaneous poetry also oscillated between representation
and abstraction. Isolated on the page and removed from their original context,
the seemingly random phrases ceased to have much meaning. In retrospect,
Delaunay’s impact on Apollinaire’s poetry seems to have been much greater
than anyone has imagined. Not only did the experience encourage the poet to
revise Alcools, but it supplied him with both the style and the inspiration he
needed to write Calligrammes.
Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt
Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales
Abatis de pihis
Il y a un poème à faire sur l’oiseau qui n’a qu’une aile
Nous l’enverrons en message téléphonique
Traumatisme géant
Il fait couler les yeux
Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises
Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche
Tu soulèveras le rideau
Et maintenant voilà que s’ouvre la fenêtre
Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière
Beauté pâleur insondables violets

Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos
On commencera à minuit
Quand on a le temps on la liberté
Bigorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l’Oursin du couchant
Une vieille paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre
Tours
Les Tours ce sont les rues
Puits
Puits ce sont les places
Puits.
As Lockerbie proclaims, “Les Fenêtres” is one of Apollinaire’s most ambitious

and most calculated poems.48 To be sure, Delaunay’s take on simultanism
differed considerably from Apollinaire’s. The only simultaneity that interested
the artist was the simultaneous contrasts of complementary colors. “Le
contraste simultané,” he told the poet, “assure le dynamisme des couleurs et
leur construction . . . dans le tableau et il est le moyen le plus fort d’expression
de la réalité.”49 Scientists have proven that Delaunay was correct. Juxtaposing
two complementary colors makes each one appear brighter. On the whole, “Les
Fenêtres” reflects Apollinaire’s desire to achieve the same purity that Delaunay
had achieved in painting. More particularly, it represents an attempt to adapt
the latter’s artistic technique to poetry. Convinced that the poem proceeds
phonetically, Rosanna Warren and Beatrice Waggaman treat it like a musical
score.50 On the contrary, Zurowski explains, “Les Fenêtres” advances by means
of simultaneous contrasts like those in Delaunay’s paintings.51 The first line
would seem to bear him out: “Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt.”
According to nineteenth century color theory, Greet and Lockerbie
explain, red set down next to yellow introduces a “dissonance.”52 Michael L.
Rowland is more explicit. “Red juxtaposed with yellow produces a sensation
not only of orange, their intermediate color, but also of green, which is red’s
complementary.”53 Thus “le jaume se meurt” could mean something like “the
yellow deteriorates.” However, another interpretation is equally possible. The
colors in the spectrum are arranged as follows: red, orange, yellow, green, blue,
indigo, violet. Since red is at the left end, yellow in the third position, and green
to its right, yellow (like orange) will “fade away” as the eye moves from left to
right and vice versa. It will only be visible for a moment.54 The traditional color
wheel contains three complementary pairs, only two of which are present in
“Les Fenêtres.” Red and green are contrasted in lines 1 and 35; yellow and violet
in a complex series of interactions involving lines 1, 6, 13, and 18. Clark claims
the ambiguous “traumatisme géant” (line 6) is a wound of some sort and thus
red.55 However, it more likely represents a purplish bruise and thus anticipates
the “insondables violets” on line 13. Bergman believes the “lumière” in line 12
is yellow, which would create even more contrasts with violet.56
Although “Les Fenêtres” contains a number of references to Delaunay’s art,
Greet and Lockerbie point out, it is largely concerned with the poet’s reaction
to his art.57 Because Apollinaire is the poem’s author, one automatically
assumes—rightly or wrongly—that the first words and thoughts are his.
Evoking Delaunay’s fascination with prismatic effects, the first line reminds
Apollinaire of flashy macaws flying about a tropical rain forest. Greet and
Lockerbie inform us that the birds come in three models: blue and yellow, red
and blue, and red and green.58 Echoing the first line, those in “Les Fenêtres”
exemplify the third model—and contribute yet another simultaneous contrast
to the poem. In turn, the macaws remind Apollinaire of mythical Chinese pihi
birds, encountered previously in “Zone,” who fly in couples, since each has
only a single wing. One of my readers suggested that “pihi” could be read as a
verbal icon with the two dots representing the eyes, and the letter “h” the body,
of this flying bird couple. Abat(t)is continues to bedevil translators because it
signifies several different things. Since two of these are “heaps” and “slaughter,”
the line probably means something like “Heaps of dead pihis.” What happened
to them is difficult to say. That they are all piled together, however, suggests
they were killed by human beings. Following a procedure Pierre Brunel calls
“mythocritique,” Madeleine Boisson claims the first seven lines describe a
sunset.59 In reality there are only two dead pihis, she claims, which represent
“les deux yeux du soleil . . . crevés.”
What a great poem the pihis would make, Apollinaire thinks to himself,
written in a telephonic rather than a telegraphic style. After all a modern poem
deserves to be transmitted by a modern device. Or perhaps Apollinaire speaks
these lines out loud instead of merely thinking them. The presence of “Nous”
in line 5 suggests he could even be talking to someone else. Or perhaps this

person is talking to him. Or the lines could conceivably be uttered by each of
them in turn. Without providing any answers, the poem encourages readers
to consider multiple possibilities simultaneously. In the best modern tradition,
“Les Fenêtres” is riddled with ambiguity and indeterminacy. Although
Apollinaire created the physical text, it is the reader who will construct the
final poem. Metaphor introduces a certain amount of ambiguity as well. “Il
fait couler les yeux” generates two possible interpretations involving cause and
effect. At the realistic level, a painful bruise appears to be making someone
cry. At the figurative level, John Wesley Cameron notes, Delaunay’s beautiful
violet effects seem to be moving someone to tears.60 Little by little it becomes
clear that the poem is situated in the artist’s studio—where most, if not all, of
it was in fact composed. Apollinaire’s thoughts and observations are generated
by pictures hanging on the wall.
Regrettably, nothing is known about the girls from Turin or the man sporting
the white tie. Uttered by an anonymous voice, “Voilà” indicates that the speaker
actually sees the girls, that they are not merely products of his imagination.
Since the curtain is drawn, preventing anyone from looking outside, the girls
must be in the studio somewhere. As in “1909,” one suspects Apollinaire is
looking at an illustrated calendar. Why the latter should remind him of the
unfortunate young man, however, is more difficult to explain. Perhaps the
calendar is left over from the previous year (1911), when Apollinaire spent a
week in jail after returning two statuettes an acquaintance had stolen from the
Louvre.61 Viewed in this light, there is a strong possibility that the young man
is Apollinaire himself. Judging from newspaper photographs, he seems to have
been wearing a white tie when he was arrested.
Again evoking Delaunay’s paintings, the next four lines are deliberately
ambiguous. They may represent speech, Apollinaire’s thoughts, or a combination
of the two. That the main verb is in the future is initially puzzling, but this
construction can sometimes be employed as a neutral imperative. Lifting the
curtain, someone merely called “tu” pushes the window open and reveals the
scene outside. There are three possibilities. The action may have been performed
by another person, by Apollinaire (addressing himself in the third person),
or even by the reader. As Linkhorn comments, “la fenêtre ouverte prend des
valeurs multiples: c’est la fenêtre de la chambre et aussi celle de l’esprit.”62 The

gesture reverberates on at least three levels: realistic, metaphoric, and, for
lack of a better word, ultra-metaphoric. The window is an actual window first
of all before coming to represent Delaunay’s paintings. And, since “tu” may
theoretically designate the poem’s reader, the window may also represent the
composition itself. The next two lines describe what awaits the viewer who
opens Delaunay’s artistic window he or she can expect to encounter purple
hues whose depths are inexhaustible. Like spiders, Apollinaire adds, the artist’s
hands are adept at spinning light into violet silk.
Although they look perfectly straight-forward, lines 14–16 are among the
most difficult verses to explicate. Not only is there a total lack of context, but
there is no indication as to who is speaking. “Nous tenterons en vain de prendre
du repos” could possibly refer to Apollinaire’s week in jail, during which the
bright lights were kept on all night. Juxtaposed with the following line, however,
it recalls a similar passage in “Lundi rue Christine” where several individuals
are planning to commit a crime later that night. Like those lines, they sound
as if they were spoken aloud and overheard by Apollinaire. They also bolster
André Billy’s claim that “Les Fenêtres” was written, at least in part, in a café.
Line 16 introduces the first of several puns in the poem: “Quand on a le temps
on a la liberté.” As Greet and Lockerbie note, this is both a serious statement
and a jeu de mots.63 Speaking from experience, Apollinaire knew how difficult
it was to find the free time in which to write poetry. On another level, since Le
Temps and La Liberté were Parisian newspapers, he implies that they are basically
indistinguishable.
Like Delaunay’s paintings, the final seven lines present a series of simultaneous
contrasts. Thoughts, observations, and impressions are combined in a sort of
mental collage. The first line juxtaposes a fish, several kinds of shells, and a sea
urchin to create a marine still-life. Found all along the Normandy coast, for
example, “bigorneaux” are small whelks with spiral shells. They are eaten raw
in the shell using a pin to pry out the meat. “Lottes” can be found both in fresh
water, where they are called “burbots,” and in salt water, as in this case, where
they are known as “monkfish” (among other things). Although the “soleils”
could theoretically be sunfish, the latter live in fresh water. As Cameron has
discovered, the reference is to a species of mollusk, including scallops, whose
shell exhibits a sunburst pattern.64 Since the latter resembles the rising sun,
they are known colloquially as “coquilles soleil.”
Interestingly, the sea urchin that completes Apollinaire’s series evokes the
setting sun. In both cases, the scene is bathed in an orange light that anticipates
the poem’s conclusion. Since the urchin itself is purple, moreover, it adds to
the interplay between violet and yellow. According to Delaunay, the image was
inspired by a sea urchin skeleton in his studio, leaving one to wonder if that
describes the whelks and the other shells as well. Clark and Kay both suggest
that “oursin” also refers to the Little Dipper, although the time of day hardly
seems propitious.65 Despite an attempt by Clark to give all four images the
circular shape of the sun, only the last two fit that description: the mollusks
and the sea urchin. A text by Empedocles, however, provides an additional
connection between urchins and the sun.66 Cameron conjectures that the salt
water still-life was inspired by a display of seafood Apollinaire passed on his
way from the café, where he apparently began the poem, to Delaunay’s studio.
Like the girls from Turin, however, it could just as well have been suggested by
a picture on the studio wall. According to Delaunay himself, finally, the pair of
yellow boots under the window were his. The remaining lines were inspired by
various Delaunay paintings featuring the Eiffel Tower. The Berlin exhibition,
for instance, included works entitled: Les Tours, Les Tours de Notre-Dame, La
Tour et la Roue, and La Tour Rouge.67
Up to this point, “Les Fenêtres” has concentrated on the studio’s interior.
Nevertheless, the window does not open just onto the artist’s paintings, it
also opens onto the world outside. Approaching the window, at least in his
imagination, Apollinaire gazes out at the Eiffel Tower and down at the streets
below. Fittingly, since the monument is depicted in multiple paintings by
Delaunay, he sees multiple towers and wells. More than anything else, he is
intrigued by the way a change in perspective can alter an object’s appearance.
Seen from an elevated angle, for example, a street receding into the distance
can appear to have the same shape and proportions as a pointed tower. René
Magritte would illustrate this astonishing fact years later in Euclidian Walks
(1955). The multiple towers in “Les Fenêtres,” it turns out, are mainly multiple
streets. The multiple wells are actually public squares seen from high overhead.
Ever vigilant, Linkhorn detects several puns that foreshadow the list of towns
in the second half: “Tours” evokes the city in the Loire valley and “Puits” several
towns whose name begins with “Puy.”68 In addition, as previously in “La Tzigane,”
a play on words exists between “puits” and the adverb “puis.” The second half of
“Les Fenêtres” continues Apollinaire’s survey of the outside world:
Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes

Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir
Aux Chabines marronnes
Et l’oie oua-oua trompette au nord
Où les chasseurs de ratons
Raclent les pelleteries
Etincelant diamant
Vancouver
Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l’hiver
O Paris
Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles
La fenêtre s’ouvre comme une orange
Le beau fruit de la lumière.
Suddenly the scene changes, and for no apparent reason readers find
themselves transported to North America—first, to the southern United
States and then to the frozen North. As Clark has neatly demonstrated, the
characters in the first six lines and their activities were borrowed from an
anti-slavery novel by Thomas Mayne Reid entitled The Quadroon (1856).69
Apollinaire read a French translation (twice) while he was languishing in jail.
Curiously, although the action is situated in Louisiana, the translator chose to
use three terms borrowed from the French Antilles. Perhaps no other terms
were available. “Câpresses,” “Chabins,” and “Chabines” describe slaves with
one Negro parent and one Mulatto parent. Since a Mulatto is half white, they
are one-quarter Caucasian and three-quarters Negro. Although the Chabines
are supposedly the only escaped slaves (“marronnes”), this description appears
to fit them all—especially the “Câpresses vagabondes.” Freed from their former
servitude, the fugitives lead a romantic life, singing and dancing all day long.
The hackneyed conceit and racial stereotype are all too familiar. Further north,
across the Canadian border, trumpeting geese fly high overhead as rugged
mountain men prepare to tan a pile of raccoon hides. Like the escaped slaves,
these characters were all taken from The Quadroon. The expression “l’oie
oua-oua” obviously tickled Apollinaire, who liked to inject a little humor
from time to time. Combining onomatopoeia with echolalia, it represents an
amusing etymological exercise.
Beginning with the capital of British Columbia, the remainder of the poem
is sprinkled with the names of various towns. Since it is winter, Vancouver is
covered with copious amounts of ice and snow. That Apollinaire compares it to
a sparkling diamond, according to Greet and Lockerbie, suggests not only that
it is evening but also that the city lights are reflected in its facetted surface.70
This impression is confirmed by the next line, in which a snow-covered train,
windows blazing with light, streaks across the landscape trying to escape
winter. At this point, the scene shifts to Paris, where the prismatic first line
is repeated: “Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt.” Evoking Delaunay’s
paintings once again, it provides the poem with a symmetrical frame and
prepares the reader for the conclusion. No sooner has Apollinaire returned to
Paris, however, than he appears to embark on an epic journey. Paris, Vancouver,
Hyères, Maintenon, New York, and the Caribbean flash by in quick succession.
Hyères is a picturesque seaside town in Provence. Maintenon is a small town
located in the center of France. Juxtaposed with each other, they constitute an
amusing play on the words hier and maintenant.
Convinced that Apollinaire borrowed the idea of a geographical survey
from Walt Whitman, Zurowski thinks the line describes an imaginary train
trip.71 On the contrary, Boisson believes it describes an imaginary airplane
trip.72 Bergman makes no mention of a train or an airplane but disagrees
that the poet was inspired by Whitman.73 In any case, Apollinaire did not
need to look outside France for inspiration. Indeed, he did not need to look
outside Paris. The model he was seeking was provided by Delaunay, whose
works bore similar titles. Among the paintings the artist sent to the Erster
Deutsche Herbstsalon in 1913, for instance, was one entitled 4e Représentation
Simultanée: Paris New York Berlin Moscou La Tour Simultanée. Since the
medium was painting, the cities in the title were intended to be apprehended
simultaneously—like the rest of the picture. Inspired by Delaunay’s example,
Apollinaire set out to create the first simultaneous poem in which, theoretically,
everything would be experienced at the same time. There is thus no question

of visiting the cities enumerated in “Les Fenêtres,” even in the fastest airplane
available. The poem presents an instantaneous birds-eye view of the world in
which space and time have been abolished. “Quand le poète ouvre les fenêtres
de son imaginaire,” Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas explain, “il embrasse d’un
seul regard l’extrême Orient et le Nouveau Monde, à minuit l’heure zero où
convergent hier, maintenant, demain.”74
The poem concludes with a striking simile and an equally striking
metaphor. “Jusqu’à lui,” Louis Aragon declared, speaking of Apollinaire,
“personne peut-être n’avait tant aimé les images.”75 Opening the two sides of
the casement window at the same time, the poet announces, is like opening
an orange after it has been peeled. Requiring the use of both hands, the two
actions are deliberate, symmetrical, and revealing. Sporadic glimpses of the
color orange in the course of the poem culminate in a vision of an orange fruit
at the end. Although Apollinaire and Delaunay both mention “le beau fruit
de la lumière,” no one knows which one invented the phrase. For Delaunay
the expression refers to color in general, which is determined by the way light
strikes a pigment. For Apollinaire, the expression simply refers to the fruit of
the orange tree. In “Les Fenêtres,” paradoxically, the term “orange” seems to
have acquired both meanings. Like the fruit glowing with radiant energy, the
scene is suffused with a beautiful orange light. As Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas
astutely surmise, the source of this light is the sun, which is either rising or
setting (or both).76 Like the luminous orange, which is depicted as a miniature
sun, the sun itself is depicted as a giant fruit.
Notes
1 Michel Décaudin, ed., Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes (Paris: Le Club du

Meilleur Livre, 1955), 179.
2 Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 43.
3 Susan Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self: Subjectivity and
Representation from Rimbaud to Réda (Toronto: University of Toronto Press,
2004), 64.
4 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 41.
5 Michel Butor, “Préface,” in Calligrammes, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris:

Gallimard, 1966), 9.
6 Scott Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 106.
7 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 65 and 75.
8 Guillaume Apollinaire, Tendre comme le souvenir (Paris: Gallimard, 1952), 71.
10 Ibid., 56.
11 Mario Richter, “Apollinaire,” in Il Rinnovamento della scrittura poetica all’inizio
del novecento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990), 82. He speculates that the bells may
have been suggested by a similar image in Rimbaud’s “Phrases” (p. 83).
12 Garnet Rees, “From Alcools to Calligrammes,” Essays in French Literature 17
(November 1980): 31–2.
13 Timothy Mathews, Reading Apollinaire: Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 1987), 152.
14 Anne Hyde Greet and S.I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes”
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 348.
15 Richter, Apollinaire, 82.
16 Marc Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars (Paris: Minard, 1969), 29.
17 Claude Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 49.
18 Mathews, Reading Apollinaire, 152.
20 Guillaume Apollinaire, Méditations poétiques: Les Peintres cubistes (1913), in
Oeuvres en prose complètes, vol. 2, ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin
(Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 18.
22 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools”, 50.
23 Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 274.
24 Rees, “From Alcools to Calligrammes,” 32.
25 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 274.
26 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1964), 225.
27 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 348.
28 For a larger overview of the poem’s window symbolism, see Renaud, Lecture
d’Apollinaire, 365.
29 Pär Bergman, “A propos des ‘Fenêtres’ et de ‘Tour,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes
69–70 (1962): 63.
30 Robert Delaunay, Du cubisme à l’art abstrait, ed. Pierre Francastel (Paris:

SEVPEN, 1957), 63 and 111.
31 Renée Linkhorn, “‘Les Fenêtres’: Propos sur trois poèmes,” French Review 44,
no. 3 (February 1971): 518–19.
32 For a detailed account of this dispute, see Michel Décaudin, “Une Controverse
sur ‘Les Fenêtres,’” Que Vlo-Ve?” Bulletin International des Etudes sur Apollinaire,
3rd ser., 3 (July–September 1991): 72–8.
33 Apollinaire, Tendre comme le souvenir, 70.
34 Ibid., 48.
35 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes”, 350.
36 Maciej Zurowski, “‘Les Fenêtres’ d’Apollinaire,” Kwartalnik Neofilologiczny 6,
no. 1 (1959): 18–19.
38 Claude Debon, Claude Debon commente “Calligrammes” de Guillaume
Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2004), 54.
39 Davies, Apollinaire, 217.
40 Debon, Claude Debon commente, 56.
41 S. I. Lockerbie, “Qu’est-ce que l’orphisme,” in Apollinaire et la musique, ed. Michel
Décaudin (Paris: Minuit 1967), 85.
42 Debon, Claude Debon commente, 60.
43 K. R. Dutton, “Apollinaire and Communication,” Australian Journal of French
Studies 5, no. 3 (September–December 1968): 309–10 . For a detailed discussion
of simultanism, see Pär Bergman, “Modernolatria” et “Simultaneità” (Uppsala:
Svenska/Bonniers, 1962), 263–78 and 337–411.
44 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Réalité, peinture pure,” Der Sturm 3, nos. 138–9
(December 1912): 224–5. Repr. in Apollinaire Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2,
ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin, 1594.
46 Michel Décaudin, Le Dossier d’“Alcools,” rev. ed. (Geneva: Droz and Paris:
Minard, 1965), 39.
47 Ibid.
48 S. I. Lockerbie, “Le Rôle de l’imagination dans Calligrammes, première partie:
‘Les Fenêtres’ et le poème-créé,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 146–9 (1966): 8.
He maintains, however, that Apollinaire confused the technique of contrastes
simultanés with a previous technique (“Le Rôle de l’imagination dans
Calligrammes,” 9). For a rebuttal, see J. G. Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les

Fenêtres,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes 183–8 (1968): 100–11.
49 Quoted by Apollinaire in “Réalité, peinture pure,” 495.
50 Rosanna Warren, “Orpheus the Painter: Apollinaire and Robert Delaunay,”
Criticism 30, no. 3 (Summer 1988): 279–301. Beatrice Waggaman, “Art abstrait
pictural et poétique dans ‘Les Fenêtres’ de Delaunay et d’Apollinaire,” Revue de
Litterature Comparee 69, no. 3 (1995): 287–95.
51 Zurowski, “‘Les Fenêtres’ d’Apollinaire,” 19.
53 Michael L. Rowland, “Apollinaire’s ‘Les Fenêtres,’” The Explicator 35, no. 1 (1978):
24–5.
54 Catherine Moore and Anna Saint-Léger Lucas claim that se mourir designates
a continuing action and thus that yellow is always on the point of disappearing
(“Questions de perspective dans ‘Merveille de la guerre’ et ‘Les Fenêtres’,”
Apollinaire et le portrait, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Minard, 2001), 176.
55 Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les Fenêtres,’” 105.
56 Bergman, “A propos des ‘Fenêtres,’” 63.
58 Ibid., 351.
59 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano di Puglia:
Schena & Paris: Nizet, 1989), 385–7.
60 John Wesley Cameron, “Apollinaire and the Painters: His Poetic Orphism”
(doctoral thesis, Indiana University, 1955). Reference by Renaud in Lecture
d’Apollinaire, 352.
61 For a picture of the statuettes, see John Golding, Cubism: A History and an
Analysis 1907–1914 (New York: Harper and Row, 1968), 53–4.
62 Linkhorn, “Les Fenêtres,” 519.
64 Cameron, Apollinaire and the Painters, 97.
65 Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les Fenêtres,’” 109 and W. Blandford Kay,
“Apollinaire’s ‘Les Fenêtres,’” The Explicator 22 (1964): item 38.
66 See Lionel Follet, “Apollinaire, lecteur d’Empédocle,” Revue des Lettres Modernes
576–81 (1980): 60–1.
68 Linkhorn, “‘Les Fenêtres,’” 520.
69 J.G. Clark, “De fil en aiguille: complément à une étude,” Revue des Lettres
Modernes 576–81 (1980): 45–8.
71 Zurowski, “‘Les Fenêtres’ d’Apollinaire,” 29.
72 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 385.
73 Bergman, “A propos des ‘Fenêtres,’” 65, n. 8.
74 Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas, “Questions de perspective,” 182.
75 Louis Aragon, “Calligrammes,” L’Esprit nouveau 1, no. 1 (October 1920): 105.
76 Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas, “Questions de perspective,” 184.
2
Simultaneous Exercises
During the period 1912–14, a fierce debate erupted in Paris concerning

which artist or writer had been the first to utilize simultaneity. Annoyed by
all the claims and counter-claims, Apollinaire cited his own simultaneous
accomplishments. Writing in Les Soirées de Paris, he protested: “On a donné
ici des poèmes où cette simultanéité existait dans l’esprit et dans la lettre
même puisqu’il est impossible de les lire sans concevoir immédiatement
la simultanéité de ce qu’ils expriment, poèmes-conversation où le poète au
centre de la vie enregistre en quelque sorte le lyrisme ambiant.”1 Although
Apollinaire did not cite them by name, the poems to which he was referring
were “Lundi rue Christine,” “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” and “Rotsoge” (later
retitled “A travers l’Europe”). While all three contain extensive simultaneous
passages, as we will see, “Lundi rue Christine” is the only work that really fits
Apollinaire’s description.
“Lundi rue Christine”
Published in Les Soirées de Paris on December 15, 1913, “Lundi rue Christine”
pushed simultaneous poetry to the absolute limit. Conceived as a poème-
conversation, it juxtaposes phrases overheard in a café on the rue Christine
with random thoughts and observations. Although Madeleine Boisson
believes Apollinaire originally borrowed the idea from a short story by Jean
Richepin, there are enormous differences between the two texts.2 Whereas
the speakers in “Lundi rue Christine” are entirely anonymous, those in the
short story are identified by name. Whereas the phrases in the first work are
simultaneous, those in the second are sequential. Boisson’s account of the
event that precipitated the poem is also suspect. Drawing on a description by

André Salmon, published twenty years later, she maintains that Apollinaire
and his friends originally went to the café to found Le Festin d’Esope.3
Unfortunately, the journal antedates “Lundi rue Christine” by a good ten years.
According to the poet Jacques Dyssord, on the contrary, the gathering took
place toward the end of 1913, which seems much more likely. Astonishingly,
given all the different voices in the poem, Apollinaire and his friends were “les
seuls clients de ce petit café, ce soir-là.”4 Thus much, if not most, of “Lundi
rue Christine” appears to be pure fabrication. Dyssord provides other details
that clarify various references in the poem. As welcome as these are for the
average person, Philippe Renaud points out that they seriously distort the
original composition.5 He invites readers to reread “Lundi rue Christine”
while ignoring extraneous information that others have provided. Only then
will they experience the work as the author originally intended.
The role of Apollinaire himself in the poem is curious to say the least.
Theoretically reduced to that of a tape recorder, he is effectively banished
from his own composition. He is present as a witness, but he cannot interact
with other people around him. As Renaud observes, Apollinaire’s absence
parallels that of other people in the café, whom we hear but never see.6 No
longer an original creation since it has no author, the poem resembles one of
Marcel Duchamp’s “ready-mades,” which depend on chance discovery rather
than creativity. An early example of aleatory poetry, at least in theory, “Lundi
rue Christine” anticipates future compositions by Dada and Surrealist poets.
In the absence of a narrator, it is left to the reader to interpret the random
snatches of conversation. Despite these restrictions, one senses the author’s
presence nevertheless. Somebody had to collect the spoken fragments, after
all, and somebody had to arrange them on the page.
Elsewhere in the document quoted at the beginning of the chapter,
Apollinaire noted that simultaneity had preoccupied Picasso and Braque as
early as 1907, “qui s’efforçaient de représenter des figures et des objets sous
plusieurs faces à la fois.”7 In “Lundi rue Christine,” Margaret Davies notes,
“the poet emulates his painter friends, who have been busy developing ‘a
method of becoming inhuman.’”8 Borrowed from Apollinaire’s Les Peintres
cubistes (1913), the concept of inhumanity describes the goal of modern art
Simultaneous Exercises 31
in general—to exclude the artist from the finished work.9 Just as the Cubists
used pieces of real material to create their pictures, Davies adds, “Lundi rue
Christine” employs real fragments of speech. Apollinaire exploits the Cubist
principle of fragmentation to the maximum. “The blocks of words become
shorter,” Leroy C. Breunig observes, “the images and statements more
heterogeneous. Notations replace complete sentences.”10 Juxtaposed with each
other, the fragments form a dense collage of overlapping statements—like
the overlapping planes in a Cubist painting. Renaud divides them into four
categories. Some lines are spoken aloud, some describe the café’s appearance,
some express the author’s ideas, and some are authorial interventions.11 As one
would expect, since this is a conversation poem, spoken phrases are the most
numerous, followed by descriptive phrases. Since Apollinaire is not supposed
to participate, however, the last two categories are problematic. Another idea
might be to classify the forty-eight phrases according to the cognitive process
involved: sight, sound, or thought.
La mère de la concierge et la concierge laisseront tout passer

Si tu es un homme tu m’accompagneras ce soir
Il suffirait qu’un type maintint la porte cochère
Pendant que l’autre monterait
Trois becs de gaz allumés

La patronne est poitrinaire
Quand tu aura fini nous jouerons une partie de jacquet
Un chef d’orchestre qui a mal à la gorge
Quand tu viendras à Tunis je te ferai fumer du kief
Ça a l’air de rimer
Des piles de soucoupes des fleurs un calendrier

Pim pam pim
Je dois fiche près de 300 francs à ma probloque
Je préférerais me couper le parfaitement que de les lui donner.
While the women in the poem don’t count for much, Boisson comments,
the men are either professionals or involved in literature or the arts: “C’est
le milieu auquel appartiennent le poète et ses amis.”12 By contrast, Debon is
horrified by the petty criminals and other unsavory types that frequent the café.
The first stanza reproduces a conversation between two burglars, for example,
who are planning to ransack someone’s apartment. Instead of reporting them
to the police, the building’s caretakers have agreed to look the other way!
While the dirty dishes pile up on the counter by the sink, another customer
is planning to abscond without paying his overdue rent. In addition, Debon
notes, “les personnages sont malades, peu ragoûtants ou sales.”13 She cites the
consumptive proprietress, the orchestra leader with an infected throat, and
several other clients that will be encountered later. Not surprisingly, in view
of the café’s sleazy clientele, slang expressions are also sprinkled throughout
the poem. The “type” on line 3 who will watch the building’s entrance and
the customer on line 13 who “doi[t] fiche près de 300 francs à [sa] probloque”
are good examples. Besides creating a realistic setting, such expressions have
an important role to play. As Susan Harrow points out, they challenge the
arbitrary separation of poetic lyricism and living language. In addition, they
“communicate the immediacy of contemporary socio-cultural experience in
the very language of that experience.”14
For Boisson, the poem is filled with sexual references. In particular, she
detects “le thème secret du doute sur la virilité et des angoisses liées à ce doute.”15
Observing that the theme of masculine virility is introduced in the second line,
she suggests that entering the “porte cochère” is a coded reference for sexual
intercourse, in this case apparently rape. In a similar vein, Boisson recalls that
Mallarmé employs bec de gaz as a phallic symbol and that the three gas jets in
the poem are “allumés.” In addition to registering sounds, such as the invitation
to play backgammon, Apollinaire possesses the ability to record what he sees
(the gas jets and the orchestra leader) and what he thinks (the observation
concerning the café’s proprietress). Since Jacques Dyssord confided that he
was leaving for Tunisia the next day, line 7 is obviously uttered by him (not by
Apollinaire as Greet and Lockerbie imply). According to Apollinaire, Dyssord
was going to Tunis for his health and to become the editor of a journal.16 A
popular intoxicant in North Africa, kief is powdered marijuana smoked in
a narrow pipe with a small bowl. At this point, someone notices that “kief ”
and “Tunis” nearly rhyme. Although the phrase probably represents one of
Apollinaire’s thoughts, it could also be pronounced by somebody in the group.
The following stanza begins with a description of saucers piled on the counter
next to a calendar and a vase of flowers. Unlike Debon, who is disgusted by

the dirty dishes, Harrow finds the objects interesting. “With its tropes of
consumption, nature, and transience,” she writes, the construction resembles a
still-life composition that embraces everyday reality.17
A certain amount of disagreement exists about the next line: “Pim pam pim.”
Although some critics think it refers to sexual intercourse, it is hard to see how
that interpretation would fit in here. More than likely, as has been suggested,
the line records kitchen noises such as dishes being clinked together. The next
two lines are uttered by the disgruntled renter who is plotting to cheat his
landlord. Although some critics believe the last line refers to auto-castration,
this is far from clear. The reader’s initial impression is that “parfaitement”
refers to the speaker’s penis. In defense of this interpretation, Debon cites a
scurrilous quatrain about women, who “manquent les parfaitement / Pour
entrer au Parlement.”18 Nevertheless, the lack of agreement between the article
and the noun is an indication that something is wrong here. It should either
be “le parfaitement” or “les parfaitements.” If the term really means “penis,”
moreover, it has escaped the extraordinarily diligent notice of Scott Bates, who
published a Dictionnaire des mots libres d’Apollinaire in 1991. His suggestion,
in conversation with the present author, was that “parfaitement” represents a
sudden interjection by somebody else. The lack of punctuation in “Lundi rue
Christine” obscures this crucial distinction. The initial confusion about the
meaning of “parfaitement” was perpetuated subsequently by the authors of the
scurrilous quatrain. Thinking it meant “penis,” Ardengo Soffici and Giovanni
Papini—both good friends of Apollinaire—apparently borrowed the term
from “Lundi rue Christine.” Finally, it is by no means certain that the missing
word in the poem is “penis.” The speaker could just as easily be referring to
his arm.
Je partirai à 20 h. 27
Six glaces s’y dévisagent toujours
Je crois que nous allons nous embrouiller encore davantage
Cher monsieur
Vous êtes un mec à la mie de pain
Cette dame a le nez comme un ver solitaire
Louise a oublié sa fourrure
Moi je n’ai pas de fourrure et je n’ai pas froid

Le Danois fume sa cigarette en consultant l’horaire
Le chat noir traverse la brasserie
Ces crèpes étaient exquises

La fontaine coule
Robe noire comme ses ongles
C’est complètement impossible
Voici monsieur
La bague en malachite
Le sol est semé de sciure
Alors c’est vrai
La serveuse rousse a été enlevée par un libraire.
If Apollinaire and his friends are having an aperitif in the café, the time
could be 6:00 or 7:00 p.m. In which case, the first line could be uttered by
anybody who is planning to go home for dinner. If they are getting together
after dinner, the time could be around 10:00 p.m. In which case, “20 h. 27”
would refer to the following day. Since we know Dyssord will be leaving for
Tunisia the next day, he is probably the speaker in question. From Paris he
can take an overnight train to Marseille and from there a boat to Tunis. On
the other hand, since the Dane is consulting a time-table, perhaps he is the
one who will be leaving the next day. The fact that the six mirrors are staring
at each other suggests they occupy opposite walls. While someone complains
about getting even more mixed up, someone else begins to compose a letter.
The letter’s sudden juxtaposition with the following line is meant to be comical.
A particularly pungent slang expression, “Vous êtes un mec à la mie de pain”
can be translated as either “You are a crummy pimp” or “You are a lousy
pimp.” Like “parfaitement,” the phrase represents an interjection by somebody
else—probably one of the reprobates encountered at the beginning of the
poem—who is insulting a third person. One of the disgusting people identified
by Debon, the woman in the next sentence seems to have an unusually ugly
nose. As several other women prepare to depart—at least two of them without
their furs—the Dane continues smoking his cigarette, and a black cat traverses
the café. Despite the bad omen, nothing serious seems to ensue. According to
Dyssord’s account, the Danish smoker was Peter Madsen who, together with
André Billy, was part of Apollinaire’s group.
The second stanza has been analyzed in great detail by Renaud, who is struck
by the role of undecidability in the poem.19 What makes the poem so enigmatic,
he observes, is that the phrases make no sense by themselves. Or rather, their
sense varies according to whether they represent spoken language, notations,
or reflections. Ultimately, he concludes, it is the reader not the author who
determines what they mean. Of course, this paradoxical situation is true of poetry
in general, but it is much more acute in “Lundi rue Christine.” Accompanied by
the sound of running water in the sink, Apollinaire notes a woman with a black
dress, someone wearing a malachite ring, and sawdust on the floor. During this
process, a server brings a client his or her order, someone praises the crèpes, and
other customers argue among themselves. According to Dyssord, the people in
his group ordered drinks but nothing to eat. They were served by a stunning
waitress with freckles and “cheveux de flamme,” who is mentioned in the last
line. Unfortunately, however, the waitress in the poem has run off with a book
seller.
Un journaliste que je connais d’ailleurs très vaguement
Ecoute Jacques c’est trés sérieux ce que je vais te dire
Compagnie de navigation mixte
Il me dit monsieur voulez-vous voir ce qu je peux faire d’eaux-fortes

et de tableaux
Je n’ai qu’une petite bonne
Après déjeuner café du Luxembourg

Une fois là il me présente un gros bonhomme
Qui me dit
Ecoutez c’est charmant
A Smyrne à Naples en Tunisie
Mais nom de Dieu où est-ce
La dernière fois que j’ai été en Chine
C’est il y a huit ou neuf ans
L’Honneur tient souvent à l’heure que marque la pendule
La quinte major.
As Apollinaire leans toward Dyssord to give him some advice, he sees a

journalist who is vaguely familiar but whom he cannot place. Either then or
a few minutes later, he notices an advertisement featuring a large ship and
friendly natives framed by palm trees. In all probability, Dyssord has brought
along a brochure from the shipping company. Headquartered in Marseille,
La Compagnie de Navigation Mixte—“mixte” because the ships carried both
cargo and passengers—operated routes between Marseille and North Africa
and between Marseille and the West Coast of Africa. With a little effort, as
the last two stanzas demonstrate, some of the original conversations can be
partially reconstructed. The initial sentence seems to be uttered by a shady
artist or art dealer who is seeking to interest a potential buyer. The second is
spoken by a woman who, despite her relative prosperity, would like to live a
more lavish lifestyle. The last stanza is much more fragmentary. Place names
are jumbled together with geographical references, random interjections,
questions, reminiscences, and enigmatic pronouncements. After so many
poetic irregularities, Debon suspects the last two lines represent a call to order:
“L’Honneur commande d’abord qu’on arrête là le jeu.”20 In Timothy Mathews’s
opinion, the penultimate line means something like “Honour is as fickle as
fame.”21 In retrospect, chance plays a greater role in human affairs than we
like to admit. Whether an action is viewed as honorable or dishonorable
often depends on its timing. Among other things, the phrase may be an
ironic reference to the criminal code of honor evoked in line 2. Fortunately
or unfortunately, the final line is highly ambiguous. Since one meaning of la
quinte major is “a slap in the face,” a brawl may suddenly have broken out in
the café. However, since the phrase also describes a winning hand in piquet, a
group of customers may simply be engaged in a card game.
“Arbre”
Arguably the most difficult poem Apollinaire ever composed, “Arbre” appeared
in Le Gay Sçavoir on March 10, 1913. Always on the lookout for provocative
material, the Dadaists reprinted it three years later in Cabaret Voltaire, published
in Zurich, and the Portuguese Futurists the following year in Portugal Futurista,
which was edited in Lisbon. In 1918, when “Arbre” appeared in Calligrammes,

it was accompanied by a dedication to Frédéric Boutet, a journalist and prolific
author. Four years earlier, in April 1914, Apollinaire had reviewed a collection of
his short stories for Les Soirées de Paris. Although several critics are convinced
that “Arbre” represents a poème-conversation—notably Philippe Renaud—this
is far from the majority opinion. Despite its fragmentary nature, the poem bears
little resemblance to “Lundi rue Christine.” The poet is not situated “au centre
de la vie [où il] enregistre en quelque sorte le lyrisme ambiant,” as specified in
“Simultanisme-Librettisme,” but appears to be everywhere at once. Rather than
a simple recording device, moreover, he seems to be an active participant. By
contrast, as will become apparent, Renaud’s concept of a conversation poem
differs radically from Apollinaire’s. In the last analysis, “Arbre” resembles “Les
Fenêtres” rather than “Lundi rue Christine.” As such, it bears all the hallmarks
of a poème simultané.
At first glance, “Les Fenêtres” and “Lundi rue Christine” seem to be
completely impenetrable. After considerable trial and error, however, they
eventually begin to yield some of their secrets. While many details are not
immediately available, the texts are not impossible to comprehend. Like
them, “Arbre” exemplifies Apollinaire’s collage aesthetics. Like them, it utilizes
fragmentation, parataxis, and superimposition. Despite these similarities,
however, it is much more difficult to construct a coherent interpretation. The
difference is not in kind, it turns out, but in degree. “L’abolition de tout ordre
logique ou narratif apparent,” Anna Boschetti complains, “rend impossible de
décider avec une certitude raisonnable du statut de ces fragments juxtaposés.”22
For this reason, Alexander Dickow calls “Arbre” “l’un des poèmes les plus
énigmatiques et déstructurés d’Apollinaire.”23 One can easily collect a number
of fragments centered around the theme of voyaging, he continues, but the
voyage doesn’t lead anywhere. The reader merely encounters a series of
discontinuous snapshots. As a result, “[il] se voit engagé dans une quête de
sens pleine d’une angoisse sourde.”24 Due to the work’s deliberate obscurity,
readers receive little more than a general impression. Despite the manic
energy that pervades much of “Arbre,” the critics agree that it is a melancholy
composition. However, the source of this emotion is not so easy to ascertain.
Noting the images of loss and abandonment that recur with some regularity,
Boschetti and Margaret Davies propose a romantic explanation.25 Evoking the

radical new aesthetics that was invading Paris, Renaud suggests Apollinaire
was threatened by the advent of modernism.26 Claude Debon is more precise:
“Il s’agit à non pas douter d’un poème de crise, où le viel homme combat avec
celui qui veut renaître.”27
The first problem facing the hapless reader is how to interpret the title,
which, like a single tree in the middle of a public square, stands totally alone.
Although the poem contains three references to trees (lines 3, 34, and 39), these
are no more informative than the naked title. In the beginning, therefore, the
reader’s options are completely open. Unfortunately, they are also practically
limitless. Anne Hyde Greet and Ian Lockerbie are attracted to folkloric, biblical,
and linguistic interpretations.28 They envision a magic tree with precious fruit
conveying godlike powers, a hidden tree guarded by a monster, or a tree
that is both a cross and a gallows. Alternatively, they explain, the tree may
represent the poem itself adorned with thoughts, associations, and memories.
Dickow adds the Trees of Life and Knowledge to this list as well as Jesus Christ
and Apollinaire himself.29 However, even a cursory glance at a dictionary of
symbols reveals many more possibilities. According to Rabanus Maurus in
his Allegoriae in Sacram Scripturam, for example, the tree symbolizes human
nature.30 In addition, one discovers, the tree is widely regarded as constituting
an axis mundi. Since “Arbre” is situated at a spatio-temporal cross-roads, like
all simultaneous poetry, this image seems particularly appropriate.
Since Apollinaire specifically evokes “La Prose du Transsibérien,” it comes
as no surprise to learn that Blaise Cendrars plays a role in “Arbre.” Where the
critics differ is regarding the extent and the significance of his participation.
Debon readily admits the poem “probably” constitutes a dialogue with
Cendrars. However, since he is never named and is not physically present, she
believes it is an implicit dialogue.31 Although Renaud calls “Arbre” “un poème-
conversation,” it in no way resembles “Lundi rue Christine.” On the contrary, he
agrees with Debon that the poem contains a dialogue between the two poets.32
Since there are a number of deliberate references to Cendrars, however, he
thinks the dialogue is explicit. Dickow’s position is much the same, at least
initially. He believes “Arbre” participates in a continuing dialogue composed
of echoes, quotations, and pointed references. Beginning with “L’Emigrant
de Landor Road,” the dialogue involves several other poems as well. When
Dickow attempts to sort out the various pronouns in “Arbre,” nevertheless, he
treats the dialogue as if the words were actually spoken. Marc Poupon goes
even further. In his opinion, Apollinaire is accompanied by Cendrars “dont
la présence se décèle partout dans ‘Arbre.’”33 The author of the “Prose du
Transsibérien” serves not only as his “bon génie” but also as his Reisekamarade.
One wonders how these statements are meant to be interpreted—literally or
metaphorically? Does Cendrars accompany Apollinaire in spirit or in the
flesh? Are the conversations between them real or imaginary?
A Frédéric Boutet
Tu chantes avec les autres tandis que les phonographes galopent
Où sont les aveugles où s’en sont-ils allés
La seule feuille que j’aie cueillie s’est changée en plusieurs mirages
Ne m’abandonnez pas parmi cette foule de femmes au marché
Ispahan s’est fait un ciel de carreaux émaillés de bleu
Et je remonte avec vous une route aux environs de Lyon.
At first glance, “Arbre” seems to be a typical collage poem. As in other

simultaneous compositions, time and space are purely subjective. Apollinaire
provides an instantaneous glimpse of life all over the world. Once again he
juxtaposes several different pronouns to create multiple perspectives and
overlapping planes. For the same reason, he jumps from one tense to another
without any attempt to be consistent. To those readers who are acquainted with
“Zone,” the alternation between “Je” and “Tu” looks familiar. Apollinaire seems
to be referring to himself in both the first person and the second person. He uses
“Je” to speak about himself and “Tu” to speak to himself. However, there is one
vital difference between the subject pronouns in “Arbre” and those in “Zone.”
Although Apollinaire occasionally varies the alternation between “Je” and “Tu”
in “Zone” by inserting “Vous”—by which he again means himself—“Vous”
has another function entirely in “Arbre.” As lines 4 and 6 clearly demonstrate,
the pronoun alludes to another person altogether. It cannot possibly refer to
Apollinaire. In turn, this discovery introduces an unexpected ambiguity into
the poem. If “Vous” refers to another person, then the same thing may very
well be true of “Tu.” One can no longer assume that it automatically applies to
Apollinaire. And if “Tu” refers to somebody else, that person is not necessarily
the same person as “Vous.” Finally, since “Vous” may be either singular or
plural, it may allude to several individuals. For better or worse, the poem is
continually sabotaged by its fundamental undecidability. Readers can only
pick their way through the referential mine field by trial and error.
In order to go any further, it is necessary to re-examine several assumptions.
The initial impression that “Je” is Apollinaire is probably correct. As the author
of the composition and the principal speaker he provides the sole unifying
force in the poem. Most of what happens, or happened in the past, or will
happen in the future is presented through his eyes. Similarly, “Tu” and “Vous”
are almost certainly two different people. The critics all agree that one of them
probably represents Blaise Cendrars, who is present either in person or in
spirit. Not surprisingly, since the second pronoun vanishes after the first stanza
and the first pronoun appears throughout the poem, their unanimous choice is
“Tu.” No one has anything at all to say about “Vous,” whom nobody has even
tried to identify. And yet “Vous” is the only person who actually accompanies
Apollinaire anywhere—first to Iran, if the speaker is to be believed, and then to
Southern France. The two of them are clearly close companions.
Again, first impressions are worth a great deal. The most reasonable scenario,
it seems to me, would cast Apollinaire as both “Je” and “Tu” and Cendrars as
“Vous.” Endorsed by Renaud, the first suggestion has an important precedent
in “Zone,” published four months earlier, in which Apollinaire played the same
two roles.34 As Renaud himself declares, “l’emploi de la deuxième personne . . .
est une très grande trouvaille d’Apollinaire.”35 By utilizing multiple perspective
in “Zone,” “Arbre,” and other poems, he managed to revolutionize his own
poetry and modern poetry in general. My second suggestion is motivated by
two observations. Since “Tu” refers to Apollinaire, “Vous” must necessarily be
reserved for Cendrars. It is the only option open to him. More importantly,
since the two men did not tutoyer each other, Cendrars cannot possibly be
“Tu.”36 The pronoun would have been totally inappropriate. Having met some
five months earlier, Cendrars and Apollinaire were not old friends but recent
acquaintances.37 Since the former was a brash newcomer and the latter a well-
known poet, their exchanges were fairly formal. Writing to Apollinaire in
August 1913, Cendrars confided: “Vos poèmes me touchent énormément . . .
Vous êtes mon maître—vous êtes notre maître à tous.”38
Addressing himself in the first line, Apollinaire recalls happier times when
he and his friends used to sing along to songs playing on the phonograph. Greet
and Lockerbie wonder if the “music” they are playing is not the remaining five
lines. As far as one can tell, the entire stanza is composed of widely disparate
memories. Since parataxis reigns supreme, there may be a connection
between the various lines, or there may not. The lack of punctuation poses
more problems. Formulated as a question, the second line appears to be purely
rhetorical. Embodying the ubi sunt motif, it recalls François Villon’s poetry in
particular. Greet and Lockerbie believe the blind men may be vanished poets,
Renaud and Debon that they are wandering musicians or Homeric bards.39
Their blindness supports all three interpretation but also suggests they may be
prophets or soothsayers. The fact that the line is an alexandrine reinforces its
association with poetry and music.
A number of critics think the leaf in the third line was probably taken from
the tree in the poem’s title. Although Renaud thinks the tree alludes to the Tree
of Knowledge, it could just as easily refer to The Cross, The Poem, or Human
Nature. That it is transformed into several mirages could symbolize the futility
of knowledge or of religion, poetry’s ability to create “authentiques faussetés”
(Apollinaire’s words), or mankind’s fondness for deception.40 Noting that the
poem contains a reference to Finland, Dickow detects several parallels with
The Kalevala.41 In addition, he associates the tree’s leaves with the pages (also
“feuilles”) of books, whose words generate imaginary images in the reader’s
mind. More than anything, nevertheless, “mirages” appears to describe the
fluctuating thoughts, memories, dreams, and fantasies that constitute “Arbre”
itself. These are not false images so much as virtual images, images that beckon
seductively in the distance. The fact that they are ephemeral and inevitably
unstable explains why deciphering the poem is so difficult.
Apparently addressed to Cendrars, who loved traveling to exotic
destinations, the fourth line suddenly transports the reader to Iran. Exploring
Isfahan, the former capital of Persia, Apollinaire feels threatened by a crowd
of women he encounters at the market. One wonders what the women could
possibly be doing that could make him feel so uneasy. As Debon points out,
the situation recalls the story of Orpheus torn apart by maenads following
the loss of Eurydice.42 In 1988, however, Scott Bates made a very interesting
discovery. He found that another poem, “Ispahan,” had been largely inspired
by a travel book entitled Les Huit Paradis.43 Returning to this book recently,
which was authored by the Princess Marthe Bibesco, Dickow found that it also
influenced portions of “Arbre.”44 Not only does the fourth line take place in
Isfahan, for example, but it echoes passages in the book that portray Persian
customs in a disturbing light. Finding herself in a bazaar surrounded by veiled
women in dark, shapeless robes, Bibesco remarks: “il me semble m’être égarée
de nuit dans un cimitière où des ifs funèbres se seraient mis en marche.” Thus
Apollinaire turns out to be threatened by the women’s appearance rather than
by their behavior. Despite his initial misgivings, he is not in any actual danger.
The fifth line derives from Les Huit Paradis as well, which repeatedly evokes the
blue earthenware tiles for which Isfahan is famous. Although Dickow thinks
the “ciel de carreaux” represents falseness and illusion, the phrase probably
refers to the Masjed-e Shah’s interior with its perfectly proportioned blue-tiled
dome. The scene changes from fantasy to memory in the sixth line, evoking a
stroll, or perhaps a hike, with Cendrars in the hills near Lyon.
Je n’ai pas oublié le son de la clochette d’un marchand de coco d’autrefois

J’entends déjà le son aigre de cette voix à venir
Du camarade qui se promènera avec toi en Europe
Tout en restant en Amérique
Un enfant
Un enfant dépouillé pendu à l’étal
Un enfant
Et cette banlieue de sable autour d’une pauvre ville au fond de l’est
Un douanier se tenait là comme un ange
A la porte d’un misérable paradis
Et ce voyageur épileptique écumant dans la salle d’attente des premières.
The next two stanzas are filled with more fanciful images. The marchand
de coco is an especially interesting character (Figure 2.1). Appearing in
Paris and Brussels toward the end of the eighteenth century, the latter was
a street vendor who sold a cool drink in the summer and a hot drink in
winter (when he became a “marchand de tisane”). According to one source,
“le marchand de coco, en tablier blanc, portait une fontaine en tôle peinte
sur le dos et quelques gobelets à la ceinture. Il s’annonçait au son d’une
Figure 2.1 Augusta Le Baron-desves, Le Marchand de Coco, Paris, Musée Carnavalet
clochette et criait: « Coco, coco, coco frais! Qui veut du coco? »”45 The drink in
question had nothing to do with coconut, as the name suggests, but consisted
of liquorice water with lemon and sugar. Although Renaud associates the
vendor with “l’enfance, le bonheur, l’harmonie perdus,” he was equally popular
with adults and stationed himself outside theaters in the evening.46 While
Dickow detects a possible echo of a short story by Maupassant, Apollinaire
is clearly speaking from personal experience.47 Coco vendors continued to

ply their trade until the beginning of the twentieth century, when bottled soft
drinks became popular.
The memory of a past sound in the first line prompts Apollinaire to imagine
a future sound in the second. The ringing bell is replaced by the sound
of a shrill human voice belonging to a mysterious “comrade.” Even more
mysteriously, this individual is able to walk and talk with Apollinaire in Europe
while somehow remaining in America. The solution of course, as other critics
have seen, is that Apollinaire is predicting the invention of the transatlantic
telephone. In all probability, the person with whom he is talking is Cendrars,
who was introduced as his comrade in the preceding stanza. Indeed, Cendrars
had recently returned from a visit to New York (which he apparently detested).
The voice that reaches Apollinaire on the telephone is probably not “shrill,” as
aigre is usually translated, but “tinny.” Judging from contemporary recordings,
Apollinaire undoubtedly realized, it would be a long time before people’s voices
ceased to be distorted.
In contrast to the preceding stanza, in which Apollinaire seems to speak
directly to the reader (even though he may only be speaking to himself),
the second stanza has no narrator at all. Whereas the former tone verges on
the confidential, the latter tone is completely impersonal. Rather than a self-
portrait, the stanza resembles a bizarre still-life painting—like the work by
Chagall in the second line. Since the infant in the miserable eastern town
is clearly the Christ child, one wonders if the painting is hanging on the
wall of his manger. What matters in any case is the juxtaposition of the two
images, which, in Susan Harrow’s words, creates “a vision of vulnerability and
violence.”48 That the flayed calf foreshadows Christ’s torture and crucifixion
is abundantly evident. To complete the picture, Apollinaire chooses another
one of his favorite artists, the Douanier Rousseau, whom he stations before
the town gate “comme un ange / A la porte d’un misérable paradis.” This
gesture recalls a line from the epitaph he composed for Rousseau: “Laisse
passser nos bagages en franchise à la porte du ciel.”49 The source of both
images, Robert Couffignal explains, was a painting by Rousseau entitled
L’Octroi.50 Depicting customs officials guarding the gates of Paris, it reminded
Apollinaire of a story in Genesis. Inspired by Adam and Eve’s expulsion from

the Garden of Eden, he transformed Rousseau into one of the angels assigned
to protect Paradise. To date, unfortunately, no one has been able to identify
the poor traveler having an epileptic fit in a first class waiting room. Dickow
speculates that it may be Prince Mychkin in Dostoievski’s The Idiot, one of
Cendrars’s favorite books.51 Since the episode is situated in a railroad station,
in any case, it looks forward to the next stanza, which takes place aboard the
Transsiberian Express.
Engoulevent Blaireau
Et la Taupe-Ariane
Nous avions loué deux coupés dans le transsibérien
Tour à tour nous dormions le voyageur en bijouterie et moi
Mais celui qui veillait ne cachait point un revolver armé.
The most intriguing explanation for the three animals that suddenly appear out
of nowhere has been provided by Dickow.52 In 1914 Frédéric Boutet, to whom
“Arbre” is dedicated, published a collection of short stories entitled La Lanterne
Rouge. As the title indicates, the stories are set in the red light district of Paris
and populated by all sorts of unsavory characters with picturesque nicknames,
including “Engoulevent,” “Blaireau,” and “la Taupe-Ariane.” We know from
Scott Bates’s Dictionnaire des Mots Libres that “taupe” was a slang word for
prostitute.53 According to Césaire Villatte’s Parisismen, it was also slang for
“old woman.”54 Apollinaire associates “la taupe” with Ariadne not because she
herself is immoral but because she is associated with the Minotaur’s labyrinth.
According to Parisismen, moreover, “engoulevent” was slang for “glutton” and
“blaireau” for “slut.” Apollinaire’s list is devoted not to animals, therefore, but
to sluts and whores, who apparently accompany him on the Transsiberian
Railway. Among other things, this explains why two sleeping compartments
have been reserved—one for the two men, the other for their dissolute
companions. One wonders exactly where the jewelry salesman is supposed to
fit in. For that matter, with friends like these where does Apollinaire himself fit
in? Many critics have pointed out the resemblance between the last three lines
and a similar passage in “La Prose du Transsibérien”:
Et je partis moi aussi pour accompagner le voyageur en bijouterie qui

se rendait à Kharbine
Nous avions deux coupés dans l’express et 34 coffres de joaillerie
de Pforzheim …
Je couchais sur les coffres et j’était tout heureux de pouvoir jouer avec
le browning nickelé qu’il m’avait aussi donné.55
Although certain critics have been quick to claim that this passage
acknowledges Apollinaire’s poetic debt to Cendrars, nothing could be further
from the truth. Like two men waving to each other in the street, they liked to
refer back and forth to each other in their poetry. “La Prose du Transsibérien,”
for example, contains two lines taken from “Les Fiançailles”: “‘Pardonnez-moi
mon ignorance / Pardonnez-moi de ne plus connaître l’ancien jeu des vers’ /
Comme dit Guillaume Apollinaire.” Similarly, as Renaud and Dickow insist,
“Arbre” is full of lighthearted winks and nods to Cendrars.56 Inspired by some
of the women in “La Prose du Transsibérien,” Blaireau and her slutty girlfriends
provide an excellent illustration. “Puis il y avait beaucoup de femmes,”
Cendrars confides at one point, “Des femmes des entre-jambes à louer.” That
Apollinaire’s Transsiberian passage differs slightly from Cendrars’s passage is
unimportant as well. Although he had seen the poem and had perhaps heard
Cendrars read it aloud, he was probably quoting from memory.
Tu t’es promené à Leipzig avec une femme mince déguisée en homme

Intelligence car voilà ce que c’est qu’une femme intelligente
Et il ne faudrait pas oublier les légendes
Dame-Abonde dans un tramway la nuit au fond d’un quartier désert
Je voyais une chasse tandis que je montais
Et l’ascenseur s’arrêtait à chaque étage.
The first line continues to trouble critics. Debon suggests the thin woman may
be Marie Laurencin, who, under the name of Tristouse Ballerinette dresses as
a man in Le Poète assassiné.57 Greet and Lockerbie note that Marie had married
a German citizen. Some critics also think “Tu” represents Cendrars, who spent
some time in Leipzig. Nevertheless, Apollinaire appears to have visited Leipzig
as well. Writing to his mother from Munich on March 17, 1902, he informed
her that he and his party would be going to Nuremberg and to Leipzig.58 Since
he was accompanied by the Viscountess Elinor de Milhau (who had hired him
as a French tutor), her mother, her daughter, and the latter’s governess Annie
Playden, the thin woman would seem to have been one of these. Since the
viscountess’s daughter was too young, her mother too old, and Annie rather
full-bodied, only one choice is left. The woman walking with Apollinaire must
have been the viscountess herself. As surprising as this discovery is, the fact
that she was disguised as a man is even more surprising. What on earth can
Apollinaire possibly mean? According to Michel Décaudin, the viscountess
was a rather unconventional woman for her time. “[Elle] se promenait jambes
nues l’été, se baignait et nageait, portait des toilettes qu’on jugeait excentriques
et des anneaux aux chevilles.”59 Not only did she drive her own automobile,
but she drove it all the way from Paris to Germany with Apollinaire beside
her—an astonishing feat for the time. Although photographic proof is lacking,
one suspects she also wore men’s trousers whenever she drove the car—at
least when she drove it a long distance. Trousers would have been much more
comfortable and much more convenient than contemporary feminine attire.
This, then, is why Apollinaire says she was disguised as a man. Always ready to
surprise the reader, he injects a little private humor into the poem.
Deliberately or not, the second line is highly ambiguous. At first glance,
Apollinaire seems to be praising the viscountess for her unusual intelligence.
As the previous description makes clear, she was an extremely capable
woman. However, it is equally possible that he is making fun of her. “There’s
an intelligent woman for you,” he could also be saying, “a woman who really
wants to be a man.” What the connection might be between intelligent women
and legends is never made clear. Greet and Lockerbie take the third line to be
a warning. Despite her later association with malignant spirits, Dame Abonde
was originally far from threatening. Littré calls her “la principale des fées bien-
faisantes.” According to one authority,
[elle] apporte l’abondance dans les maisons qu’elle fréquente et dispense le

bonheur à ses favoris. Elle visite la nuit la chaumière des plus démunis et
au matin ils trouvent une huche bien garnie. Elle confère une bonne santé,
procure de beaux enfants aux parents, donne au jardins des fleurs odorantes
et aux vergers de superbes fruits. Elle est aussi la grande tisseuse et fileuse de
tout ce qui germe au sein de la terre.60
Since Dame Abonde was presumably able to fly, like all fairies, the fact that
she is taking a streetcar in “Arbre” is rather unexpected. Where could she be
going in the middle of the night, one wonders, and in such a deserted part
of town? The answer may very well be that she is bringing toys to children,
as she does every year during the Christmas season. Unfortunately, the last
two lines are totally enigmatic. One wonders who is chasing whom (or what),
for example, and whether Apollinaire is getting on the streetcar or taking the
elevator. At this point, his thoughts have become too private for the reader
to follow.
Entre les pierres

Entre les vêtements multicolores de la vitrine
Entre les charbons ardents du marchand de marrons
Entre deux vaisseaux norvégiens amarrés à Rouen
Il y a ton image.
Elle pousse entre les bouleaux de la Finlande
Ce beaux nègre en acier
La plus grande tristesse

C’est quand tu reçus une carte postale de La Corogne.
The scene changes once again, and now Apollinaire finds himself walking
aimlessly through Paris at night. He observes the cobblestones in the street,
the colorful clothes in the shop windows, and the glowing coals of a chestnut
vendor’s brazier. He even remembers the harbor at Rouen, where he gave a
lecture on “Le Sublime moderne” on June 23, 1912. As Debon remarks, it was
about this time that his relationship with Marie Laurencin fell apart.61 These
and other sights and memories merge in the first stanza to form a moving litany,
a litany in honor of someone designated only as “Tu.” Although the pronoun
could continue to refer to Apollinaire, for the first and last time it seems to
refer to somebody else. Two critics are convinced that “ton image” refers to
Cendrars. Poupon believes Apollinaire is thanking the poet for his precious
friendship, now that Marie is no longer with him.62 Dickow suggests the third
line contains a hidden play on words: braises and cendres secretly evoking
“Blaise Cendrars.”63 Nevertheless, most critics believe the stanza is addressed
to Marie, who even now, nine months after their breakup, is constantly on
Apollinaire’s mind. The memory of her face pursues him everywhere—even to

the middle of a Finnish forest, where he has presumably gone to lose himself.
As Greet and Lockerbie remark, “Ce beau nègre en acier” probably alludes to
Marie as well, who supposedly had a Caribbean ancestor. In particular, it seems
to evoke her sharply defined profile, which various writers call “numismatic.”
While most critics assume the last two lines also apply to Marie, in fact, Debon
points out, they refer to another unhappy event in the poet’s life—the departure
of his brother for Mexico, from which he would never return.64 According to
a postcard dated January 23, 1913, Albert left from La Coruña in northwest
Spain, where he boarded a ship bound for Cuba.65
Le vent vient du couchant

Le métal des caroubiers
Tout est plus triste qu’autrefois
Tous les dieux terrestres vieillissent
L’univers se plaint par ta voix
Et des êtres nouveaux surgissent
Trois par trois.
The world-weariness expressed in the final stanza encompasses far more than
Apollinaire and his personal problems. It affects all of life, the earth itself, and
indeed the entire universe. Imagining his brother’s ship departing from La Coruña,
the poet turns toward the west in time to glimpse the sun slipping beneath the
horizon. Like the latter image, the wind that accompanies it is associated with
loss and disappointment. Spreading over the land, it envelopes everything before
it, including the Spanish carob trees with their long copper pods. Bathed in an
immense sadness, the next three lines were taken nearly verbatim from a rough
draft of “La Chanson du mal-aimé.”66 Incredibly, Apollinaire complains, the gods
themselves are growing old and feeble. Religion is losing its former relevance, its
moral imperative, and its traditional hold on society. As the old world prepares
to vanish, the poet voices a universal lament that resonates across the globe (“ta
voix” was originally “ma voix”). Counterbalancing the images of disappearance
and loss, the final two lines provide a momentary glimpse of the future, when the
world will be ruled by unknown “beings.” Timothy Mathews remains optimistic.
The emergence of more knowledgeable human beings, he declares, “heralds the
emancipation of thought and creativity.”67 By contrast, Renaud believes modern
technology will triumph in the end. “Tout porte à croire,” he concludes, “que
ce sont des machines surgissant ‘trois par trois,’ fabriquées en série.”68 Since
Apollinaire will soon be thirty-three (3 + 3), Greet and Lockerbie note, he is
probably worried about growing old himself. As if to confirm this fact, “Arbre”
ends with a three syllable line. Juxtaposed with the preceding four lines, it
completes a rhyming quintil and brings the poem to a close.
“A travers l’Europe”
Completing the trio of poems devoted to major artists, the next work is
concerned with Marc Chagall. Entitled “Rotsoge” initially, it appeared in
Les Soirées de Paris on April 15, 1914, was reprinted in Der Sturm in May,
and prefaced the catalogue for his show at the Der Sturm Gallery in June.
At some point thereafter, Apollinaire transferred the title to the first line
and retitled the poem “A travers l’Europe.” Although the composition has
received relatively little critical attention, it has managed to attract a number
of fans. Authored the very same year by Willy (Henry Gauthier-Villars), for
example, Les Amis de Siska contained a character who praised the version
published in Der Sturm.69 As we will see, another writer has been attracted
to one of the poem’s enigmatic characters. Although Apollinaire was not the
first to discover Chagall—that honor goes to Blaise Cendrars and Ricciotto
Canudo—he was able to generate some valuable publicity for his art. While he
seems to have visited the artist’s studio only once, that was enough to convince
him of the latter’s genius. The experience itself is recounted in Chagall’s
autobiography My Life. Stunned by all the paintings around him, Apollinaire
smiled and murmured “surnaturel,” which in his vocabulary was high praise.
As he immediately realized, the artist’s mixture of fantasy and reality was not
far removed from his own.
The discovery of a major new talent hidden away in Montparnasse clearly
excited Apollinaire, who according to the artist, sent him a letter with a
version of the present poem the next day entitled “Rodztag.” Indeed, Anne
Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie conclude that Chagall affected the poet more
powerfully than any other painter except Picasso.70 As Claude Debon declares,
“‘A travers l’Europe’ célèbre la révélation d’un monde nouveau—l’art de

Chagall.”71 Conceived as a poème simultané, like “Les Fenêtres” and “Arbre,”
it forms a spatio-temporal collage in which images from the artist’s paintings
are juxtaposed with memories, arcane references, and bits of conversation.
The poem’s title is fundamentally ambiguous. While it evokes Chagall’s
peregrinations from Vitebsk to Paris to Germany and back to Vitebsk again,
it just as surely recalls Apollinaire’s Italian childhood, his adolescence on the
Côte d’Azur, the year spent in Germany, and his Russian passport. Both men
were experienced European travelers.
A M. Ch.
Rotsoge
Ton visage écarlate ton biplan transformable en hydroplan
Ta maison ronde où il nage un hareng saur
Il me faut la clef des paupières
Heureusement que nous avons vu M. Panado
Et nous sommes tranquilles de ce côté-là
Qu’est-ce que tu vois mon vieux M. D …
90 ou 324 un homme en l’air un veau qui regarde
à travers le ventre de sa mère.
Much ink has been spilled trying to decipher the first line and former title
“Rotsoge,” which differs from what Chagall remembers: “Rodztag” (German
for “red day”). Elsewhere in his autobiography he calls the poem “rote Hölle”
(red Hell), and in an interview with Etienne-Alain Hubert he maintained that
it meant “parole rouge.”72 Since the artist had red hair, Greet and Lockerbie
speculate that the title may refer to his nickname, to his self-portrait, or to a
metaphorical description of him by Apollinaire as a red comet (Rotsoge = red +
trail).73 Scott Bates associates the term with menstruation.74 In Madeleine
Boisson’s opinion, Chagall constitutes a mythical transfiguration of the solar
phallus. “Ses cheveux d’un roux flamboyant font de lui une torche en marche,”
she explains; “son voyage dessine un sillage rouge.”75 It has also been suggested
that “rotsoge” is the German rotes auge (red eye) pronounced à la française.76
In which case it would refer to Chagall’s Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers and
evoke his passion for color. Finally, Philippe Geinoz believes the word may be
Yiddish and translates it accordingly as “advisor” or “counselor.”77
Since Apollinaire composed the poem after he returned from Chagall’s

studio, he was forced to rely on his memory. “Ton visage écarlate” in the
second line may refer to the artist’s portrait of himself, which is actually pink,
or it may simply evoke his fondness for red in his paintings. For Bates, the
biplane that can be transformed into a seaplane symbolizes Woman, who
can return to her native element whenever she wishes.78 Hubert detects a
reference to an airplane rally in Monaco that included just such a machine and
believes it is a metaphor for Chagall’s hypermodern art.79 By contrast, Boisson
calls attention to a specific painting: Paris, à travers la fenêtre (1913), which
Apollinaire confided was his favorite work.80 Recalling a familiar myth, a red-
faced parachutist descends toward the Seine near the Eiffel Tower, watched by
a two-faced Janus figure and a cat with a human head. In Boisson’s opinion,
he represents both the “biplan transformable” and Icarus, who falls into the
water and thus becomes a “hydroplan.” Regardless of its symbolism, the scene
records a practice that was becoming more and more common: daredevils
parachuting from the Eiffel Tower.
Nicknamed “La Ruche” because of its circular shape, the three-story
“house” in the next line was designed by Gustave Eiffel for the 1900 Exposition
Universelle, dismanteled, and then rebuilt by Alfred Boucher as a refuge for
Parisian artists. Situated on the rue de Dantzig in Montparnasse, this legendary
building was filled with low cost studios for painters and sculptors, most of
whom came from eastern Europe. Kippers (harengs saurs) were a cheap but
nutritious dish and thus a familiar meal for Chagall, who depicted them in a
number of paintings (before he ate them). That an artist should call attention
to such a commonplace object was one of the hallmarks of modern art. “C’est
justement l’art que je voudrais bannir des arts,” Apollinaire wrote in 1915, “ou
sinon l’art surtout l’artiste et celui qui fait tout en artiste, qui attache plus de
prix . . . à une rose qu’à un hareng saur.”81 According to Bates, finally, La Ruche
and the herring both represent sexual symbols.82 The fourth line, like several
other verses, is taken from an earlier Symbolist poem entitled “La Clef.”83
Removed from its original context, it makes very little sense. Inserted between
two lines devoted to Chagall and several lines of anonymous conversation,
it makes even less sense. Nonetheless, since this is the first time Apollinaire
talks about himself, it is potentially important. Since “paupières” is a common
substitution for “eyes” in France and since keys are used to unlock (or lock)
things, a working translation might be: “I need a key to open my eyes.” At least
this is what the line seems to mean in “La Clef.”
Although the next three lines could conceivably be uttered (or thought)
by Apollinaire, the common opinion is that they represent random fragments
of conversation. Unexpectedly, the first line continues to generate ripples of
interest even today. Nobody knows for sure who M. Panado was. Geinoz is
probably correct that the name was suggested by the word panade, which in
French is basically synonymous with “poverty.”84 Hubert believes the line refers
to Ricciotto Canudo, the editor of Montjoie!, who had recently organized a
Chagall exhibition and who was running out of money.85 Writing to Apollinaire
on June 19, 1914, Canudo quoted both lines, which someone was kind enough
to send him after finding them scrawled on a pissoir in Montparnasse.86 Was
Apollinaire’s secretary telling the truth, he asked, when he declared that M.
Panado was actually Canudo? Unfortunately, history does not record the poet’s
reply. In 1937, Geinoz adds, Alexandre Vialotte published a short story entitled
“Les Tours de M. Panado,” in which the latter was described as “un personnage
incroyable et hallucinant.” In 1951, he reappeared in Les Fruits du Congo, again
authored by Vialotte, in which he played a sinister character. More recently, he
made a brief appearance in a novel by Claude Duneton, Rires d’homme entre
deux pluies (1989). As of this writing, a Fan Club de Monsieur Panado also
exists on the internet.
Like that of M. Panado, the identity of “mon vieux M. D …” has bedeviled
critics for years. Although the front runner is probably the artist Maurice
Denis, there is no concrete evidence to connect him with the poem. Geinoz
points out an interesting fact that everyone appears to have missed: since M
is followed by one dot and D by three dots, the first letter may actually stand
for “Monsieur.”87 He suspects Apollinaire could be referring to his arch enemy
Georges Duhamel. Hubert believes the line refers to another enemy: an anti-
immigrant artist and critic named Maurice Delcourt, who detested modern
art.88 The last line contains a few additional puzzles. Ironically, although 90 and
324 appear to be precise figures, what they signify is far from clear. They may
designate heights, distances, weights, or quantities, for example. The units of
measurement could be grams or kilograms, centimeters or kilometers. Not to
be deterred, Geinoz argues that the numbers are a coded reference to the Self-
Portrait with Seven Fingers.89 The remainder of the line evokes the parachutist
in Paris, à travers la fenêtre and an inquisitive calf in La Vache enceinte (1913).
In Boisson’s opinion, consistent with her mythocritical approach, the latter
recalls Icarios the Cowherd.90 Abandoning Chagall for a moment, the second
stanza focuses on Apollinaire.
J’ai cherché longtemps sur les routes
Tant d’yeux sont clos au bord des routes
Le vent fair pleurer les saussaies
Ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre
Regarde mais regarde donc
Le vieux se lave les pieds dans la cuvette
Una volta ho inteso dire Chè vuoi
Je me mis à pleurer en me souvenant de vos enfances.
Like line 4 of the preceding stanza, the first three verses are borrowed from
“La Clef.” As before, they invoke the speaker’s persistent search for a key to
dispel the blindness that surrounds him. Like the thought of his endless quest,
the wind whipping through the trees invests the scene with a melancholy
aura. Even the willows are weeping. For a moment, Chagall’s bright colors and
fanciful scenes are eclipsed by the sadness so often associated with Symbolism.
As others have noted, the insistent imperative in the fourth line recalls a similar
line in “Le Voyageur”: “Ouvrez-moi cette porte où je frappe en pleurant.” Like
the latter, the line may well be a childhood memory. Like the parallel imperative
in the following line, it is not a command so much as a plea. Echoing the
opposition between open and closed, sight is contrasted with blindness and
vice versa. Indeed, there appears to be a cause and effect relationship between
them. Apollinaire commands all the people who have closed their eyes to open
them so they can see what is happening around them.
The rest of the stanza is apparently concerned with his early years in Rome,
where he was born. This explains why one of the lines is in Italian. Composed
of two snatches of conversation, the words themselves are unimportant: “Once
I heard someone say” and “What do you want?” Their only purpose is to evoke
Italy and Apollinaire’s childhood. Several critics claim the second fragment
comes from Jacques Cazotte’s Le Diable amoureux, but, if so, this fact appears
to be irrelevant.91 By contrast, the old man washing his feet is impossible to

identify. One wonders nevertheless why the poet found this scene so memorable.
Supposedly motivated by the thought of others’ misfortunes, Apollinaire’s tears
in the last line parallel those shed by the weeping willows earlier. In studying
the poem’s evolution, however, one discovers that he hesitated between “vos
enfances,” “mon enfance,” and “nos enfances.”92 Although Apollinaire had a
reasonably happy childhood, he had to pretend it was miserable to maintain the
stanza’s mournful tone. Since this fiction apparently made him uncomfortable,
he decided to transfer the childhood misery to someone else. For this reason,
he opted for the more distant pronoun “vos.”
Et toi tu me montres un violet épouvantable
Ce petit tableau où il y a une voiture m’a rappelé le jour

Un jour fait de morceaux mauves jaunes bleux verts et rouges
Où je m’en allais à la campagne avec une charmante cheminée
tenant sa chienne en laisse
Il n’y en a plus tu n’as plus ton petit mirliton
La cheminée fume loin de moi des cigarettes russes
La chienne aboie contre les lilas
La veilleuse est consumée
Sur la robe ont chu des pétales
Deux anneaux d’or près des sandales
Au soleil se sont allumés
Mais tes cheveux sont le trolley
A travers l’Europe vêtue de petits feux multicolores.
The poem undergoes an abrupt shift at this point, as the poet returns to his
original subject: Chagall. Framed by two substantial stanzas, a single line
marks the sudden change in focus. All of a sudden, we are back in the artist’s
studio surrounded by numerous pictures, one of which is apparently painted
a hideous violet. This is surprising to say the least. While blue plays a major
role in Chagall’s early paintings, violet is conspicuous by its consistent absence.
Perhaps Apollinaire saw an experimental work that was subsequently destroyed.
The final stanza combines the two previous themes: Chagall’s cheerful art and
Apollinaire’s melancholy frame of mind. The painting mentioned initially could
conceivably be La Calèche volante (1913), in which a horse and cart fly away as
smoke issues from a burning house. As Boisson points out, the cart is an attribute
of Icarios the Wagoner.93 For some reason, the painting reminds the poet of a
colorful walk he took with Marie Laurencin and her dog. He calls his former
lover a “charming smokestack” because she liked to smoke so much. With his
customary brio, Apollinaire transforms the hackneyed expression: “fumer
comme une cheminée” into a startling new metaphor. However, his momentary
attempt at humor is ultimately unsuccessful. As he is forced to acknowledge,
he and Marie are no longer together. According to Bates, the mirliton is a
traditional metaphor for the virile member.94 Whatever the reference means,
the fact that the toy flute no longer exists underlines Apollinaire’s loss. Sinking
back into his dejected state, he watches as the death of his former relationship
is confirmed line by line. The reason Marie’s dog is barking at the lilacs, Boisson
explains, is because someone is dead.95 As proof, she cites the myth of Icarios
and Erigone, who was guided to his grave by her dog Maera.
The next four lines are again taken from “La Clef.” Whereas Apollinaire
chose verses involving blindness for the first two stanzas, those in the final
stanza involve suicide by drowning. Returning from her lengthy search for “la
clef des paupières,” the young woman in “La Clef ” discovers that her beloved
is dead. Placing her dress, sandals, empty oil lamp, and two gold rings by the
edge of the lake, she jumps in and drowns. The passage’s meaning is crystal
clear. Just as the rings symbolize the two lovers, the fact that her lamp has
run dry symbolizes death. Geinoz speculates that the two rings also symbolize
Apollinaire and Marie, who informed him of her engagement to somebody
else early in 1914.96 Reminiscent of the tramways in “La Chanson du Mal-
Aimé,” which generate electric sparks as they go along the street, the trolley
in the last two lines is purely metaphoric. Geinoz believes “tes cheveux” refers
to Chagall’s curly red hair in his Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers. Citing the
modernist images in the last two lines, he concludes that Apollinaire rejects
Symbolist poetry, represented by “La Clef,” in favor of a brand new poetics.97
In Greet and Lockerbie’s judgement, however, the hair in question belongs to
Marie, who assumes the status of a goddess.98 Blazing across the European sky
like a comet, it “expresses the exalted vision of the artist, be he poet or painter.”
Despite occasional setbacks, Apollinaire is “transfigured and illumined by his
aesthetic experience.”
Notes
1 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” Les Soirées de Paris, June

15, 1914. Repr. in Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, ed.
Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 976.
2 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano di Publia:
Schena and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 588.
3 Ibid., 589.
4 Jacques Dyssord, “Le Miracle d’Apollinaire,” Chronique de Paris 1 (November
1943). Repr. in Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, ed. Marcel Adéma and
Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1081.
6 Ibid., 322.
7 Apollinaire, “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” 977.
8 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 234.
9 Guillaume Apollinaire, Méditations esthétiques. Les Peintres cubistes (1913). Repr.
in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 8.
10 Leroy C. Breunig, ed. The Cubist Poets in Paris: An Anthology (Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 1995), 76.
11 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 315–16.
2004), 73.
16 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Jacques Dyssord et La Bataille de Tunis,” Mercure de
France, May 1, 1914. Repr. in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 3, 192.
17 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 79.
20 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 76.
22 Anna Boschetti, La Poésie partout: Apollinaire, homme-époque (1898–1918)
(Paris: Seuil, 2001), 171.
23 Alexander Dickow, “‘Arbre,’ Une Quête de sens,” Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes

Apollinariennes 14 (November 2011): 43.
24 Ibid., 47.
25 Boschetti, La Poésie partout, 171; Davies, Apollinaire, 226.
28 Anne Hyde Greet and S.I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes”
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 372 . Future references to this
work will be to 373–7.
29 Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 56.
30 J. E. Cirlot, A Dictionary of Symbols, trans. Jack Sage (London: Routledge &
Kegan Paul, 1985), 347.
31 Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard,
2004), 62.
33 Marc Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars (Paris: Minard, 1969), 29.
35 Ibid., 343.
36 See, for example, Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars, 58 and 60.
37 Ibid., 6.
38 Quoted in Pierre Caizergues, “Apollinaire et Cendrars,” Sud 18 (1988): 71.
39 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 341; Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 74.
40 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Réponse à une enquête.” Repr. in Oeuvres en prose
complètes, Vol. 2, 984.
41 Dickow, “Arbre,” 48.
42 Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire, 74.
43 Scott Bates, “Un Voyage a Ispahan,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 183–8 (1968):
82–8. He also detected a link to “Arbre.”
44 See Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 49–50.
45 https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coco_(boisson).
47 Dickow, “Arbre,” 51.
49 Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, 654.
50 Robert Couffignal, L’Inspiration biblique dans l’oeuvre de Guillaume Apollinaire
(Paris: Minard, 1966), 76.

52 Ibid., 51–2.
53 Scott Bates, Dictionnaire des Mots Libres d’Apollinaire (Sewannee: privately
printed, 1991), 261.
54 Césaire Villatte, Rudolf Meyer-Riefstahl, and Marcel Flandin,
Parisismen: Alphabetisch geordnete Sammlung der enartigen
Ausdrücke des pariser Argot (Berlin-Schöneberg: Langenscheidesche
Verlagsbuchhandlung,1912), 367.
55 Blaise Cendrars, “Prose du Transsibérien et de la petite Jeanne de France,” Du
monde entier au coeur du monde. Anthologie nègre (Paris: Denöel, 1963), 22.
56 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 339; Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 53.
58 Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec son frère et sa mère, eds. Gilbert
Boudar and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Corti, 1987), 46.
59 Michel Décaudin, “L’Année allemande,” Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes
Apollinariennes 5 (May 2009): 13.
60 Amarië Arywen, “Dame Abundia ou fée Abonde,” accessed July 19, 2017, http://
aubedesfees.forumactif.fr/t677-dame-abundia-ou-fee-abonde.
62 Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars, 31.
65 Apollinaire, Correspondance avec son frère et sa mère, 123.
69 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres completes, ed. Marcel Adéma and Michel
Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1085.
70 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 396.
71 Claude Debon, “M. D . . . ou le bel inconnu,” in En hommage à Michel Décaudin,
ed. Pierre Brunel et al. (Paris: Minard, 1986), 222.
72 Etienne-Alain Hubert, “Apollinaire et Chagall: à travers ‘Rotsoge,’” in Apollinaire: Le
Regard du poète (Paris: Musées d’Orsay and de l’Orangerie/Gallimard, 2016), 200.
73 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 397. Further
references to this volume will be to pp. 398–402.
74 Bates, Dictionnaire des mots libres, 234–5.

76 Willard Bohn, “Orthographe et interprétation des mots étrangers chez
Apollinaire,” Que Vlo-Ve? 27 (January 1981): 27–30.
77 Philippe Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode: Lecture de ‘A travers
l’Europe,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes 22 (2007): 160.
79 Hubert, “Apollinaire et Chagall,” 200.
80 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 242. Guillaume Apollinaire,
“Marc Chagall,” Paris-Journal, June 2, 1914. Repr. in Oeuvres en prose complètes,
Vol. 2, ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1997),
745–6.
81 Letter from Apollinaire to Georgette Catelain, dated November 7, 1915. Le Figaro
Littéraire, No. 1174 (November 4–10, 1968), 9–10.
83 Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, 553–5.
84 Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode,” 164, n. 26.
85 Ricciotto Canudo, Lettres à Guillaume Apollinaire, 1904–1918 (Paris: Klincksieck,
1999), 123 . A panade is a poor man’s soup made from bread, milk, and cheese.
86 Ibid., 125.
92 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 111. See pp. 108–10.
96 Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode,” 158.
97 Ibid., 156–7.
98 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 401–2.
3
Miraculous Encounters
Thanking Henri Martineau on July 19, 1913 for his recent review of Alcools,
Apollinaire explained his decision to eliminate punctuation and defended
himself against the all-too-common charge of mystification. Reassuring the
critic that his compositions were meant to be taken seriously, he volunteered
the following information: “Chacun de mes poèmes est la commémoration
d’un événement de ma vie.”1 This is especially true of the two works that form
the subject of this chapter: “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” and “Un Fantôme
de nuées.” Situated in the streets of Paris, where anything may happen, each
one recounts the poet’s encounter with the modern marvelous. “Le champion
du poème-événément,” André Breton explained in later years, Apollinaire was
“l’apôtre de cette conception qui exige de tout nouveau poème qu’il soit une
refonte totale des moyens de son auteur, qu’il coure son aventure propre hors
des chemins déjà tracés, au mépris des gains réalisés antérieurement.”2 Not
only do the two poems commemorate a personal experience, therefore, but
each is a monumental achievement in its own right.
“Le Musicien de Saint-Merry”
“Uno de los poemas más turbadores y misteriosos de Apollinaire,” according

to Octavio Paz, “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” appealed to the Surrealists in
particular. Breton and his colleagues were fascinated by Apollinaire’s protagonist,
who in their opinion epitomized le merveilleux—one of the central principles
of Surrealist activity. Published in Les Soirées de Paris on February 14, 1914,
the poem is unusually symmetrical and unusually well-crafted.3 Oscillating
between a heroic tone and an elegiac tone, as Claude Debon has pointed out, it
incorporates three movements and three interludes of varying lengths.4 Nothing
is left to chance, everything is meticulously ordered. While “Le Musicien de

Saint-Merry” is composed of fragments, it is fragmentary only in the sense that
it resembles a collage—a collage whose elements are held together by the glue
of symmetry and reflexive reference. It is “un univers . . . créé de toutes pièces,”
to quote Apollinaire in a different context, and it is noteworthy that he was
conscious of similarities between his technique and Picasso’s.5
The plot of “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” is deceptively simple. Strolling
through the streets of the Marais district in Paris, a mysterious flute-player
attracts hordes of women, who blindly follow him to his ultimate destination.
For all its basic simplicity, however, the composition is extraordinarily complex.
It is shaped by two structural devices in particular: the figure of the cortège and
the creation of narrative multiplicity. Constructed around an autobiographical
center, the poem magnifies personal experience and projects it onto a number
of different levels, where it undergoes some startling transformations.
Traversing the domains of autobiography, history, and psychology, multiple
narratives are superimposed on one another to form a series of structural
parallels. As Michel Décaudin observes, “On passe dans ‘Le Musicien’ d’une
réalité vécue, chronologiquement située, à quelque chose qui est de l’ordre du
mythe.”6 In effecting this transition, one passes through at least eleven different
levels. Some of these are of major importance, others are relatively minor.
J’ai enfin le droit de saluer des êtres que je ne connais pas
Ils passent devant moi et s’accumulent au loin
Tandis que tout ce que j’en vois m’est inconnu
Et leur espoir n’est pas moins fort que le mien
Je ne chante pas ce monde ni les autres astres

Je chante toutes les possibilités de moi-même hors de
ce monde et des astres
Je chante la joie d’errer et le plaisir d’en mourir
As Timothy Mathews remarks, “Apollinaire consummates his love affair with the
present in the first line.”7 Freed at last from the curse of introspection, Greet and
Lockerbie explain, he is able at last to confront external reality.8 Having regained
confidence in his creative powers, Margaret Davies adds, he claims his share not
only of the present but also of the future.9 Since every line contains at least one
pronoun referring to Apollinaire, this is clearly an important personal statement.
Miraculous Encounters 63
The second stanza, which is largely a restatement of the first, has one purpose:
to present Apollinaire’s poetic credo. This is the major theme of both stanzas,
whose function is to justify “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” and the poet’s work
in general. Apollinaire’s ars poetica, summarized in lines 1 and 6, is simply this:
he asserts the primacy of pure, unrestricted imagination in poetry, unfettered
by the demands of reality.10 Lines 1, 3, and 5 emphasize the fantastic nature of
his story, and lines 2 and 7 anticipate the story itself. The last line, in which
“errer” has the double meaning of “to wander” and “to be mistaken,” asserts his
right to experiment, even at the risk of failure. In the last analysis, then, the song
Apollinaire is singing is the poem itself. The act of singing corresponds to the act
of poetic creation. And since the next stanza reveals that the mysterious musician
is playing Apollinaire’s song, he must be identical to Apollinaire himself. More
precisely, he is a fantasized version of the author—Apollinaire as he wished to
see himself. For he possesses one key attribute not found in the author of “La
Chanson du Mal-Aimé”: an irresistible attractiveness to women.
Le 21 du mois de mai 1913

Passeur des morts et les mordonnantes mériennes
Des millions de mouches éventaient une splendeur
Quand un homme sans yeux sans nez et sans oreilles
Quittant le Sébasto entra dans la rue Aubry-le-Boucher
Jeune l’homme était brun et ce couleur de fraise sur les joues
Homme Ah! Ariane
Il jouait de la flûte et la musique dirigeait ses pas
Il s’arrêta au coin de la rue Saint-Martin
Jouant l’air que je chante et que j’ai inventé.
Les femmes qui passaient s’arrêtaient près de lui

Il en venait de toutes parts
Lorsque tout à coup les cloches de Saint-Merry se mirent à sonner
Le musicien cessa de jouer et but à la fontaine
Qui se trouve au coin de la rue Simon-Le-Franc
Puis Saint-Merry se tut
L’inconnu reprit son air de flûte
Et revenant sur ses pas marcha jusqu’à la rue de la Verrerie
Où il entra suivi par la troupe des femmes
Qui sortaient des maisons
Qui venaient par les rues traversières les yeux fous

Les mains tendues vers le mélodieux ravisseur
Il s’en allait indifférement jouant son air
Il s’en allait terriblement.
Significantly, the poem’s meter is based on the alexandrine, whose slower

rhythm corresponds to the deliberate advance of the cortège. Although it is
written in blank verse, a rhymed couplet brings the procession to a halt
at the end. On the surface level, “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” recounts a
supernatural occurrence that is meant to mystify the reader. The aura of
mystery is intensified by the precision of the references. Apollinaire gives the
exact itinerary of the procession, street by street, which can easily be retraced
on any pre-1934 map of Paris. In a similar vein, he gives the precise date of
the supposed encounter: “Le 21 du mois de mai 1913.” In addition, the poem
incorporates three processions that are rooted in contemporary reality. The
critics agree, for example, that the mysterious women who follow the musician
are prostitutes residing in the area. For one thing, this quarter was infested
with filles de joie and associated hoodlums in Apollinaire’s day, and had been
since the Middle Ages.11 For another, the list of women enumerated further
along à la François Villon is headed by Ariadne, who appears as a prostitute
in “Arbre.”12 It is generally agreed that the words “mordonnantes mériennes”
designate the local prostitutes, who confer la petite mort via sexual intercourse.
Thus the poem may be seen as depicting a group of prostitutes in pursuit of a
potential customer, perhaps even Apollinaire.
Headquartered in the Saint-Merry district since the Middle Ages, Marc
Poupon recounts, the Parisian bakers went on strike in May 1913. Two bakeries
remained open in the rue de la Verrerie and were swamped by customers—
until their windows were broken by strikers.13 Poupon suggests that Apollinaire
transformed the long queues of housewives waiting for bread into his mysterious
procession, which, among other things, is “long comme un jour sans pain”
(l. 55). Not only do the broken windows of the bakery echo the “vitres brisées”
of an abandoned house on the rue de la Verrerie—to be encountered later—
but there was, and still is, a type of French bread called a flûte. While the
bread lines seem to have played a role in the poem’s elaboration, the initial
idea seems to have been provided by another experience. Jean Mollet recounts
that he and Apollinaire entered a hotel courtyard in the rue de la Verrerie one
day and discovered a musician surrounded by a group of women singing “Au
bord de la Riviera.”14 However, the actual poem was engendered by a different
experience. Pierre Caizergues has discovered that on May 4, 1913, Apollinaire
led a guided tour through the Saint-Merry district on behalf of the Société des
Amis du Paris Pittoresque. The notes he used for the tour have subsequently
come to light.15
Apollinaire’s reasons for choosing the cortège as the basis of his poem, and
for situating it in this area, were thus partly autobiographical. This explains
why the poem exhibits such a detailed knowledge of the quarter. The faceless
protagonist follows the route taken by Apollinaire and his charges two weeks
before. From the boulevard de Sébastopol (“le Sébasto”) he enters the rue
Aubry-le-Boucher and stops at the intersection of the rue Saint-Martin.
Apollinaire undoubtedly halted his own process to explain that on June 5,
1832, a terrible battle took place here during the popular insurrection that
erupted on the occasion of General Lamarque’s funeral. The widespread
fighting, which involved most of the area, is commemorated by a later line:
“Quand l’émeute mourait autour de Saint-Merry.” The insurrection itself was
immortalized by Victor Hugo in Les Misérables, which includes a curious
episode. After Inspector Javert, who has been spying on the revolutionaries,
has been caught and tied to a post, Gavroche makes a request: “‘A propos, vous
me donnerez son fusil!’ Et il ajouta: ‘Je vous laisse le musicien, mais je veux la
clarinette.’”16 One wonders if this is simply a coincidence. The hero next stops
at the corner of the rue Saint-Martin and the rue Simon-le-Franc, where he
pauses to drink from a fountain. Apollinaire’s notes reveal that he stopped here
to point out the Fontaine Maubuée, dating from the thirteenth century and
immortalized by François Villon in his Testament (stanza 105).
The rhythm of the advancing procession is interrupted three times by
simultaneous interludes. Comprising a series of historical vignettes, the last
two are concerned with temporal simultanism. Devoted to spatial simultanism,
the first interlude evokes events occurring all over the world at the same time,
thus creating a global slice of life.
Puis ailleurs
A quelle heure un train partira-t-il pour Paris
A ce moment
Les pigeons des Moluques fientaient des noix muscades
En même temps
Mission catholique de Bôma qu’as-tu fait du sculpteur
Ailleurs
Elle traverse un pont qui relie Bonn à Beuel et disparaît
à travers Pützchen
Au même instant
Une jeune fille amoureuse du maire
Dans un autre quartier

Rivalise donc poète avec les étiquettes des parfumeurs
En somme ô rieurs vous n’avez pas tiré grand-chose

des hommes
Et à peine avez-vous extrait un peu de graisse de leur misère
Mais nous qui mourons de vivre loin l’un de l’autre
Tendons nos bras et sur ces rails roule un long train
de marchandises
Tu pleurais assise près de moi au fond d’un fiacre
Et maintenant
Tu me ressembles tu me ressembles malheureusement
Nous nous ressemblons comme dans l’architecture du siècle dernier
Ces hautes cheminées pareilles à des tours
Nous allons plus haut maintentant et ne touchons plus le sol.
Among the heterogeneous elements collected together in this section, “A quelle

heure un train partira-t-il pour Paris?” evokes a conversation in a provincial
railroad station. Apollinaire used the phrase as a title for a dramatic version
of “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” the following year.17 The pigeons of the
Moluccas, or Spice Islands, whose diet consists of nutmegs, were chosen for
their exoticism. The same is probably true of the line “Mission catholique de
Bôma qu’as-tu fait du sculpteur?,” which represents an unspoken question in
Apollinaire’s mind. However, several additional factors are at work here as well.
As Philippe Renaud remarks, the question constitutes “une prise de position à
la fois idéologique et esthétique.”18 Apollinaire opposes the missionaries in the
Belgian Congo (of which Bôma was the capital) to the African sculptors under
their jurisdiction for two reasons. First of all, he attacks the imposition of
Christianity on the African populace in general. By eradicating African culture
and replacing it with its European counterpart, the missionaries were in effect
destroying the people they were supposed to be saving. Secondly, Apollinaire
deplores the eradication of African art. A convert to Christianity, the sculptor
can no longer carve masks and statues depicting his tribal gods. Since this is the
only art form available to him, however, he will have to abandon his profession.
The theme of African art is linked to another line in the first interlude:
“Rivalise donc poète avec les étiquettes des parfumeurs.” This is a silent
exhortation by Apollinaire to his fellow practitioners. Just as African sculpture
was influencing modern painting at the time, labels and posters had begun to
inspire modern poetry. As Susan Harrow notes, “the call to merge materiality
and poetry, high art and commodity culture, [was becoming] more insistent.”19
These themes are complemented by two additional motifs: machinery and
industrialization. The image of the train at the beginning of the interlude
is echoed by that of an airplane in the last line: “Nous allons plus haute
maintenant et ne touchons plus le sol.” According to Antoine Fongaro, the two
lines beginning “En somme ô rieurs” provide a glimpse of the class struggle
between capitalists, who exploit the misery of the poor, and the proletariat,
which must struggle daily to survive.20
Following the next three lines, which continue the main story:
Et tandis que le monde vivait et variait
Le cortège des femmes long comme un jour sans pain

Suivait dans la rue de la Verrerie l’heureux musicien
Apollinaire inserts a brief second interlude:
Cortèges ô cortèges
C’est quand jadis le roi s’en allait à Vincennes
Quand les ambassadeurs arrivaient à Paris
Quand le maigre Suger se hâtait vers la Seine
Quand l’émeute mourait autour de Saint-Merry
After which he returns to the main story again:
Les femmes débordaient tant leur nombre était grand
Dans toutes les rues avoisinantes

Et se hâtaient raides comme balle
Afin de suivre le musicien
Ah! Ariane et toi Pâquette et toi Amine
Et toi Mia et toi Simone et toi Mavise
Et toi Colette et toi la belle Geneviève
Elles ont passé tremblantes et vaines
Et leurs pas légers et prestes se mouvaient
selon la cadence
De la musique pastorale qui guidait
Leurs oreilles avides
L’inconnu s’arrêta un moment devant une maison

à vendre
Maison abandonnée
Aux vitres brisées
C’est un logis du seizième siècle
La cour sert de remise à des voitures de livraisons
C’est là qu’entra le musicien
Sa musique qui s’éloignait devint langoureuse
Les femmes le suivirent dans la maison abandonnée
Et toutes y entrèrent confondues en bande
Toutes toutes y entrèrent sans regarder derrière elles
Sans regretter ce qu’elles ont laisssé
Ce qu’elles ont abandonné
Sans regretter le jour la vie et la mémoire
Il ne resta bientôt plus personne dans la rue
de la Verrerie
Sinon moi-même et un prêtre de Saint-Merry
Nous entrâmes dans la vieille maison
Mais nous n’y trouvâmes personne.
The faceless man walks in the opposite direction to the corner of the rue Saint-
Martin and the rue de la Verrerie (the site of the Eglise Saint-Merry) and
proceeds down the latter street until he reaches an abandoned house. This is
very possibly the building at 83, rue de la Verrerie, mentioned in Apollinaire’s
notes and praised by all the guidebooks for its exposed staircase. The rectory of
the Eglise de Saint-Merry across the street stands on the former site of a house
belonging to “le maigre Suger”—the abbé of Saint Denis who was counselor to
Louis VI and Louis VII, an able diplomat, and the author of several histories.
It is fitting that Apollinaire chose the rue de la Verrerie in which to evoke the
historical processions, for, as he doubtless explained during the tour, Louis
XIV widened the street in 1672 to facilitate his passage between the Louvre
and his chateau at Vincennes and to serve “les ambassadeurs étrangers [qui]
passaient par cette rue lors de leur entrée solennelle [à Paris].”21
The remainder of the poem consists of an epilogue (two lines), a brief interlude
(five lines), and a second epilogue (five lines):
Voici le soir
A Saint-Merry c’est l’Angelus qui sonne
C’est quand jadis le roi revenait de Vincennes
Il vint une troupe de casquettiers
Il vint des marchands de bananes
Il vint des soldats de la garde républicain
O nuit
Troupeau de regards langoureux des femmes
O nuit
Toi ma douleur et mon attente vaine
J’entends mourir le son d’une flûte lointaine.
Apollinaire obviously gleaned some of these details from a guidebook,

but the hatters, banana peddlers, and Republican Guardsmen are taken from
personal observation. The quarter was sprinkled with fruit and clothing stores,
and the Republican Guard had a barrack nearby. Poupon suggests that the
casquettiers are not cap-makers but cap-wearers, that is pimps and hoodlums.
He adds that the guardsmen are probably on leave and have come to patronize
the prostitutes.
Besides filtering the previous details through his personal experience,
Apollinaire manages to give them a mythic dimension. It has long been
recognized that he is the hero of his own poem. He is present in three different
guises: as the protagonist (the musician), as the narrator (the speaker), and
as the poet (the singer). The attributes of the first two roles are combined
in that of the third. Thus Apollinaire is present both as an observer and as
a participant—that is, as the embodiment of the different aspects of poetic

creation.22 This explains the puzzling statement that the faceless man is playing
the very tune that Apollinaire is singing, which he invented: they are one and
the same person.
Insofar as the faceless protagonist represents Apollinaire the poet, it is fitting
that at least five of his female followers are taken directly from his works.23
One of them, Mia, also seems to have been a former love of his when he was
growing up in Monaco. The fact that the women are prostitutes is as important
as their rapturous subservience. For if Apollinaire suffered mightily at the
hands of his various loves, he was finally able to punish them in this poem as
he could never do in real life. In his misogynistic mood, he lumps all women
together under the heading “prostitute” and disposes of them as he wishes. As
S. I. Lockerbie states, “le poète s’installe en quelque sorte comme le spectateur
de son propre triomphe—que ce triomphe soit sur les femmes nommées, sur
toutes les femmes du monde, ou sur l’amour lui-même.”24 Apollinaire’s revenge
assumes two forms. In one, which belongs to the poem’s mythic dimension, he
leads the women to Hades/Hell. The theme of death runs through the entire
poem, and the women enter the abandoned house “sans regretter ce qu’elles
ont laissé . . . le jour la vie et la mémoire” (emphasis added). Renaud believes
the faceless Apollinaire disappears along with them, symbolizing a break with
the past, but this does not seem to be true. For one thing, he is characterized
as a “passeur des morts,” transporting his charges to the underworld but not
remaining there himself. For another, in the dramatic version of the poem he
reappears on stage at the end.
The other form of revenge is erotic: Apollinaire takes the women for
himself, consigning them to his own personal harem. It should be stressed
that the faceless musician is not indifferent to his followers, as some critics
have charged, but merely unconcerned (“indifférent” having both meanings).
He simply has complete confidence in his power over the women, and it is
this power that makes him so “terrible.” In fact, he is described as “heureux”
in one place—both happy and fortunate. The nature of his happiness, and
the destination of the women, are evident from the erotic epithet “mélodieux
ravisseur.” Finally, without going into details at this point, it appears that the
mysterious “homme sans yeux sans yeux et sans oreilles” is actually a membrum
virile (Apollinaire’s). In its erect state it is eminently worthy of the prostitutes’

attention. Thus sexual fantasy and revenge blend in an image of irresistible
phallic magnetism. Poupon astutely observes that the bond between the
women and their seducer is that of fascination but incorrectly links it to the
fascine (“fagot,” “bundle of sticks,” hence “flute”) instead of the etymological
fascinum. The latter term designated a spell of witchcraft, an amulet, often
phallic, and the phallus itself.25
Like Apollinaire’s revenge, the occasional touches of melancholy are
motivated by the recent demise of his relationship with Marie Laurencin,
traces of which are scattered throughout the poem. For example, he invokes
their mutual suffering following the breakup in the lines “Mais nous qui
mourons de vivre loin l’un de l’autre / Tendons nos bras.” His longing for
reconciliation is exposed here like a raw nerve. These lines are also the key
to understanding the puzzling statement: “Et maintenant / Tu me ressembles
tu me ressembles malheureusement.” Addressing Marie, Apollinaire detects
an ironic resemblance, which he expresses via a jeu de mots centered on
“malheureusement.” On the one hand they are both “unfortunate,” on the other
they resemble each other because they are both “unhappy.” This emotional
state contrasts sharply with that of the “heureux musicien.” As Poupon has
shown, the line “Tu pleurais assise près de moi au fond d’un fiacre” recalls how
Apollinaire had recently consoled Marie upon the death of her mother. The line
“Elle traverse un pont qui relie Bonn à Beuel et disparaît à travers Pützschen”
probably also refers to Marie—with echoes of Annie Playden. For this is the
path followed by Tristouse Ballerinette, Marie’s double, in Le Poète assassiné.
Despite their fragmentary appearance, the preceding lines are not gratuitous.
The references to Marie are separated and isolated on the page to indicate they
are random thoughts and memories passing through Apollinaire’s mind. They
also serve to prepare the reader for the conclusion, where the different themes
are finally resolved. Like the daylight, the main event is coming to a close.
The ringing of the Angelus serves as the line of demarcation between fantasy
and reality. Recalling another confrontation with the supernatural, that is, the
Annunciation, the Angelus seems rather ironic. For if it commemorates “le
Salut que l’Ange prédit” (Villon, Le Lais), salvation seems extremely remote for
the women in the poem who have been led off to eternal damnation.
More importantly, the bells mark the hour of evening prayer, calling to
mind Millet’s painting L’Angélus and its atmosphere of complete tranquility.
According to Fongaro, the line evoking the Angelus was taken from a popular
song entitled “L’Angélus de la mer”: “Au loin, c’est l’angélus qui sonne.”26 Once
the flurry of activity has ceased, a similar peace descends upon the Saint-Merry
quarter, where one sees Apollinaire the poet left alone with his memories in a
setting full of historical memories. The line “Troupeau de regards langoueux
des femmes,” which may be a metaphor for the sky filled with stars, as in
“Voyage,” represents the memory of the women in his life as well as those in
the poem. Apollinaire’s anguish stems from his isolation. Just as he is alone in
the Saint-Merry streets, he is alone in life. His immediate source of anguish is
the loss of Marie, the “tu” of the next-to-last line. While he had initially hoped
for a reconciliation, his expectations have proved to be in vain. The contrast is
striking: surrounded by women who throng to become the musician’s slaves,
Apollinaire himself has been unable to capture the woman he loves. The last
verb mourir underlines the finality of his failure. In the last analysis, his anguish
is an avowal of his impotence. The final line, with its blending of memory,
music, and love’s suffering, recalls the ending of “Cors de chasse.” In both
poems the music fading in the distance symbolizes the passage of life itself.
Wishing to give “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” a mythic dimension that
would surpass his personal experience, Apollinaire chose first to graft the
legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin onto his initial guided-tour structure. This
idea may have been suggested by the statue of a piper on the main façade of the
Eglise de Saint-Merry or by a guidebook note that the rue Saint-Martin was
inhabited by musicians and jongleurs in the Middle Ages.27 The salient features
of the legend, which exists in several versions, are the following: on either
June 26 or July 22, 1284, having been refused payment for ridding Hamelin
of its rats, a mysterious piper took his revenge by piping away 130 children
and disappearing with them into a cavern high on Koppenberg Hill.28 The
last sound anyone heard was that of flute music gradually dying away. From
this brief outline it is clear that the legend’s influence was crucial. The precise
date, the flute-player with his irresistible music, the theme of revenge, the
disappearance by engulfment, the fading flute music at the end—all these are
repeated in “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” whose shape they largely determine.
Apollinaire skillfully integrated cortèges on another three levels that dovetail

perfectly with the Hamelin legend. As noted, the different versions specify
either June 26 or July 22 as the day of the exodus hamelensis. These are the
saint’s days of John and Paul on the one hand, and of Mary Magdalene on the
other. In his treatise Des divinités génératrices chez les anciens et les modernes
(which Apollinaire owned), J. A. Dulaure devotes some interesting pages to
prostitution in medieval Paris, including the Saint-Merry quarter. He states,
for example, that the prostitutes belonged to a special guild with its own rules,
judges, and taxes, and that once every year they filed across Paris in a solemn
procession. This day was, appropriately, Mary Magdalene’s Day.29 There is
little doubt that “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” incorporates this historical
procession, which parallels the theme of modern-day prostitutes pursuing
potential customers in the same area. While the role of the procession is minor,
it links the protagonist’s followers to the mythic figure of Mary Magdalene
(The Eternal Whore)—whose first name in French is also Marie.
On yet another level, the critics are unanimous in interpreting Apollinaire’s
faceless musician as a manifestation of the Devil. In this context, it is noteworthy
that the Pied Piper legend has a definite demonic aspect and that the Piper is
identified with the Devil in disguise in many versions. In the legend, as in
the poem, the hypnotic flute music represents a form of sorcery. Apollinaire
may also have been inspired by a statue on the main façade of the Eglise de
Saint-Merry replacing a religious figure destroyed during the Revolution. One
guidebook states “Another blunder of the modern architect is the placing of
a demon on the center—at the point of the arch, where the Medieval artists
invariably put the figure of Christ or Our Lady.”30 From this it is easy to imagine a
church devoted to the worship of Satan, and indeed Poupon reports that “toute
une tradition occultiste situe l’enfer sous l’Eglise Saint-Merry, église suspecte
où des rites démoniques se seraient déroulés.” The demonic component of the
faceless musician is acknowledged at the beginning of the poem:

Des millions de mouches éventaient une splendeur.
The key to these verses lies in the image of the flies. Poupon takes the second
line as a metaphor for the moon and the stars. Here, as elsewhere in his
works, Apollinaire evokes the image of infernal flies, who, being female, are
associated with dancing and eroticism. Moreover, as the symbols of death
and putrefaction, they are inextricably bound up with Beelzebub, Lord of
the Flies. In “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” they not only serve to identify the
protagonist but foreshadow the end of the poem where the women are led off
to death/Hell. As in “Voyage,” Apollinaire is in effect wishing that his former
loves—that all women—would go to the Devil.
The two lines above, which announce the appearance of the protagonist
in the next line, prefigure the procession of the musician and his women.
Their relation to one another is chiasmic. “Passeur des morts” and “splendeur”
describe Beezelbub, while the “mordonnantes mériennes” and the “millions de
mouches” are his female followers. The flies are metaphors for the prostitutes
(and vice versa), who are attracted to the unclean in swarms and who are
unclean themselves. This metaphorical metamorphosis is likewise evident in
the epithet mordonnantes, a portmanteau word but also a pun. For if it combines
mort and donnant, it just as obviously fuses mordant and bourdonnant. On
the one hand, the “mériennes” are seen as death-dealing women companions,
even accomplices, of the ferryman. On the other, they are depicted as a swarm
of biting, buzzing (cf. the verb éventer) flies. As prostitutes, they are lethal in
the first instance and annoying in the second. The two images are inextricably
intertwined, leaving the reader with the image of hordes of whores-flies
performing an obscene danse funèbre.
Within the realm of ancient Greek mythology Apollinaire’s hero has been
identified as Hermes, Orpheus, Pan, and Dionysos. Detailed investigation fails
to substantiate the first three claims, but the fourth has much to recommend
it. This is not to deny that Apollinaire’s works are full of references to Hermes,
Orpheus, and Pan, or that the figures are sometimes associated with groups of
women, or that his first collection of poetry was subtitled Cortège d’Orphée.
However, none of their legends make sense in the context of the poem. If
Orpheus’s music had the power to charm wild animals, his instrument was the
lyre, not the flute. It is symptomatic that Renaud is compelled to postulate “une
sorte d’Anti-Orphée, d’Orphée retourné” to explain why Orpheus seems to be
leading Eurydice down to Hades instead of rescuing her.31 Similarly, if Pan
usually played “musique pastorale” like Apollinaire’s musician, his instrument
was not the flute but the pan-pipe (syrinx). Neither are his associations with
fright and bestiality helpful. As Scott Bates notes, it is Dionysos—a flute-
player—who is associated with Ariadne.32 Abandoned on the isle of Naxos by
Theseus, whom she had managed to save from the Minotaur, she was rescued
by Dionysos subsequently and became his consort.
It is possible that Apollinaire combined the Dionysos myth and the Pied
Piper story on his own initiative. However, an intriguing precedent exists in
the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, who seems to have influenced the dramatic
version of “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” via Alberto Savinio and Giorgio de
Chirico. This influence may go as far back as the original poem.33 The parallels
with “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” are certainly striking. First, Nietzsche’s
protagonist is simultaneously Dionysos and the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Second,
his irresistible personal magnetism—enhanced by a disguise—attracts hordes
of followers. And third, he is connected with a descent into the underworld.
These parallels are so marked that they can scarcely be coincidental. It is evident
in any case that Apollinaire’s poem reproduces part of the Dionysos myth.
In the latter Dionysos wanders about the East (cf. Apollinaire’s “Je chante la
joie d’errer”) playing his flute and accompanied by a band of maenads, ecstatic
female followers crowned with vine leaves and each carrying a thyrsus. There
is an even greater resemblance to Euripides’ The Bacchae, in which Dionysos
enchants the entire female population of Thebes, who abandon their homes
and go off with him. Not for nothing do the Homeric Hymns call him the
“inspirer of frenzied women.” In The Bacchae, as in Apollinaire’s poem, the
motive behind the abduction/seduction is one of revenge. Moreover, the death
of Pentheus at the end parallels the disappearance of the “mériennes,” both of
which may be seen as sacrifices to Dionysos. In this context it is tempting to
view the biting, buzzing flies as modern-day Eumenides or Furies (cf. Jean-
Paul Sartre’s Les Mouches).
If “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” incorporates the Dionysos myth, it also
refers to the worship of Dionysos, that is, to specific religious ceremonies.
Apollinaire superimposes the structure of an actual Dionysian rite upon
his Pied Piper framework—the phallic procession. As noted previously,
the physical source of the musician is clearly anatomical. Representing the
membrum virile, the faceless man is “brun et ce couleur de fraise sur les
joues” and is devoid of any physiognomy except for a mouth. One should thus
imagine him as a human body surmounted by a smooth, spherical head. As
numerous classicists have noted, the phallus was the symbol par excellence
of Dionysos and figured prominently in seasonal processions honoring the
god. According to one authority, “la procession avait probablement caractère
d’un charme destiné à promouvoir la fertilité des champs et des jardins et la
fécondité des foyers.”34 The joyous mood and bawdy songs of these ceremonial
festivities can be glimpsed in Aristophanes’ Acharnians, which Apollinaire
certainly knew, and in the History of Herodotus (Vol. 2).
The typical procession was headed by one or more flute-players, followed by
several maidens (canephoroi) carrying baskets on their heads with materials for
sacrifice. Then came the phallophoroi, bearing an enormous phallus, followed
by a chorus of musicians and the ithyphalloi, men dressed in women’s clothing,
pretending drunkenness and singing phallic songs. Dulaure, who describes
the Dionysian procession in detail, remarks concerning the costume of the
phallophoroi: “C’étaient des hommes qui ne portaient point de masque sur leur
visage, mais qui le couvraient avec un tissu formé par des feuilles de lierre, de
serpolet et d’acanthe.”35 Thus the phallus-bearers resembled phalli themselves,
and as men “sans yeux sans nez et sans oreilles” they prefigured Apollinaire’s
phallomorphic hero to an astonishing degree. The poet clearly integrated the
key elements of the procession into his poem. The giant Dionysian phallus
and its bearers inspired the physical appearance of his protagonist, while the
worship of the phallus as a fertility symbol suggested the worship of the phallus
as phallus. This concept dovetails perfectly with his sexual fantasies and their
representation in the poem.
The existence in “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” of yet another level,
whose scope surpasses that of myth and ritual, has been implicit in much of
the preceding discussion. For insofar as mythic characters and actions lend
themselves to symbolic interpretation, they belong to a larger pattern—that
governing life itself. As such, they exemplify universal principles and dramatize
the human condition. One indication that Apollinaire wishes his readers
to consider his poem in this perspective concerns the faceless musician: “Il
jouait de la flûte et la musique dirigeait ses pas.” This is an astonishing piece
of information: the musician is not a free agent. Like his female followers he
must follow the path indicated by his music. This means that he is not the
creator of the music he is playing but rather its vehicle. Alternately “charmeur
et charmé,” in Poupon’s words, he is moved by the same irresistible force as the
women and is subject to some greater power (symbolized by the music). If at
one level this represents poetic inspiration, here it represents the life force itself
that Apollinaire associates with sexuality. In directing their steps according to
the imperious commands of the music, the faceless man and his troupe are
performing the dance of life—which in several respects resembles the dance
of the flies about the “splendeur.” Both are situated within the confines of birth
and death, both are automatic responses to instinctual impulses.
In shifting from the Pied Piper to Dionysos, from demon to daimon,
Apollinaire chose the perfect vehicle for his sexual life force. As a fertility god,
Dionysos’s significance far surpassed his importance as an individual. According
to one authority, “[il] réunit en sa personne le représentant du monde infernal
et le daimôn en qui et par qui l’exubérance de la nature éclate dans la floraison
du printemps et dans la fructifération de l’automne.”36 As such, he was involved
with the interplay of sexual forces in nature and with the concept of potency
or sexual power. In the Greek cosmology, which resembled Apollinaire’s, birth
and death were interpreted in terms of sexuality. The death of vegetation in
the Fall was attributed to a loss of potency (symbolized by Dionysos’s descent
into the underworld), and its (re) birth in the Spring resulted from an increase
in potency (the ascent of Dionysos). If one substitutes “fertility” for “potency,”
the same concept applies to Ariadne, who became the consort of Dionysos
precisely because she was already a fertility goddess. Thus the Greek cosmology
was dualistic and divided the world into male and female.
“Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” is informed by an identical world view.
Scholars have observed that Apollinaire’s poetry is shaped by a dialectic of
opposites, corresponding to the functioning of the psyche itself according to
Sigmund Freud. Fire is opposed to water, death to rebirth, past to future, and
so forth.37 In the present poem, the dialectic is primarily sexual. Paralleling
the biological separation of the sexes, the world is divided into masculine
and feminine, active and passive, animus and anima. Apollinaire evokes this
dichotomy at the beginning, interrupting the description of his protagonist
with the following apostrophe:
Homme Ah! Ariane
Although the male/female opposition is anticipated by the pairing of the

ferryman with the “mordonnantes mériennes,” the entrance of Ariadne and
Dionysos here officially announces the theme. The dichotomy is structural
as well as thematic, for it extends throughout the poem and polarizes the
various processions into opposing sexual camps. It is evident in the following
couples: the musician and his women, Apollinaire and Marie, the prostitutes
and their customer, the phallus and the canephoroi, Beelzebub and the female
flies, the Devil and Mary Magdalene. Moreover, the poem is sprinkled with
sexual symbols. Among the masculine symbols are the magic flute, the
industrial smokestacks, the bananas, and the flautist himself in his phallic
costume. The feminine symbols include the fountain, the various women,
the open door, the broken windows, and the empty house that finally engulfs
the procession. The Apollinarian universe is thus a highly sexualized entity,
reflecting his belief that “la sexualité est l’élément préponderant dans la vie
humaine.”38
Despite its sexual polarization, however, Apollinaire’s universe is not at
all fragmentary. If male and female exist as separate entities, they are not
totally self-contained. Neither are they hopelessly isolated. Each category
is meaningful only in the context of the other. It is the tension between
them that generates the sexual life force—a sort of electric current passing
between the positive and negative poles of the universe. Thus Eros is the
connecting link between male and female, between man and woman. Eros
holds the universe together and provides its motive force. Apollinaire
clearly had this function in mind when he spoke in one place of “L’Amour
qui emplit ainsi que la lumière / Tout le solide espace entre les étoiles et les
planets” (“Poème lu au mariage d’ André Salmon”). One suspects Apollinaire
was influenced here by two illustrious predecessors: Dante and Empedocles.
In the Paradiso, the former depicts (divine) love as the power by which
the universe is governed. In the latter’s cosmology, Love is the universal
unifying principle and Hatred the divisive principle. Even more revealing is
Apollinaire’s pronouncement elsewhere that “l’amour guide toute la nature.”
Postulated as a universal law governing the categories of animal, vegetable,
and mineral, this statement summarizes the world view underlying “Le
Musicien de Saint-Merry.”39
Throughout the foregoing analysis the one constant, recurring theme has
been sexuality in its various forms—from commercial commodity to the
basis of love to universal principle. Each of the parallel narrative structures
represents the projection of primal desire at a distinct level of meaning,
ranging from autobiographical concerns to mythic preoccupations. For, as
André Breton points out, “la région où s’erige le désir sans contrainte . . . est
aussi celle où les les mythes prennent leur essor.”40 The eventual integration
of the various dimensions takes place at the level of the work of art itself. To
insist on a single theme, however, is to ignore the poem’s complexity. For as
Peter Read nicely puts it, “Apollinaire réussit l’entrelacement inextricable d’une
realite vécue, de ses connaissances historiques, de ses fantasmes mythologiques
et érotiques.”41 Uncovering successive layers of meaning, one comes to realize
that the poem’s subject is really life. This explains why Apollinaire’s personal
experiences (past and present) are juxtaposed with life in general (actual
and historical). Conceived initially as a fantasy of revenge enacted against a
backdrop of desire, the poem goes beyond its original premises to dramatize
the structures of human existence.
“Un Fantôme de nuées”
Like “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” the next poem describes an encounter

with a mysterious stranger in the middle of Paris. Despite the fact that it takes
place in broad daylight, it has all the hallmarks of a supernatural experience.
Published in Les Ecrits Français on December 5, 1913, “Un Fantôme de nuées”
was punctuated initially by overly zealous typographers. Not until the following
year, when it was reprinted in Le Nouvel Imagier, did a non-punctuated version
appear. Published by the Société de la Gravure sur Bois Originale, the latter
volume included sixty-three wood engravings, one of which, by Paul Baudier,
was accompanied by Apollinaire’s poem. The composition’s title alludes to an
episode taken from classical mythology that led to the birth of the centaurs.
Learning that Ixion was planning to seduce Hera, Zeus fashioned a facsimile
out of clouds with which Ixion copulated instead. Traditionally, as Claude

Debon observes, the episode serves as a “symbole d’illusion trompeuse
et mortelle.”42 From this one deduces that “Un Fantôme de nuées” will be
organized around some kind of deception. As other critics have noted, the
first three stanzas are completely unremarkable. According to André Billy,
Apollinaire had completed the first ten lines of a short story, when he suddenly
decided to turn it into a poem43:
Comme c’était la veille du quatorze juillet

Vers les quatre heures de l’après-midi
Je descendis dans la rue pour aller voir les saltimbanques
Ces gens qui font des tours en plein air

Commencent à être rares à Paris
Dans ma jeunesse on en voyait beaucoup plus qu’aujourd’hui
Ils s’en sont allés presque tous en province
Je pris le boulevard Saint-Germain

Et sur une petite place située entre Saint-Germain-des-Prés et
la statue de Danton
Je rencontrai les saltimbanques.
Composed entirely of declarative sentences, the first ten lines are almost purely
descriptive. Leaving his apartment at 202 boulevard Saint-German for a Sunday
stroll, Apollinaire turns left and proceeds in the direction of the boulevard
Saint-Michel. How far he goes depends on how one interprets the directions
given in the poem. Assuming that “Saint-Germain-des-Prés” describes the
church of the same name, Debon situates the itinerant acrobats in the Place
Jacques-Copeau right across the street.44 However, “Saint-Germain-des-Prés”
also designates the boulevard on which the church stands. Continuing down
the street, one encounters another compact square, near the Odéon, currently
named after Henri Mondor. Although this square had no name in Apollinaire’s
day, a statue of Georges Jacques Danton, one of the leaders of the French
Revolution, was erected there in 1891. One suspects that the scene described
in the poem—which Apollinaire may have actually witnessed—takes place in
the narrow space between the boulevard and the statue. In any case, as Debon
points out, the date and the place of the encounter are far from accidental.
Not only does the setting evoke the French Revolution, but it also serves as “le
signe de la révolution poétique . . . sacralisée par la présence de l’Eglise.”45
La foule les entourait muette et résignée à attendre

Je me fis une place dans ce cercle afin de tout voir
Poids formidables
Villes de Belgique soulevées à bras tendu par un ouvrier russe
de Longwy
Haltères noirs et creux qui ont pour tige un fleuve figé
Doigts roulant une cigarette amère et délicieuse comme la vie
De nombreux tapis sales couvraient le sol

Tapis qui ont des plis qu’on ne défera pas
Tapis qui sont presque entièrement couleur de la poussière
Et où quelques taches jaunes ou vertes ont persisté
Comme un air de musique qui vous poursuit
While the crowd waits for the performance to begin, Apollinaire insinuates
himself into the circle of spectators. Since saltimbanques traditionally specialize
in feats of strength as well as agility, a number of impressive weights are lying
on the ground. Warming up the crowd before the main event, two weight
lifters demonstrate their talents, while a third calmly smokes a cigarette. As
Antoine Fongaro points out, the line describing the last action is composed
of an octosyllable plus a decasyllable. This construction “[exprime] à la fois la
lente aspiration que fait le fumeur et le prolongement du plaisir du fumeur (et
du vivant).”46 Located near the Belgian and Luxembourg borders, Longwy is
a French commune and a center of the mining industry. To date, no one has
managed to explain the reference to Belgian towns, but the fact that they are
raised at arms’ length presumably testifies to the performer’s strength. The
reference to barbells with frozen rivers for handles remains to be explained as
well. Nevertheless, the fact that the barbells are hollow, i.e., fake, suggests that
both performers are charlatans. Briefly evoking the flute music in “Le Musicien
de Saint-Merry,” the second stanza focuses on the rugs spread out on the ground,
which represent an implicit metaphor. Like them, the performers are tired, dirty,
and basically worn out. Their nomadic life, wandering from town to town with
barely enough to eat and nowhere to sleep, is thoroughly exhausting. Moved
by their poignant existence, Apollinaire lingers a while longer on their portrait:
Vois-tu le personnage maigre et sauvage

La cendre de ses pères lui sortait en barbe grisonnante
Il portait ainsi toute son hérédité au visage
Il semblait rêver à l’avenir
En tournant machinalement un orgue de Barbarie
Dont la lente voix se lamentait merveilleusement
Les glouglous les couacs et les sourds gémissements
Les saltimbanques ne bougeaient pas

Le plus vieux avait un maillot couleur de ce rose violâtre
qu’ont aux joues certaines jeunes filles fraîches
mais près de la mort
Ce rose-là se niche surtout dans les plis qui entourent souvent leur
bouche
Ou près des narines
C’est un rose plein de traîtrise
Cet homme portait-il ainsi sur le dos

La teinte ignoble de ses poumons
Les bras les bras partout montaient la garde
Le second saltimbanque
N’était vêtu que de son ombre
Je le regardai longtemps
Son visage m’échappe entièrement
C’est un homme sans tête
Un autre enfin avait l’air d’un voyou

D’un apache bon et crapule à la fois
Avec son pantalon bouffant et les accroche-chaussettes
N’aurait-il pas eu l’apparence d’un maquereau à sa toilette.
Lost in reverie, an aging figure with a haggard appearance slowly turns

the handle of a barrel organ, which emits a series of mournful sounds. To
a certain extent, as Debon remarks, he is a reincarnation of Baudelaire’s old
saltimbanque.47 Since his beard is beginning to show his age, Apollinaire jokes
that his ancestors’ ashes are being transformed into gray hair. Implicit in this
remark is the suggestion that his forbears have all been saltimbanques too. Not
only has his whole family been poor since time immemorial, but it continues
to be haunted by the threat of tuberculosis, symbolized by the unhealthy

color of his vest. At this point, what looks like a fairly ordinary experience
is suddenly transformed into something else. Anne Hyde Greet and S. I.
Lockerbie describe it as “a metamorphosis of the everyday into the magical.”48
Not only is the second performer dressed entirely in his own shadow, but he
does not have a head. While this is presumably a humorous way of saying
that Apollinaire can’t remember what he looked like, once again it recalls “Le
Musicien de Saint-Merry.” Ironically, the poet has no trouble remembering the
third performer, who looks like a hoodlum and dresses like a pimp. Despite his
dissolute appearance, he apparently possesses some good qualities.
Just as “Les Fenêtres,” celebrates Robert Delaunays’ paintings, “Un Fantôme
de nuées” pays homage to Picasso’s Rose and Blue periods. As many writers
have noted, Apollinaire’s descriptions of the saltimbanques closely resemble
Picasso’s paintings of emaciated performers and their families. Several critics
have also noted similarities between “Un Fantôme de nuées” and an article
by Apollinaire entitled “Picasso, peintre,” later incorporated into Les Peintres
cubistes.49 For example, the old saltimbanque turning the barrel organ recalls
the “arlequins taciturnes [qui] ont les joues et le front flétris par les sensibilités
morbides.” Like Picasso, Apollinaire not only sympathized with the itinerant
performers, he obviously identified with them. In the former’s eyes they were
the ultimate image of the artist, in the latter’s eyes the ultimate image of the
poet. For both men, the performers’ precarious life style symbolized their own
marginal existence.
La musique se tut et ce furent des pourparlers avec le public

Qui sou à sou jeta sur le tapis la somme de deux francs
cinquante
Au lieu des trois francs que le vieux avait fixés comme prix
des tours
Mais quand il fut clair que personne ne donnerait plus rien

On se décida à commencer la séance
De dessous l’orgue sortit un tout petit saltimbanque
habillé de rose pulmonaire
Avec de la fourrure aux poignets et aux chevilles
Il poussait des cris brefs
Et saluait en écartant gentiment les avant-bras

Mains ouvertes
Une jambe en arrière prête à la génuflexion

Il salua ainsi aux quatre points cardinaux
Et quand il marcha sur une boule
Son corps mince devint une musique si délicate que
nul parmi les spectateurs n’y fut insensible
Un petit esprit sans aucune humanité
Pensa chacun
Et cette musique des formes
Détruisit celle de l’orgue mécanique
Que moulait l’homme au visage couvert d’ancêtres.
Once the preliminaries are over, it is time for the main event to take place.
With the crowd’s appetite whetted by the previous feats of strength, the old
saltimbanque exhorts the spectators to contribute some money to see the
amazing spectacle. Slowly, reluctantly, they pitch five centime coins onto the
rug. Despite the speaker’s continual encouragement, the final amount is less
than he originally asked for. By Madeleine Boisson’s calculations, there are
approximately one hundred spectators, of whom fifty have contributed a sou.50
Figuring that two and a half francs are better than nothing, the performers
decide to go on with the show. Emitting a series of Indian war whoops, another
member of the troupe emerges from beneath the organ and elaborately
salutes the spectators. According to Boisson he is the fifth saltimbanque, but
he actually seems to be the seventh: the three weight lifters, the old man, the
headless figure, the hoodlum, and the little saltimbanque.51 Although the latter
is wearing a rose-colored costume, his wrists and ankles are ringed with fur.
For a moment he appears to be a monkey rather than a boy. That his cries are
“cris de Peau-Rouge” is revealed only later but suggests, in retrospect, that he
is wearing war paint and feathers in his hair.
Initially, the little saltimbanque simply looks like a young boy playing
Indian. However, this impression is quickly dispelled when he begins to
balance on the ball. As a number of critics have noted, this scene was inspired
by one of Picasso’s best-known paintings: L’Acrobate à la boule (1905).
Although Boisson claims the position of the child’s arms is identical in both
works, this is not entirely true.52 His arms extend over his head in the painting
but open outward to embrace the audience in the poem. Nevertheless, the
overall effect in both works is simply stunning. Evoking Apollinaire’s acrobat,
Margaret Davies could also be describing the painting: “All the grace and
artistry and harmony of the world is summed up in the movement of the
little boy walking on a ball.”53 Symbolically, she adds, the scene represents
the Orphic spirit, which will eventually triumph over twentieth-century
obstacles. Citing the ball-balancing saltimbanques in “Picasso, peintre,”
who “commandent à [des] sphères le mouvement rayonnant des mondes,”
Greet and Lockerbie conclude that Apollinaire’s scene possesses a cosmic
significance as well.54
Le petit saltimbanque fit la roue

Avec tant d’harmonie
Que l’orgue cessa de jouer
Et que l’organiste se cacha le visage dans les mains
Aux doigts semblables aux descendants de son destin
Foetus minuscules qui lui sortaient de la barbe
Nouveaux cris de Peau-Rouge.
Musique angélique des arbres
Disparition de l’enfant.
That the organist falls silent as he witnesses the boy turn a graceful cartwheel
speaks for itself. “Cette musique des formes” is so far superior to the music he
has been playing that he is overcome with awe. Holding his head in his hands,
he watches the young acrobat go through his routine. As Debon observes,
“jamais l’équivalence parfaite entre la forme circulaire et la musique n’apparaît
aussi clairement que dans ce poeme.”55 Philippe Renaud’s interpretation has
been adopted by most Apollinaire scholars: the organ music is “une image de la
poésie musicale traditonnelle, poésie ‘mécanique’ et ‘machinale’ qu’Apollinaire
refuse de recréer une fois de plus.”56 By contrast, the aesthetic embodied by the
little saltimbanque is thoroughly modern. Similarly, “Un Fantôme de nuées”
represents an attempt to create a new kind of poetry more in tune with the
twentieth century. Noting that the boy and old man both wear rose-colored
clothing, however, Debon emphasizes the continuity between the generations:
“la nouveauté ne peut etre issue que de la tradition.”57 Attempting to describe
what the poet means by a “musique des formes,” Mario Richter argues that he
is referring to syntactic forms, to forms that are abstract and/or purely mental.
Indeed, he continues, this is precisely what the poem’s title signifies.58 However,
most readers would probably agree with Fongaro that the expression refers to
the boy’s performance rather than to the poem describing his performance.
The music in question is clearly the product of visual forms, of forms that can
be observed rather than imagined.59
A certain amount of disagreement exists about the ontological status of the
little saltimbanque. Is the poem about a person who is exceptionally talented
or about a visitor from another realm who possesses supernatural powers?
Should “Un Fantôme de nuées” be regarded as fiction, in other words, or as
science fiction? The line that comes up repeatedly in this regard describes the
astonishing performer as “un petit esprit sans aucune humanité.” According to
Renaud, on the one hand, “esprit [ne peut] signifier que fantôme, revenant ou,
bien mieux, survenant.”60 According to Fongaro, on the other hand, the adjective
“petit” automatically rules out any spiritual, intellectual, or supernatural
interpretation. Applied to a lively child, “c’est un petit esprit” simply means “he
is a little imp.”61 As for “sans aucune humanité,” he points out that in Apollinaire’s
lexicon the expression qualifies as high praise. “Avant tout,” Apollinaire writes
in Les Peintres cubistes, “les artistes sont des hommes qui veulent devenir
inhumains. Ils cherchent péniblement les traces de l’inhumanité, traces que
l’on ne rencontre nulle part dans la nature.”62 Like modern artists, therefore, the
little performer is totally unique, which is to say totally original.
Accompanied by Indian war cries and angelic tree music, the boy finishes
his performance and runs off stage. For Greet and Lockerbie, the reference
to musical trees simultaneously evokes the sound of wind passing through
the leaves and “the winglike shape of the branches.”63 Boisson’s explanation is
more ingenious. For her, the line evokes “l’Angélus du soir,” which from the
Eglise Saint-Germain-des-Prés rains down on the trees lining the boulevard.64
She estimates the time accordingly to be about 8:00 p.m. Because the boy’s
disappearance coincides both with the Angelus and with sunset, she concludes
that he is a solar hero—“un Ixion solaire.” According to her scenario, however,
the saltimbanques’ performance would need to last four hours, which seems
excessive. Adding to the confusion, the evening Angelus is traditionally rung
at 6:00 p.m., and the sun sets around 9:40 p.m. on July 13th. Thus there is no
way the three events could be simultaneous.
Les saltimbanques soulevèrent les gros haltères à bout de bras
Ils jonglèrent avec les poids
Mais chaque spectateur cherchait en soi l’enfant miraculeux

Siècle ô siècle des nuages.
Once the star of the show has disappeared, the weight lifters return to
performing feats of strength. This time they have added a new wrinkle: juggling
with heavy weights. Sometimes one person juggles the weights, sometimes
two people toss them back and forth, and sometimes they juggle objects
of unequal size and/or weight. Despite their robust example, one suspects
the old saltimbanque does not resume playing the organ. Stunned, like the
spectators around him, he pauses to let the little acrobat’s performance sink
in. At least that seems to be the sense of the penultimate line. Not surprisingly,
perhaps, interpretations differ considerably from one person to the next. “At
the end of the poem,” Greet and Lockerbie write, “the spectators and the poet
possess within themselves the essence of what they have just experienced.”65
Susan Harrow prefers to view the experience through a rhetorical trope. In
her opinion, the spectators discern “a metaphor for their own desire to escape
finitude.”66 Boisson offers two separate but interrelated interpretations.67 The
first one resembles Greet and Lockerbie’s assessment: “Chacun des spectateurs
. . . est enceint d’un enfant semblable au petit saltimbanque.” The second one
compares the boy’s performance to a religious experience: “[Les spectateurs]
ont reçu l’Eucharistie poétique.” This comparison is less farfetched than it may
seem. In fact, Boisson continues, Apollinaire identified Picasso’s child acrobats
with the baby Jesus in his article published in 1905:
Les mères, primipares, n’attendaient plus l’enfant,

peut-être à cause de certains corbeaux jaseurs et de mauvais
présage.
Noël! Elles enfantèrent de futurs acrobates parmi les
singes familiers, les chevaux blancs et chiens comme les ours.68
Despite the reader’s first impression, therefore, “Un Fantôme de nuées” is

not organized around some kind of deception, as the mythological reference
implies, but around a quasi religious experience. However, it remains to

interpret the poem’s title. What does Apollinaire mean by “fantôme,” for
example, and to what does it actually refer? Once again there is a certain
amount of disagreement. For example, Boisson believes the term alludes
to the crowd of spectators encircling the saltimbanques.69 Curiously, since
the critics are generally reluctant to say so, the term obviously designates
the young performer. Not only is he the only candidate available, but, like a
ghost, he suddenly appears from nowhere. The question that arises next is
what does the boy represent? Just as the mythological phantom represents
Hera, Greet and Lockerbie conclude that the title describes poetry (i.e., the
work of art).70 Fongaro believes the relationship between the two involves an
extra step. For him, the boy represents an abstract idea (“idéal inhumain”).
Just as the conjunction of Ixion with the figure made of clouds produced the
centaurs, he reasons, so that between the poet and an abstract idea produces
the work of art.71 The final line celebrates the role that creativity will play in
the twentieth century. According to Debon, it also acknowledges Apollinaire’s
debt to Baudelaire’s “L’Etranger,” which likewise equates clouds with creative
illusions.72 “La Soupe et les nuages” would be an even better example.
Notes
1 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres Complètes, ed. Michel Décaudin, Vol. 4 (Paris:

Balland-Lecat, 1965–6), 768.
2 André Breton, Entretiens (1913–1952) (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), 31.
3 For a detailed structural analysis, see Willard Bohn, Apollinaire and the Faceless
Man: The Creation and Evolution of a Modern Motif (Rutherford: Fairleigh
Dickinson University Press, 1991), 19–24.
5 Quoted by L. C. Breunig and J.-Cl. Chevalier, “Introduction to Guillaume
Apollinaire,” Méditations esthétiques: Les Peintres cubistes (Paris: Hermann,
1965), 19.
6 Michel Décaudin, following three presentations on “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,”
Cahiers de l’Association Internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 366.

8 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes”
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 384. Future references to this
work will be to pp. 384–6.
9 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1964), 227.
10 “I sing the possibilities of myself ” recalls a similar line from Whitman’s Song of
Myself: “I celebrate myself, and sing myself.”
11 In Eglise Saint-Merry de Paris, histoire de la paroisse et de la collégiale 700–1910
(2 vols, Paris: Oudin, 1911), the Abbé Baloche chronicles the repeated,
unsuccessful attempts by the Saint-Merry clergy to get rid of the prostitutes
surrounding their church.
12 Scott Bates, “taupe,” Petit Glossaire des mots libres d’Apollinaire (Sewannee:
Privately printed, 1975), 99. See also “Pâquette,” 70.
13 Marc Poupon, “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” Cahiers de l’Association
internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 212.
14 Jean Mollet, “Lettres à Guillaume,” Sélection 3 (1924). Cited by Debon, Guillaume
Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 93.
15 Pierre Caizergues, “Une Précision,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 276–9 (1971):
113–14. “Guillaume Apollinaire, manuscrits et documents à la Bibliothèque
nationale,” Que Vlo-Ve?, 2nd ser. 12 (October‒December 1984): 8–11.
16 See Les Misérables, ed. Maurice Allem (Paris: Gallimard, 1964), 1137.
17 See Bohn, Apollinaire and the Faceless Man, 41–76; Caitlin Glosser, “Reimagining
the Gesamtkunstwerk: Guillaume Apollinaire’s ‘A quelle heure partira-t-il un
train pour Paris?’” (Master of Arts thesis: American University, 2014).
18 Philippe Renaud, “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,’” Cahiers de l’Association
Internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 189.
2004), 78.
20 Antoine Fongaro, “‘Le vingt et un du mois de mai …,’” Revue des Lettres
Modernes 380–4 (1973): 135.
21 Apollinaire, “Manuscrits et documents,” 10–11. See Jacques Hillairet,
Dictionnaire historique des rues de Paris, Vol. 2 (Paris: Minuit, 1963), 622.
22 Renaud analyzes the different voices in detail in “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry.’”
23 Mia (Le Poète assassiné and “Colombe poignardée”), Pâquette (“La Chanson
du Mal-Aimé”), Mavise (Couleur du temps), Ariane (“Arbre”), and Geneviève
(Histoire d’une famille vertueuse).
24 S. I. Lockerbie, “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,’” Cahiers de l’Association
Internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 204 . Renaud believes
Apollinaire wishes to rid himself of a form of inspiration based on suffering in
love. Margaret Davies links the faceless man to Apollinaire’s use of masks in
other works as symbols of alienation in “Vitam Impendere Amori,” Revue des
Lettres Modernes 249–53 (1970): 81–2.
25 Marc Poupon, “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,’” 215. See also George Ryley Scott,
Phallic Worship (London: T. Werner Laurie, 1941).
26 Fongaro, “Le Vingt et un du moi de mai,” 136.
27 Baloche, Eglise Saint-Merry de Paris, Vol. 2, 415–16 and Vol. 1, 77, and 80.
28 See Hans Dobbertin, Quellensammlung zur Hamelner Rattenfängersage
(Göttingen: Schwartz, 1970).
29 J. A. Dulaure, Des Divinités génératrices chez les anciens et les modernes (Paris:
Mercure de France, 1903), 240.
30 S. Sophia Beale, The Churches of Paris (London: Allen, 1893), 252.
33 Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse, Sämtliche Werke, Vol. 3 (Stutgartt:
Kröner, 1964), 230 . The same passage appears in Ecce Homo, part 6.
34 Martin P. Nilsson, Geschichte der Griechischen Religion, 2nd ed., Vol. 1 (Munich:
Beck’sche, 1955), 590.
35 Dulaure, Des divinités génératrices, 98.
36 H. Jeanmaire, Dionysos, histoire du culte de Bacchus (Paris: Payot, 1951), 39 . See
also Nilsson, Geschichte der Griechischen Religion, 593.
37 See Monique Jutrin, “La Présence du conteur dans la poésie d’Apollinaire,”
Regards sur Apollinaire conteur, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Lettres Modernes,
1975), 10 and Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, 130.
38 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Echos et on-dit des lettres et des arts,” L’Europe Nouvelle,
August 24, 1918. Repr. in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, eds.
Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 1469–70.
39 Guillaume Apollinaire, Le Poète assassiné (Paris: Gallimard, 1947), 37. Lionel
Follet, “Apollinaire lecteur d’Empédocle,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 576–81
(1980): 59–68.
40 André Breton, “Du surréalisme en ses oeuvres vives,” Manifestes du surréalisme

(Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 181.
41 Peter Read “Tout Paris chez Apollinaire ou l’amphionie quotidienne,” Paris et
le phenomène des capitales littéraires. Carrefour ou dialogue des cultures (Paris:
Université de Paris IV, 1986), 457.
43 Quoted in Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, eds. Marcel Adéma and
Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1084.
45 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 60–1.
46 Antoine Fongaro, Apollinaire poète: Exégèses et discussions 1957–1987 (Toulouse:
Presses Universitaires du Mirail-Toulouse, 1988), 220.
49 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Picasso, peintre,” La Plume, May 15, 1905. Repr. in
Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 19–25.
50 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasana: Schena and
Paris: Nizet, 1989), 558.
51 Ibid., 555.
52 Ibid., 556.
58 Mario Richter, Apollinaire: Il rinnovamento della scrittura poetica all’inizio del
novecento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990), 177.
59 Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 225.
62 Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 8.
67 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 558–9.
68 Apollinaire, “Picasso, peintre,” 21.

69 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 555 and 558.
4
Visual Poetry
The months leading up to the First World War were destined to exert a decisive
influence on European avant-garde circles. During the first half of 1914, poets
and painters vied with each other in a race to invent new and more exciting
genres. Anxious to be the first to discover a striking new art form, they
experimented with a number of hybrid creations, especially those involving
different media. In particular, artists experimented with poetic effects, and
poets experimented with artistic effects. One of the more popular intermedia
genres, visual poetry attracted the attention of the Futurists in Italy and
Guillaume Apollinaire in France. By expanding the expressive possibilities of
the printed page it represented a radical new breakthrough. Defined as poetry
that is meant to be seen, visual poetry has continued to be popular ever since.
“Lettre-Océan”
Apollinaire’s first experiment with visual poetry was in some ways his most
successful. Published in Les Soirées de Paris on June 15, 1914, “Lettre-Océan”
would be followed by some one hundred and fifty idéogrammes lyriques (as he
initially called them) during his lifetime. In 1917, he replaced the original term
with a brilliant neologism: calligrammes (calli = beauty + grammes = writing).
The poem’s title is borrowed from post office terminology and designates a
type of mail that was exchanged at sea between outgoing and incoming
ships. Ironically, although “Lettre-Océan” was Apollinaire’s very first visual
composition, Scott Bates calls it “the most complex, profound, and influential”
of them all.1 So momentous was the poet’s achievement in his eyes, that it
constitutes the literary equivalent of Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps and
Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.
Although the poem includes a few horizontal elements as well, it basically

comprises two large wheel-and-spoke patterns (Figure 4.1).
Figure 4.1 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Lettre-Océan”

Visual Poetry 95
The lines of poetry form a series of concentric circles radiating outward

from a circular center, from which extend a number of symmetrical “spokes.”
Thus “Lettre-Océan” exploits the physical properties of language to create an
ideogrammatic composition in which the formal configuration reinforces the
Figure 4.1 (Continued)

linguistic message and vice versa. As Anna Boschetti explains: “la disposition
spatiale et l’aspect iconique remplissent . . . toutes les fonctions assurées par la
syntaxe et par les autres moyens traditionnels d’agencement, de structuration,
et de symbolisation.”2 Perception and conception, image and metaphor tend to
merge into one indivisible whole.
Despite its undeniable novelty, “Lettre-Océan,” represents a logical
development from previous poems such as “Les Fenêtres” and “Lundi
rue Christine.” Building on his previous experiments with simultaneity,
Apollinaire emphasizes the physical properties of the words on the page, so
that the impression they convey is simultaneous, like the elements of a picture,
rather than consecutive. “The reader has to take it all in at once,” Margaret
Davies remarks, “not each line successively in turn.”3 Indeed, Philippe Renaud
interjects, “Lettre-Océan” is the only visual poem by Apollinaire that is truly
simultaneous and synthetic—the only one that is a poème-conversation
simultané.4 In addition, Boschetti declares, the poem “apparaît comme la
réalisation du projet subversif annoncé en 1912 dans ‘Zone.’ Apollinaire intègre
les moyens de la communication publicitaire et d’autres codes jusque-là exclus
de la poésie.”5 Pushing his previous experiments to the limit, he questions the
nature of poetry itself.
Apollinaire was not the first poet in the twentieth century to invent
(or reinvent) visual poetry. That honor goes to the Italian Futurists, who
approximately six months earlier began to experiment with visual analogies.6
On November 15, 1913, Francesco Cangiullo published a text entitled
“ADDIIOOOOO” that, except for its title, was unremarkable. Taking the word
for “good-bye” in Italian, he repeated the final letter in smaller and smaller
type as if a voice were dying away. Two weeks later, a work by F. T. Marinetti
appeared that contained a similar experiment: “POESIA NASCERE.” The
poet employed progressively larger type to illustrate the concept “to be
born.” Inspired by the new genre’s endless possibilities, Marinetti and his
colleagues experimented with it thereafter in poem after poem. That Futurist
influence abounds in “Lettre-Océan” should come as no surprise following
the audacities of Apollinaire’s Antitradition futuriste (1913). The poet never
attempted in any case to disguise his debt to the Futurists in his early visual
poetry, which after “Lettre-Océan” evolved into a distinct genre of its own.
Visual Poetry 97
One month after “Lettre-Océan” appeared, Apollinaire published an article

about the poem authored by Gabriel Arbouin, who cited the precedence of
eight different Futurists.7
Since the metaphor of wireless telegraphy dominates the imagery of literary
Futurism, the letters T S F in “Lettre-Océan” may well indicate Futurist
influence. Reflecting the Futurists’ use of mathematical signs to indicate
relationships, Apollinaire writes “Pendeco c’est + qu’un imbécile” and “rue St.
Isidore à la Havane cela n’exist +.” In a similar fashion, he peppers the poem
with Arabic numerals in phrases such as “Haute de 300 mètres.” “Je traverse
la ville / nez en avant / et je la coupe en 2” he writes at the beginning, using a
stylized boldface numeral to represent a nose seen in profile. Daniel Delbreil
and Françoise Dininman raise the possibility that the sentence describes the
Seine.8 Indeed, the verse’s triangular shape suggests the speaker is on a barge
crossing Paris. Two of the best known Futurist techniques, onomatopoeia and
expressive typography, are also found throughout “Lettre-Océan.” However,
they are utilized much more conservatively than in Futurist compositions. The
poem’s most startling aspect is undoubtedly the way in which the lines are
arranged on the page. Unlike Apollinaire’s subsequent calligrams, it is not truly
figurative but schematic. Rather than attempting to depict the appearance of
objects and events, it presents them in a geometric, diagrammatic fashion.
Thus “Lettre-Océan” represents a transitional phase between the parole in
libertà and the later calligrammes.
Apollinaire’s poem was presumably written a few weeks before its publication,
and it is probably safe to assume that its facsimile postmark indicates the date
of composition: May 29, 1914. Parenthetically, the fact that the poet signed
and dated his first visual poem testifies to the close ties between the calligrams
and painting. In addition to the Futurist influence noted above, the presence of
analytical and synthetic Cubism is also evident. At least as far back as “Zone,”
Apollinaire began to imitate the Cubist painters, who decomposed an object into
its constituent parts, seen from different angles, and re-grouped them in two-
dimensional patterns (simultanism). In “Lettre-Océan” he juxtaposes radically
disparate objects, images, and lines to form a psychovisual collage representing
a faithful impression of contemporary reality. The distortions of the traditional
space-time nexus wrought by recent advances in communication (telephones,
telegraphy) and transportation (airplanes, automobiles) are reflected by

comparable fragmentation and distortion in the poem.
The composition’s most obvious parallel is with the accomplishments of
synthetic Cubism. Braque and Picasso introduced letters, words, papiers collés,
and other objects into their paintings in an attempt to incorporate bits of everyday
reality chosen for their aesthetic, not their utilitarian, value. Significantly, two
postage stamps and a postcard have been introduced into “Lettre-Océan.” More
importantly, Bates observes, the poem is “crammed with the trivial fragments
of a great city’s sounds.”9 Sirens, buses, gramophones, the poet’s new shoes,
and numerous snatches of conversation compete for the reader’s attention. As
Boschetti remarks, “Apollinaire exploite sciemment la découverte que les mots
décontextualisés ne cessent d’être ‘référentiels.’”10 Georges Schmits finds another
interesting analogy:
Certaines de ces bribes de conversation sont amputées
comme le sont d’un coup de ciseaux les papiers collés
des cubistes; mais elles se reconstituent facilement:
[En voi]ture les voyageurs de Chatou
Propriétaire de 5 ou 6 im[meubles]
Allons circulez Mes[sieurs].
On the most basic level, Apollinaire and Picasso were performing analogous
experiments with form, mixing verbal and pictorial elements in their works
(although in different proportions). Both were in effect painting with words—
whence the title of Apollinaire’s projected volume of visual poetry: Et moi aussi
je suis peintre (Corregio’s response to a painting by Raphael). Michel Butor
views this project as “une réponse poétique à la prise de possession de la lettre
et du mot par la peinture cubiste.”11 His words describe “Lettre-Océan” as well.
Apollinaire was fond of contrasting the inherent successiveness of music
and literature with the immediacy and simultaneity of painting. In his article
“Simultanisme-Librettisme,” published in the same issue of Les Soirées de
Paris as “Lettre-Océan,” he indicates how he meant his startling new poem
to be approached. Whereas in his earlier simultanist poetry he had tried to
“habituer l’esprit à concevoir un poème simultanément comme une scène de la
vie,” he now wished to “[habituer] l’oeil à lire d’un seul regard l’ensemble d’un
poème, comme un chef d’orchestre lit d’un seul coup les éléments plastiques et
Visual Poetry 99
imprimés d’une affiche” (my italics). The change in emphasis from the mind
to the eye, from simultaneous conception to simultaneous perception, was a
large step to take. If Apollinaire’s reference to an orchestra conductor recalls
Mallarmé’s Un Coup de dés, which, conceived as “une partition,” employs “une
vision simultanée de la Page,” the basic analogy is not to music but to painting.
In singling out the “éléments plastiques” of a poster for imitation, Apollinaire
is following up a longstanding interest in posters as a theoretical source of
poetry.
As Butor notes, “Lettre-Océan” possesses “une puissance plastique
frappante.” The eye is free to wander over its surface at will as in a painting,
attracted by one feature, then by another, perceiving (and enjoying) the various
patterns and contrasts.12 As it was originally printed, on two opposite pages,
“Lettre-Océan” was clearly conceived as an aesthetic whole. In particular, it is
noteworthy for the symmetry of its elements and the parallels between them.
The two wheel-and-spoke patterns are balanced against each other but differ
in size and detail. Visually the smaller pattern is a condensed version of the
larger. It presents a simplified statement that the latter takes up and develops
in more detail. Similarly, the large expanses of open space in the larger wheel
counterbalance the confined, dense field of type at the upper left-hand corner,
in a dialogue between freedom and constraint. In like manner, the two wheels,
which threaten to roll (or expand) off the page, are contained by horizontal
lines of type, continuing the dialectical opposition mentioned previously.
The visual sign reinforces the linguistic sign in an extremely direct, concrete
fashion. Visual cues prepare the reader for various manifestations of the basic
dialogue as they appear in the text, where known is contrasted with unknown,
personal with impersonal, near with far. Related structures of large versus
small and circular versus linear are likewise mirrored by the visual and verbal
text. Finally, the reader is introduced to the spatial relations of the poem via the
visual, diagrammatic configuration of the large wheel, which serves to chart
the open regions ahead. France is balanced against Mexico, everyday banality
against exoticism, safety against danger, Parisian politics against those in
Meso-America, separation against unification. The immensity of the distance
bridged by wireless telegraphy, linking the two continents, contrasts with that
covered by the Pont d’Iéna, connecting the left and right banks of the Seine.
Remembering “Lettre-Océan”’s status as a poster poem, the reader is struck

initially by six phrases in heavy boldface type that function as “headlines”:
“LETTRE-OCÉAN,” “REPUBLICA MEXICANA,” “TARJETA POSTAL,” “T S
F,” “MAYAS,” and “MON FRÈRE ALBERT.” These fragmentary cues, perceived
simultaneously like those of a poster, immediately establish the boundaries of
the poem. We know its purpose, its destination, and the basic form it will take;
a telegraphic letter connecting the author with his brother Albert in Mexico.
Once the basic motifs have been established, the eye proceeds to recognize the
pictorial elements in the poem, that is, to consider it as a painting. Next comes
the process of actually reading the work. From poster to painting to poem,
simultaneous perception leads to simultaneous conception once the text has
been decoded.
As mentioned, the poem’s title refers to a special kind of telegraphic mail
exchanged between two ships. Here it is used in a broader sense to describe
a letter sent across the ocean, ostensibly by telegraph. Apollinaire’s name at
the end is also the signature to his letter. In reality, however, the poem is a
sort of Cubist collage, incorporating one or more of Albert’s postcards to him.
The final achievement represents a synthesis of the correspondence between
the two brothers and an evocation of their physical surroundings (Paris and
Mexico City). Just as Apollinaire introduces the Eiffel Tower to symbolize
Paris, he evokes several symbols of Mexico—for example, “chirimoya,” a
tropical fruit similar to a custard apple, and “Jeunes Filles à Chapultepec.” The
latter is probably the title of a picture postcard received from Albert depicting
the famous Chapultepec gardens and presidential palace. The arrow reading
“Bonjour / anomo / anora / tu ne connaîtras jamais bien les MAYAS” seems
to symbolize the Mayan Indians, who in turn symbolize Mexico. As George
Schmits has shown, “Mayas” is a pun on Indians and breasts.13 Jean-Pierre
Goldenstein has discovered that anomo apparently means “bonjour hommes”
and anora “bonjour femmes.”14 One wonders which language these words
belong to. The Yucatec Mayans have no word for “hello,” for instance. The
Mayan word for man is xiib and for woman ch’up. Similarly, a survey of some
eighty Mexican Indian dialects fails to uncover a single match.
A glance at the poem reveals that it consists of three distinct figurative poems
(four counting the arrow) linked together by theme and concept: a postcard,
Visual Poetry 101
a bunch of keys on a ring, and the Eiffel Tower transmitting a telegraphic

message. The last one is not immediately discernible and emerges as something
of a shock. One suddenly recognizes, on reading the central notation “Haute
de 300 mètres,” that the spectator is not looking at a wheel but down upon the
Tower from above. The abrupt shift in perspective—perhaps the poem’s greatest
surprise—is exhilarating, for the numerous scattered fragments suddenly join
together in a meaningful pattern. The “postcard” presents the disconnected
halves of a dialogue between Apollinaire and his brother, framed at the top
and divided in the middle by four parallel wavy lines representing cancellation
marks, radio waves, telephone cables, and/or the ocean itself. As Apollinaire
reminds his brother, he could not say good-bye when Albert left for Mexico,
in January 1913, because he was in Berlin lecturing on modern French art. “Ta
voix me parvient malgré l’énorme distance,” Goldenstein points out, refers to
Albert’s written voice which reached him via the “câblogramme” mentioned
elsewhere.15
Apollinaire’s initial remarks are followed, in the lower half, by a faithful
evocation of a Mexican postcard from Albert that probably reproduces the
actual message on one such card. The postmark reading “Rue des Batignolles”
undoubtedly records its arrival in Paris from Mexico, since Apollinaire
himself normally frequented the blvd. Saint-Germain post office. The card
bears two postage stamps—a United States two cent stamp (carmine, with
a portrait of George Washington) and a Mexican four centavo stamp (also
carmine, with a portrait of Juan Aldama, a Mexican patriot executed in 1811).
This indicates that it was sent or given to someone leaving Mexico for the
United States on the French liner Espagne, someone who remailed it upon
reaching his destination.
The reference to “Ypiranga” is connected with Albert’s message, both
reflecting political events of the period. As a result of two separate incidents
at Veracruz and Tampico in 1914, the US Atlantic Fleet blockaded these ports
to prevent the unloading of arms and ammunition President Huerta was
importing from Germany:
The German ship Ypiranga was approaching Veracruz with a cargo of two
hundred machine guns and 15,000,000 rounds of ammunition for Huerta.
The Ypiranga could not be seized, but the port facilities of Veracruz could
[and were on April 21, 1914], resulting in the deaths of nineteen Americans
and 300 Mexicans. Meanwhile the Ypiranga turned around, sailed south,
and without hindrance unloaded its cargo [at Coatzacoalcos].16
This explains why the “courier de Vera Cruz n’est pas sûr” and why the ocean
liner is leaving from Coatzacoalcos instead of Veracruz. It also indicates that
the “gens de mauvaise mine sur le quai à la Vera Cruz” are members of the
United States Marines. Finally, the message sent by Albert, “Tout est calme
ici,” corresponds to the message received by Apollinaire on the opposite page:
“La câblogramme comportait 2 mots EN SURETÉ.” Apollinaire constantly
worried about his brother’s safety in the midst of the never-ending Mexican
revolution and must have received many reassurances like these. A postcard
from Albert dated February 19, 1913, reveals that much of the worry was
justified.17 Apollinaire’s anxious characterization of Mexico as “ce sacré pays
d’Indiens et d’érotisme sanglant” summarizes the image conveyed by the
present poem.18
It is generally assumed that, like its neighbor, the small circle-poem is a
representation of the Eiffel Tower broadcasting telegraphic messages. This
interpretation is supported by the observation that its center is situated “sur
la rive gauche devant le pont d’Iéna”—the location of the Eiffel Tower—and
by the letters T S F conspicuously posted in the margin. Nevertheless, this is
almost certainly not the case. For one thing, in the manuscript the letters T S F
are placed exactly in the middle of the space between the two circles and thus
have no particular association with the small circle.19 The shift to the left was
apparently the decision of the typographer who, faced with a full page on the
right and a middle disappearing into the gutter, shoved the letters into the only
space available. For another thing, the center originally read “la foule.” “Lettre-
Océan” obviously represents a poème-conversation in which “le poète au centre
de la vie enregistre en quelque sorte le lyrisme ambiant” (“Simultanisme-
Librettisme”). Thus, as Davies implies, the center of the poem is occupied by
the poet (Apollinaire) standing somewhere between the Point d’Iéna and the
Eiffel Tower.20 The poem’s shape is a perfect diagram of the spatial relations
in this, and every, conversation poem and illustrates Apollinaire’s description
above. One more important point remains to be made: the figure’s shape seems
to be that of a bunch of keys on a ring. This impression is strengthened by the
Visual Poetry 103
shape of several of the verses and by the line “Des clefs j’en ai vu mille et mille.”
The most protuberant verse, it serves as the poem’s starting point and carries
a disproportionate amount of weight. Although it probably has nothing to do
with St. Peter, as Schmits claims, it does furnish an ironic commentary on the
four political slogans, each of which claims to be the “key” to an ideal society.
In “La Clef,” the poem from which this line is borrowed, it functions in an
identical manner.
The resemblance of the small circle-poem to “Lundi rue Christine” is made
even more striking by the fact that several lines seem to be left over from the
earlier poem, especially “Jacques c’était délicieux” and “La Tunisie tu fondes
un journal.” However, these remarks refer to more recent events, recounted
by Apollinaire in his column in the Mercure de France on May 1, 1914. His
friend Jacques Dyssord, who had recently started a newspaper in Tunis, sent
him a copy containing several “delicious” anecdotes. Besides the allusion to
Pierre Roy, there are two additional private references: “Zut pour M. Zun” and
“ta gueule mon vieux pad.” Schmits astutely interprets the former as a sour
commentary on Henri-Martin Bazun, who, in a heated dispute culminating
in Apollinaire’s “Simultanisme-Librettrisme,” accused the latter of stealing
Simultanism, Dramatism, and Orphism from him. “Pad” is identified as
“une réduction populaire de ‘padre’ avec le sens de ‘petit père.’” Given the
reactionary politics of Pope Pius X, Goldenstein remarks, the insult could
very well be directed at the Holy Father.21 However, both manuscripts reveal
that the phrase originally read “ta gueule mon vieux Bar.” Added to “Zun,” it
was apparently too transparent an allusion for Apollinaire, who modified the
letters on the proofs.
As Antoine Fongaro has shown, the line “Arrêtez cocher” was taken from
a chanson gaillarde: “Arrêtez, arrêtez cocher, / J’ai un poil du cul pris dans
la portière.”22 To maintain the lines’ identity as snatches of conversation,
Apollinaire injects a certain amount of slang. Such words as “croquant”
(“clodhopper,” “hick”) and “zut” are immediate clues that this is spoken
language. Nevertheless, Goldenstein points out, Apollinaire could simply
be amusing himself at our expense. Some of the terms could be scattered
references to Jacquou le Croquant, a novel by Eugene Le Roy published in 1899.
Since spoken language is involved, the key-ring structure, with Apollinaire in
the center, is particularly appropriate. If the spoken phrases (sound waves) are
all receding from the poet, they are also converging toward the center where
he is standing—to which they become fastened forever as soon as they are
captured by the recording process (“enregistrement”) of the ear.
The final ideogram depicting the Eiffel Tower as a telegraph station 300
meters in the air (as indeed it was) exemplifies a more sophisticated version
of simultanism. Like “Les Fenêtres,” it is a poème simultané in which the poet’s
visual and/or aural impressions of a given scene are mingled with thoughts
passing through his mind at the same time. Besides the ship sirens and
other noises at the center, the auditory dimension is filled with street cries
and snatches of conversation. To the shouts of a bus driver (“changement
de section”), who is leaving for Chatou where Apollinaire’s mother lives, are
added the cries of a gendarme (“allons circulez Messieurs”) and those of a
street vendor. The latter are recorded on an earlier manuscript as “A la crème
à la crème fromage à la crème.” The most vivid conversational fragment is “et
comment j’ai brûlé le dur avec ma gerce,” uttered by an underworld character
and containing two particularly savory slang expressions. Brûler le dur means
to “to ride the rails” (without a ticket), and gerce means “lover” or “prostitute.”
The image is that of a pimp and his girl.
Among Apollinaire’s random thoughts—sent as telegraphic messages—
“Toussaint Luca est maintenant à Poitiers” informs his brother of the
whereabouts of an old friend. “Je me suis leve à 2 h. du matin et j’ai déjà bu
un mouton” refers to a bottle of Mouton wine. While it could theoretically
represent one of Apollinaire’s thoughts, it is probably a snatch of overheard
conversation. It has nothing to do with General Huerta, identified
by Goldenstein, who in any case resided in Mexico not Paris.23 In the
simultaneous poems, Apollinaire commonly adds yet another dimension
to expand the scope of the action. He will suddenly cut to historical and/
or geographically dispersed events occurring at the same time as the action
in Paris. With the location of the poem as its center, the action radiates
outward to encompass the arrondissement, the city, the nation, the continent,
and the whole world. This strategy is illustrated by the series of concentric
circles on the right, in which the implicit structure of the poème simultané is
rendered visible. References to the past are brief and include an earthquake
Visual Poetry 105
that Apollinaire, his mother, and his brother experienced on the Côte d’Azur
in 1887. Geographically one proceeds from Paris to the suburb of Chatou and
then, via Poitiers, to Havana and eventually to Mexico, the final destination.
The line “rue St.-Isidore à Havane cela n’existe +” refers to the Cuban red-
light district in the Calle San Isidro, which had recently been closed down.
The Mexican references have already been discussed, except for “il appelait
l’Indien Hijo de la Cingada,” which is a misspelled Spanish obscenity: “He
called the Indian Son of a Whore.” Another obscenity, “pendeco,” should
actually be spelled “pendejo”—a slang expression for a hopeless moron,
someone who is “plus qu’un imbécile.” Thus this pungent Mexicanism is
followed by its own definition.
Philippe Renaud thinks Apollinaire borrowed the large wheel from “la
représentation symbolique des ondes hertziennes, sans doute déjà poularisée
en 1914.”24 Given the poem’s Mexican context, it may also refer to the Aztec
calendar-stone preserved in the Museo Nacional, which resembles a giant
sun. To Delbreil and Dinninman, it suggests an aerial view of a huge sundial
in which the shadow marking the hour is cast by the Eiffel Tower. The same
authors note that in 1912 the International Conference on Time designated
the French capital as the location from which the international hour would
be transmitted. Henceforth the rest of the world would dance to Paris’ tune,
making the city and the tower a symbolic axis mundi. Although the concentric
circles clearly represent radio waves, they are open to other interpretations
as well. As Timothy Mathews points out, “they can be read as representing
the music, in the form of grooves on the record, from the gramophones
commemorated in the text.”25 Indeed, one of the circles contains the following
line: “de vos jardins fleuris fermez les portes,” which comes from a song
entitled “Les myrtes sont flétris.”26 One is also free, Matthews adds, to imagine
Apollinaire walking around in circles trying to break in his new shoes. In this
context, Pénélope Sacks-Galey interjects, “cré cré cré” represents the sound not
only of his squeaky shoes but of the gramophone being rewound.27 Ultimately,
the sounds emanating from its horn are those of the city itself. For Anne Hyde
Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, finally, the circles evoke “the radiating force of the
sun.”28 The latter is a vital source not only of heat, light, and life, Sacks-Galey
reminds us, but also of Apollinaire’s inspiration.29
These considerations may have influenced Apollinaire when he came to

design his poem, but the configuration is consistent with his own artistic
evolution as well. Apart from his use of the circle as an important thematic
structural principle or his related preoccupation with circular myth (e.g.,
Ixion, Icarus, and Christ), Apollinaire’s personal and poetic vision had long
utilized circle patterns in an intimate psychological context. In his important
analysis of poetic form in Alcools, Jean-Claude Chevalier concludes that “dès le
moment pourtant des premiers poèmes, le cercle est un élément fondamental
d’organisation.”30 Among the various recurring forms that he isolates—forms
that recall the obsessive metaphors of Charles Mauron—Chevalier discerns
one figure of particular interest: l’ombilic. A central point surrounded by
a circle, the “umbilicus” configuration is precisely that of the large wheel in
“Lettre-Océan.” Jean Levaillant, in an article on the spatiality of Calligrammes,
detects a related but separate structural figure: the circle and the line.31 The
symbolism of this figure is evident, springing from the unconscious depths of
the poet’s sexuality, and finds its archetypal expression in the last two lines of
“Tour,” inspired by Robert Delaunay: “La Tour à la Roue / S’adresse.”
Citing this poem Levaillant emphasizes Apollinaire’s need to orient his
space according to fixed coordinates and his tendency to choose a high vantage
point in order to dominate it. In “Tour,” as he says, “nous sommes . . . au centre
de l’univers traversé par toutes les lignes de force, humaines et cosmiques.”
Needless to say, these characteristics are all found in “Lettre-Océan.” For one
thing, the large wheel has a vertical center (the Eiffel Tower), thus duplicating
the circle-line opposition. And from the top of the tower Apollinaire can look
out in every direction along twelve axes extending to the distant horizon.
In this way he is able to impose order on his environment, both immediate
and global, and to take possession of the world around him.32 Apollinaire’s
description of the fourth dimension in Les Peintres cubistes provides an
excellent description of the spatiality of the large wheel: “Elle figure l’immensité
de l’espace s’éternisant dans toutes les directions à un moment déterminé. Elle
est l’espace même, la dimension de l’infini.”33 As a simultanistic tranche de
vie in which time and space are momentarily frozen, the large wheel begins
to take on the appearance of a full cosmology. And since the Eiffel Tower at
the center possesses the power to actuate the fourth dimension, it becomes a
superb mechanical symbol for the creative artist.
Visual Poetry 107
“La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou”
Although Apollinaire undoubtedly found the experience of composing

“Lettre-Océan” exhilarating, it failed to completely satisfy him. Despite a large
number of personal touches, the poem contained too many traces of Italian
Futurism. As long as his visual compositions continued to resemble schematic
diagrams, there was a risk he would be viewed as a Futurist himself. In any
case, since he valued originality more than anything, Apollinaire was hardly
cut out to be a disciple. Some way needed to be found to differentiate his visual
poetry from that of Marinetti and his colleagues. Eager to carve out his own
territory, he began to experiment with poems that were mimetic rather than
schematic. One month later, on July 15, 1914, Apollinaire published four
“idéogrammes lyriques” in Les Soirées de Paris that were entirely figurative.
Each composition included multiple figures, S. I. Lockerbie notes, “composed
of coherent phrases fashioned into extremely simple and instantly recognizable
shapes.”34 Although most of the figures were outlined, some of them were solid
creations. Half of the compositions were landscapes, and half were still-lifes.
In “Voyage,” a cloud, a bird, and a locomotive were outlined against the starry
sky. “Paysage animé” (later changed to “Paysage”) depicted a man and a cigar
standing before a house and a tree. A necktie was juxtaposed with a pocket
watch in “La Cravate et la montre.” And “Coeur couronne et miroir” featured
a heart, a crown, and a mirror.
Coming on the heels of “Lettre-Océan,” the figurative compositions elicited
a storm of protest. Anna Boschetti explains why, even today, visual poetry is
viewed as a subversive genre: “Le poème-dessin, objet irréduciblement bâtard,
est perçu comme un attentat à l’ordre logocentrique et intellectualiste, comme
une régression à un alphabet primaire et sauvage.”35 Thus far too often it is
merely regarded as curiosity. Although the members of the Parisian avant-
garde were generally enthusiastic, most critics shared the opinion of Félicien
Fagus, who, citing visual poems by Panard and Rabelais, objected: “Mais
c’est vieux comme la monde la machine de ce vieux farceur d’Apollinaire”
(Paris-Midi, July 20, 1914). Replying two days later, Apollinaire mounted a
twofold defense:
M. Fagus a raison: dans ma poésie, je suis simplement revenu aux principes

puisque l’idéogramme est le principe même de l’écriture. Cependant, entre
ma poésie et les exemples cités par M. Fagus, il y a juste la même différence
qu’entre telle voiture automobile du XVIe siècle, mue par un mouvement
d’horlogerie, et une auto de course contemporain. Les figures uniques
de Rabelais et de Panard sont inexpressives comme les autres dessins
typographiques, tandis que les rapports qu’il y a entre les figures juxtaposées
d’un de mes poèmes sont tout aussi expressifs que les mots qui le composent.
Et là, au moins, il y a, je crois, une nouveauté. (Paris-Midi, July 22, 1914)
When war broke out in August 1914, cultural life in Paris came to an abrupt
standstill. Deprived of the prosperity, leisure, and sense of well-being that
characterized the previous thirty years, the Belle Epoque suddenly came to an
end. Although Apollinaire was not a French citizen, and thus not required to
register for the draft, he hurried to enlist in the army but was initially rejected.
With time hanging heavy on his hands, he decided to join his friend Henri
Siégler-Pascal in Nice, where he could indulge in occasional opium parties.
There he met Louise de Coligny-Châtillon—better known to posterity as Lou.
Apollinaire bombarded her with declarations of love from the very beginning,
sending her a visual poem on October 8th depicting a fig, a carnation, and an
opium pipe (Figure 4.2).
Figure 4.2 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Figue, l’oeillet et la pipe”

Visual Poetry 109
Rebuffed by Lou initially, he replaced the fig with a mandolin, completely

re-worded the other two figures, and sent the new composition to someone
named Mounette Diaz—doubtless another potential conquest. The new
poem also bore a different title: “Avénement des fumées.” Still not satisfied,
Apollinaire considered four additional titles before choosing the one it bears
today: “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou parfumé,” “La Mandoline l’oeillet
et l’odeur,” “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le mystère odorant,” and “La Mandoline
l’oeillet et le Rève.”36
In contrast to most of the visual compositions in Calligrammes, which
were set in type before being printed, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” is
printed in Apollinaire’s own handwriting (Figure 4.3).
Figure 4.3 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou”

Even the section entitled “Case d’armons,” which was published at the front
in a handwritten format, has been largely replaced by a printed version. Only
four handwritten poems remain: “1915,” “Carte Postale,” “Madeleine,” and
“Venu de Dieuze.” Described in a 1918 patent application, the photo engraving
process was rather complicated:
It has been the practice . . . first to make a negative, then to strip this from
its glass backing, reversing it and applying it to another glass plate, then to
make a contact print of this reversed negative upon a metal plate of zinc
or copper sensitized with a bichromate solution. Thereafter the bichromate
coating is developed, and after other well-known steps have been taken to
protect the plate, the latter is etched with any suitable acid.37
Since Calligrammes contains so few poems in Apollinaire’s handwriting,

one suspects the process was also fairly expensive. Although setting visual
poetry in type was even more labor intensive, it was probably quite a bit
cheaper. Reproducing “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” in the poet’s
own handwriting, however, had two clear advantages. At a time when this
procedure was rarely, if ever, employed, it emphasized the poem’s revolutionary
aspect. In addition, the reader was able to retrace Apollinaire’s hesitations
and enthusiasms word by word. Since the reading process was essentially
unmediated, he or she enjoyed an unparalleled sense of intimacy.
Although the three visual figures in the poem are basically mimetic, they
are far from realistic. At best they resemble some extremely crude sketches,
although what they depict is not immediately evident. Although Margaret
Davies and Jean-Pierre Goldenstein claim the title is redundant, this statement
is slightly misleading.38 While the words in the title identify the objects depicted
visually, the latter do not fully illustrate the words in the title. Only after they
have been identified does the relationship become reciprocal. The round figure
on the left and the linear figure at the bottom are seriously underdetermined.
They could be all sorts of things. And while the remaining figure clearly depicts
a flower, it does not necessarily portray a carnation. Without the title, which
indicates where to start and how to proceed, one would be tempted to begin
with the carnation rather than the mandolin. Unfortunately, the reproduction
included in the Oeuvres poétiques (and other Gallimard editions) is flawed.
Visual Poetry 111
Figure 4.4 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou” (Gallimard)
Although the missing “n” in “ma doline” has been restored, the composition
needs to be rotated clockwise until the carnation is vertical.39 Although the figures
still form a right triangle, the opium pipe no longer provides a horizontal base.
Interestingly, Apollinaire utilizes two different visual techniques in the

poem. While the mandolin and the pipe are composed of outlined forms,
the carnation basically employs solid forms. The first style is light and airy, the
second is dense and opaque. It is often used to depict a heavy object or one with
a dark color. Since the three objects are apparently related in some way, one
immediately wonders what they have in common. Georges Longrée suggests
that all three are associated with “élégance, raffinement, luxe, oisiveté sinon
même décadence.”40 In addition, one might add, they all participate in the
same still-life composition. To a certain extent, the latter resembles numerous
Cubist compositions where a stringed instrument is juxtaposed with a pipe
and other objects. Nevertheless, as Longrée points out, the presence of definite
articles in the title marks it as a literary, rather than an artistic, composition.41
Otherwise it would read “Mandoline oeillet et bambou.”
Despite the work’s literary origins, Apollinaire has taken pains to create
a pleasing visual arrangement. According to Longrée, nevertheless, the
composition lacks a consistent perspective. The mandolin is portrayed from
above, the carnation from the side, and the opium pipe from the side except
for the two ends and the middle, which are seen in cross-section.42 To another
pair of eyes, however, the perspective seems (almost) perfectly consistent.
Theoretically, at least, all three objects could be viewed from above, in which
case the carnation would be lying on its side. Then again, the calligram could
represent a side view, which is almost certainly the correct interpretation. The
opium pipe is lying on its side with its bowl facing the viewer, the mandolin is
propped up at a forty-five degree angle, and the carnation is standing upright
(in a vase). The three circles associated with the pipe will be discussed later on.
What makes Apollinaire’s calligrams so fascinating to study is the way in
which the visual elements complement the verbal elements and vice versa. The
two aspects are closely intertwined like strands of DNA. As Davies neatly puts
it, “le langage donne lieu au dessin qui renvoie au langage.”43 This reciprocal
relationship, which continues indefinitely, is what is known as a feedback loop.
Judging from the shape of the musical instrument, the figure represents a pot
bellied mandolin. Since the four pairs of strings are usually anchored by a
tailpiece, and thus extend all the way across its body, the straight line must
be the neck and the fingerboard, which typically reaches as far as the sound
Visual Poetry 113
hole. The capital letters delineating the instrument’s right side are apparently
meant to provide some shading. Since a single curved line traces the edge of
the upper right quadrant, this is technically an “assisted” calligram.
Some critics have had trouble deciding how to read the mandolin. For
example, Longrée claims that five different readings are possible, and Davies
advises readers to begin anywhere on the mandolin’s circumference.44
Nevertheless, Fongaro argues convincingly that there is only one correct way
to proceed. The reader must decipher the fingerboard first, proceeding from
the bottom to the top, and then the instrument’s perimeter, beginning at the
upper right and continuing in a clockwise direction.45 Ironically, while the
words on the mandolin’s left side easily adhere to the visual contour, those
on the right side are torn between visual and verbal conventions. Although
they follow the figure’s downward curve, they still read from left to right and
from top to bottom. By the time one reaches the bottom, they have to be read
backwards. This complicated procedure produces the following poem:
ô batailles la terre tremble comme une mandoline

COMME LA BALLE A TRAVERS LE CORPS
LE SON TRAVERSE la vérité
car la RAI SON C’est ton Art Femme.
Some words are printed in lower case letters, some in capitals, and some
in small capitals. Apollinaire varies the size of the words for purely artistic
reasons, not because he wants to emphasize or de-emphasize them. The verbal
poem is basically constructed around two similes, both of which involve
warfare. Although Apollinaire was probably still a civilian at the time, France
had been at war for several months. The first line introduces both the image of
a mandolin and the theme of war. Bombarded by cannon fire at the front, the
ground vibrates frantically like the sound of a tremolo played on a mandolin.
The simile itself encompasses an interesting metaphor: trembler, which bridges
the distance between the two terms. Although it normally represents a dead
metaphor, because it is so often used to describe earthquakes, it is reactivated
here by the vivid simile. The earth shakes from the cannon fire but, like a
helpless witness, it trembles from fear at the terrible battles. In addition, Sacks-
Galey detects two implicit similes: “l’instrument est rond comme la terre qui
tremble et son manche le traverse comme une balle.”46 At this point there is a
double progression from the general to the particular via synecdoche. Just as
battles are associated with bullets, mandolins are associated with (musical)
sounds. The second simile develops the comparison introduced in the first.
Like a bullet shot from a rifle, sound possesses the ability to penetrate certain
things. As several critics have pointed out, this is precisely what Apollinaire
means by the pun on raison: “RAI SON.”
Nevertheless, several questions remain at this point. How can a physical
sound “cross,” “pierce,” or “penetrate” an abstraction such as “truth”? What
kind of sound does Apollinaire have in mind and what kind of truth?
Assuming the mandolin is the source of the sound, the statement could
possibly mean that music possesses a truth all of its own. “Beauty is truth,
truth beauty,” Keats proclaimed; “that is all / Ye know on earth and all ye
need to know.” Although the poem’s final clause begins with a promising
“car,” it fails to answer the previous questions. Instead, it prefers to introduce
another abstraction: raison. For some reason, Apollinaire associates this trait
with women, for whom it constitutes an “art” rather than a faculty. At any
rate, it seems to be a desirable trait. Fortunately, the term occurs elsewhere
in Apollinaire’s poetry. One thinks, for example, of “Le Chat,” published
in Le Bestiaire in 1911, where he wishes for “une femme ayant sa raison.”
That he finally received his wish is attested by “La Jolie Rousse,” in which his
future wife represents “la Raison ardente”—a symbol of order as opposed to
adventure. Reason is consistently associated in Apollinaire’s mind, therefore,
with stability, common sense, and domesticity. Greet and Lockerbie discern
an analogical circle extending from war to sound, truth, reason, woman, and
back to sound again.47 Although Apollinaire was probably still living in Nice,
they believe the poem strives to relate “the exhilaration he experiences in war
to the delight he feels in love.”
Although Apollinaire had experimented with the carnation earlier in “La
Figue l’oeillet et la pipe à opium,” the visual design left much to be desired.
Wisely jettisoning his earlier efforts when he decided to compose the present
poem, he created a much more attractive flower. Compared to the mandolin,
which is crudely drawn, the carnation seems positively elegant. The stem is long
and slender, and the leaves are symmetrical and sensitively drawn—as is the
Visual Poetry 115
flower itself. While Apollinaire employs solid forms, he avoids the heaviness
that often accompanies them. Running the length of the flower’s head, two
white spaces break up the solid mass and probably represent highlights. The
cluster of capital letters at the stem’s bottom may represent the top of a vase.
That the poet has gone back over parts of the poem with his pen contributes an
intimate note—as does the fact that the words are addressed to an unknown
woman, presumably Mounette Diaz. For some reason he has changed the very
first letter from a capital to lower case. Once again, the process of deciphering
the text is essentially a literary exercise. Reading from left to right, the
reader descends the page one line at a time. At most, the verbal digressions
that constitute the leaves are a momentary distraction. Except for “SA /
GES / SE,” the letters are all basically the same size. Reflecting Apollinaire’s
fragmentary experiments with Futurism, two plus signs serve as an adverb
and a conjunction.
que cet oeillet te dise la loi des odeurs

qu’on n’a pas encore promulguée
et qui viendra un jour régner sur nos cerveaux
bien + précise + subtile que les sons qui nous dirigent
Je préfere ton nez à tous tes organes ô mon amie
Il est le trône de la future SAGESSE.
As far as one can tell, the flower appears to be a solid color. Since the poem is
addressed to a woman, one suspects the petals are actually deep red—which,
among other things, symbolizes passionate love.48 According to a lengthy
tradition, in any case, the carnation symbolizes the poet. Learning that he
had mistakenly included gilly flowers in his portrait of Apollinaire and Marie
Laurencin, the Douanier Rousseau painted a new portrait with carnations.
According to the Grande Larousse Encylopédique, a special variety even exists
called “l’oeillet de poète” (dianthus barbatus) that symbolizes “finesse des
sentiments.” In contrast to the ease with which one deciphers the poem, the
message that it conveys is as enigmatic as the mandolin’s. Concluding with a
convoluted compliment, Apollinaire invites the anonymous woman to sniff
the carnation and enjoy its fragrance. At the same time, he makes a startling
prediction: that one day smelling will play a greater role in our lives than
hearing. Our more highly developed sense of smell will be able to discern
one subtle odor from another with astonishing precision. Fortunately, Debon
manages to shed some light on these puzzling lines.49 Not only was Apollinaire
proud of his own sense of smell, she explains, but he fantasized about creating
an infinitely subtle “art des traces.” As he wrote to an unidentified recipient the
following year, “La subtilité est le grand domaine scientifique et intellectuel qui
s’ouvre à l’homme en ces temps glorieux.”
Connecting the mandolin and the carnation, “le bambou” possesses
the simplest form of all: two straight lines linked together by three evenly
distributed circles. Although this visual combination is somewhat ambiguous,
the text and the title explain that the object is a bamboo pipe. With this
description in mind, several critics have logically deduced that the circles
represent bamboo joints. However, the pipe is not nearly as innocuous as it
looks. An early manuscript is specifically entitled “La Figue l’oeillet et la pipe
à opium.”50 “Depicted in a side view, the length of bamboo is open at one
end, capped at the other and surmounted in the middle by a shallow bowl
connected to the pipe by a short stem. In the later poem, however, the object’s
true nature has been disguised (Figure 4.4). Turned on its side so the bowl
and stem are obscured, it resembles a simple bamboo pipe. All that remains
of the bowl and stem is a large circle. Where problems arise is with regard
to the two ends of the pipe, whose openings are seriously distorted. Neither
one is rendered according to the proper perspective. Perhaps Apollinaire
was jealous of the liberties enjoyed by African sculptors and Cubist painters.
In any case, since neither end is closed, the pipe is impossible to smoke.
As before, the critics are unable to agree how to read the figure. As before,
however, there is only one correct way to proceed. The reader follows the
upper edge from left to right and then the lower edge the same way:
O nez de la pipe les odeurs (centre O fourneau) y forgent les chaînes O

(O univers) infiniment déliées qui lient les autres raisons formelles.
The fact that the poem contains two interjections (indicated by imaginary
parentheses) has prevented readers from grasping its basic structure. The
first interjection identifies the circle in the center as the pipe’s bowl. The
second one is the apostrophe addressed to the universe in the second line.
Visual Poetry 117
It parallels the earlier apostrophe in the first line addressed to the pipe’s
“nose.” Both constructions are introduced by the same circle on the left,
which thus does double duty. The circle on the right has a purely visual
function. Once again, the wording of the text is confusing. The first line is
relatively straightforward. It appears to say that those who smoke opium can
become enslaved by it. The second line contains a play on words, a double
paradox, and a final puzzle. Unfortunately, it also appears to contradict the
first line. On the one hand, since opium’s chains are infinitely “déliées”—
that is, “slender” and/or “no longer joined together”—they do not seem to
represent much of a threat. On the other hand, they are strong and intact
enough somehow to “bind” or “connect” the other formal reasons (whatever
those are). Not surprisingly, no two critics agree what all of this means. As
Davies points out, the concept of a “lien qui se délie” is a long time paradox
in Apollinaire’s work.51
The fact that the chains are “infiniment déliés” implies not only that they are
tenuous but that they are pleasurable as well—in fact, infinitely pleasurable.
But how are they able to link the other “raisons formelles” together, and what
does Apollinaire actually mean? Greet and Lockerbie offer two contradictory
interpretations.52 On the one hand, the chains may fruitfully bind together “the
more conscious faculties of the mind.” On the other hand, they may shackle
and restrict “the formal powers of thought and intelligence.” Sacks-Galey
astutely relates the chains to the three rings on the pipe but concludes that they
refer to the three visual figures.53 The key to solving the puzzle, nevertheless,
lies precisely in the way it is formulated. Apollinaire specifically refers to “les
autres raisons formelles.” In other words the smell of opium fumes, or rather
the ability to detect them, is a raison formelle as well. The others must therefore
be hearing, sight, touch, and taste. Even so, an annoying problem still remains.
What does it really mean to say that smoking opium connects all the senses?
The answer, which Apollinaire has done his best to conceal, is that opium
smokers apparently experience a whole range of sensorial delights. The poem
is not about opium addiction after all, one discovers, but about opium-induced
synesthesia. Synesthesia is not just a literary device, it turns out, but also a
physiological condition affecting non-opium smokers as well. As such, it is
recognized by the American Psychological Association:
The phenomenon . . . comes in many varieties. Some synesthetes hear, smell,
taste or feel pain in color. Others taste shapes, and still others perceive
written digits, letters and words in color. Some, who possess what researchers
call “conceptual synesthesia,” see abstract concepts, such as units of time
or mathematical operations, as shapes projected either internally or in the
space around them.54
Among other things, this explains what Apollinaire is talking about in the
previous poem. Fascinated by the variety of synesthetic experiences that are
available through smell, he foresees the time when the underlying principle (“la
loi des odeurs”) will be discovered and systematically exploited. Regrettably,
scientists today have investigated the phenomenon extensively, but have yet to
find a way to harness it. At best, they report, people with synesthesia are able
to remember things better than those without it.55 Citing Mallarmé, several
scholars have wondered about possible sexual symbolism in “La Mandoline
l’oeillet et le bambou.”56 In keeping with the carnation’s intermediate position
in the title, they wonder if it could be the joint product of the (masculine) pipe
and the (feminine) mandolin. Although the carnation shares the word “odeurs”
with the first figure, and “son” with the second figure, this is not remarkable.
Each of the other figures also shares a word with its two neighbors. What this
arrangement means is that they are all related to each other—like all of the five
senses. However, only people who are blessed with synesthesia happen to be
aware of this fact. If any one of the figures possesses the ability to generate the
others, it is the opium pipe, whose fumes can transform any sense impression
into any other. Yet Apollinaire is fascinated by all the senses not just by one in
particular. As he exclaims in “Liens,” “J’écris seulement pour vous exhalter / O
sens ô sens chéris.”
Notes
2 Anna Boschetti, La Poésie partout: Apollinaire, homme-époque (1898–1918)
(Paris: Seuil, 2001), 321.
3 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 240.
Visual Poetry 119

5 Boschetti, La Poésie partout, 181.
6 See Willard Bohn, Modern Visual Poetry (Newark: University of Delaware Press,
2001), 71–99.
7 Gabriel Arbouin, “Devant l’idéogramme d’Apollinaire,” Les Soirées de Paris 26–7
(July–August 1914): 383–5.
8 Daniel Delbreil and Françoise Dininman, “Lettre-Océan,” Que Vlo-Ve? 21–2
(July–October 1979): 31.
9 Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, 107.
11 Michel Butor, preface to Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes (Paris: Gallimard,
1966), 9.
12 Dininman analyzes and charts the poem’s formal properties in detail in “Lettre-
Océan,” 16–18.
13 George Schmits, “Lettre-Océan,” Savoir et Beauté 2–3 (1964): 2691–8.
14 Jean-Pierre Goldenstein, “Anomo/Anora: Tu connaîtras un peu mieux les
Mayas,” Que Vlo’Ve?, 4th ser. 11 (July–September 2000): 94–5.
15 Goldenstein, “Anomo/Anora,” 80.
16 William Weber Johnson, Heroic Mexico: The Violent Emergence of a Modern
Nation (Garden City: Doubleday, 1968), 141.
17 Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec son frère et sa mère, eds. Gilbert
Boudar and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Corti, 1987), 127.
18 Letter to Louise Coligny-Châtillon dated February 2, 1915. See Apollinaire
Lettres à Lou, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), 154.
19 See Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 79.
21 Goldenstein, “Anomo/Anora,” 82.
22 Antoine Fongaro, Apollinaire poète: Exégèses et discussions 1957–1987 (Toulouse:
Presses Universitaires du Mirail-Toulouse, 1988), 239.
23 Ibid., 97.
27 Pénélope Sacks-Galey, Calligramme ou écriture figurée: Apollinaire inventeur de
formes (Paris: Minard, 1988), 97.
28 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes”

29 Sacks-Galey, Calligramme ou écriture figurée, 99.
30 Jean-Claude Chevalier, “Alcools” d’Apollinaire: essai d’analyse des forms poétiques
(Paris: Lettres Modernes, 1970), 82; see also 78–87.
31 “Le regard hanté d’imaginaire se porte sur des courbes, puis sur des formes droits
ou vice versa, les unes semblent appeler les autres.” In Jean Levaillant, “L’Espace
dans Calligrammes,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22 (1969): 51.
32 According to Roland Barthes this is the monument’s most important function:
“The Tower is merely the witness, the gaze which discretely fixes, with its slender
signal, the whole structure—geograpical, historical, and social—of Paris space.”
The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies (New York: Hill and Wang, 1979), 13.
33 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Méditations esthétiques: Les Peintres cubistes,” in Pierre
Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (eds.), Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2 (Paris:
34 S. I. Lockerbie, “Introduction,” in Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire
“Calligrammes,” 11.
36 Debon reproduces the different stages of the poem’s transformation in
“Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 123–8.
37 www.google.com/patents/US1285015
38 Margaret Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” Que Vlo-Ve? 29–30
(July‒October 1981): 1. Each fasicule is numbered separately.
39 See Georges Longrée, L’Expérience idéocalligrammatique d’ Apollinaire, rev. ed.
(Paris: Touzot, 1985), 194–236.
40 Ibid., 203.
41 Ibid., 210.
42 Ibid., 194.
43 Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 3.
44 Longrée, L’Expérience idéocalligrammatique, 216–18; Davies, “La Mandoline
l’oeillet et le bambou,” 8.
45 Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 208–9.
48 J. C. Cooper, An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols (London:
Thames and Hudson, 1978), 30.
Visual Poetry 121

50 Reproduced in ibid., 124.
51 Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 5.
54 www.synesthete.org
55 See the Oxford Book of Synesthesia, eds. Julia Simner and Edward M. Hubbard
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014).
56 Longrée, L’Expérience idéocalligrammatique, 206; Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 209.
5
The War Poetry
On November 29, 1914, having been rejected twice, Apollinaire volunteered

for the army again while he was in Nice. This time he was accepted, assigned
to the 38th Field Artillery Regiment, and sent to a training camp near
Nîmes. Having finished his training, he left to join the 45th artillery battery
in Champagne on April 4, 1915. Apollinaire’s first exposure to the rigors of
warfare was surprisingly pleasant. During April and June his battery was
situated in a small wooded area well behind the front line. With the arrival
of Fall, however, he and his men found themselves fighting at the Front
during a major confrontation with the enemy. Eager to become an officer,
Apollinaire transferred to the infantry on November 18th with the rank of
second lieutenant. Unfortunately, as he quickly discovered, he was continually
surrounded by death and destruction. On March 17, 1916, he was wounded in
the head, evacuated to the rear, and hospitalized for several months. Awarded
the Croix de Guerre, he also received the French citizenship he had so eagerly
coveted. During the fifteen months that Apollinaire was involved in the war,
he managed to compose an astonishing number of poems. Only some of these
were included in Calligrammes.
Writing in 1971, Norma Rinsler noted that Apollinaire’s war poems had
generally met with unfavorable criticism. She speculated that they suffered
from being grouped together with his cubist poems, “whose seriousness is
often doubted.”1 Because of difficult conditions at the Front, she continued,
only short lyrics could be conveniently written. As Els Jongeneel recently
complained, French critics tended for many years to ignore or marginalize
the war poetry. Some were offended by Apollinaire’s patriotism, others by his
“subjectivism,” theatrical effects, or outdated rhetorical models and clichés.
“Ce n’est qu’au cours des années ’80,” he remarks, “que l’on constate une
tournure positive, due entre autres à un regain d’intérêt pour les avant-gardes
du début du siècle.”2 Although the cubist poetry has been largely rehabilitated
today, the war poetry is still viewed with some suspicion. Three-quarters of
Calligrammes is devoted to works composed while Apollinaire was in the
army. Gone for the most part are the earlier experiments with simultaneity,
fragmentary discourse, and multiple points of view. Although it is easy to
lump the war poems all together, and thus to treat them as if they were all alike,
this approach does them a grave disservice. So too does the assumption that,
because they are concerned with battle, they have nothing to teach us. Since
Apollinaire had many more poems than he needed for Calligrammes, he chose
only the very best examples.
One of the surprises awaiting the reader who encounters the war
compositions for the first time is their amazing variety. On the one hand, as
Michel Décaudin declares, they possess “une étonnante diversité formelle.”3
Some of the poems are rhymed, some are in free verse, some alternate between
the two, and some employ visual effects. On the other hand, the experiences
they relate are even more diverse. Apollinaire is a keen observer of life at the
Front, which he witnessed in a number of different capacities. Rising from
a lowly horse handler in the artillery to a first lieutenant in the infantry, he
experienced the full gamut of military operations. Although some poems
possess a mythical dimension, as Décaudin and Lockerbie point out, these
are few and far between.4 Those that possess an epic vision are equally rare.
Apollinaire’s poetic gifts simply lay in another direction. As he had done so
many times before, he turned to lyric poetry to express his innermost thoughts
and feelings. Many of the compositions are written in the confidential first
person. Others employ first person pronouns that evoke Apollinaire indirectly.
Most of the poems are candid, succinct, intimate, and relatively brief.
“La Nuit d’avril 1915”
Shortly after joining the 45th artillery battery at the Front, Apollinaire began
to compose one of his best known war poems. Originally entitled “Le 10 avril
1915,” it underwent a large number of transformations before being included
The War Poetry 125
in Calligrammes.5 Changed to “La Nuit aux armées” at the end of April, the title
assumed its definitive form only in June, when the work was published in Case
d’armons. The latter volume was printed on graph paper with violet ink and
then polycopied using a gelatin process. It included twenty-one war poems
by Apollinaire with calligraphy and visual effects by one of the men in his
battery. “La Nuit d’avril 1915” appeared subsequently in L’Elan (March 1916)
and L’Union des Automobilistes et Aviateurs Militaires (July 2, 1916). Dedicated
to Louise de Coligny-Châtillon, the text is divided into four quintains with
alternating rhymes plus two additional lines that continue the alternation.
The rhymes are all suffisantes and observe the traditional alternation between
masculine and feminine. Although the composition consists entirely of
alexandrines, these are systematically displaced and/or dislocated in order to
vary the text’s rhythm and appearance.
When Apollinaire first joined his battery, it was situated in a pleasant
wooded area fairly distant from the firing line. Since he was in the artillery,
there was no need to be near the front-line fighting. A spotter with a telescope
would relay the target’s coordinates, watch where the rounds fell, and call
for corrections accordingly. One of the finest artillery pieces of the time, the
French Canon de 75 Modèle 1897 (Figure 5.1) could fire a shell more than
five miles.
Its superiority lay in its novel recoil system, which allowed the weapon to
stay trained on its target after firing instead of needing to be repositioned.6
While fierce fighting raged at the Front, Apollinaire and his comrades were
hidden away among the trees, which provided a convenient refuge. As
canonnier conducteur 2e classe, his job was mainly to care for the six horses
that were assigned to his cannon and the two-wheeled supply caisson plus the
six horses that pulled each additional two-cart group. The rest of the time he
could compose poetry, write letters, and observe nature. However, Apollinaire
received a series of promotions that kept him fairly busy. On April 8, 1915,
he was appointed corporal at the echelon level, on April 10th liaison officer,
on April 16th corporal, at the end of July quartermaster corporal, and then
on August 25th sergeant. After serving as a foreword observer, he was put in
charge of a cannon on September 1st—at which point he transferred to a more
active battery.7
Figure 5.1 Canon de 75 modèle 1897 serviced by Apollinaire and his crew.
Bibliothèque de la Ville de Paris, Fonds Adéma
The War Poetry 127
A L. de C.-C.
Le ciel est étoilé par les obus des Boches
La forêt merveilleuse où je vis donne un bal
La mitrailleuse joue un air à triples-croches
Mais avez-vous le mot
Eh! oui le mot fatal
Aux créneaux Aux créneaux Laissez là les pioches
The first stanza describes Apollinaire’s initial reaction to his new

surroundings, which he found exciting and curiously beautiful. Judging
from the first line, it is night, and the sky is lit up by enemy star shells—so
called because they were designed to burst open and release a shower of stars.
Indeed, according to Debon, the military slang for “to launch flares” was
“étoiler le ciel.”8 If the Germans are about to launch an attack, as seems likely,
they would use these to light up the French defenses. The second line makes
use of military slang as well. According to the same source, “donner le bal à
quelqu’un” means “to give someone a hard time.” In other words, things are
about to heat up on the battlefield. As several critics point out, “merveilleuse”
possesses both a literal and a figurative meaning. On the one hand, the forest
is astonishingly beautiful. With the coming of Spring the trees have leafed out,
grasses have sprouted, and wildflowers have begun to appear. On the other
hand, the forest seems to have been placed under a spell, as if a fairy godmother
had suddenly waved her magic wand. Continuing the métaphore filée, a
machinegun begins to fire rounds in ¾ time as if it were a musical instrument.
Charming and charmed, enchanting and enchanted, two parallel scenes take
place simultaneously. At the literal level, shells burst overhead, machineguns
chatter, and the forest looks beautiful. At the metaphorical level, anonymous
couples waltz to ethereal music beneath a starry sky. For Madeleine Boisson
the latter represents all-seeing Argus, endowed with a hundred eyes, who
watches silently from above.9
Up until this point, all the activity has been on the German side. All of a
sudden someone on the French side, possibly Apollinaire, asks someone else if
he has “le mot.” The usual explanation, which makes perfect sense in a military
context, is that he is asking for the password. On the contrary, Mario Richter
believes he is searching for the secret word that will break the magic spell and
restore reality.10 Uniquely among Apollinaire critics he believes the spell is evil
because it conceals the real world and hence the challenges facing Apollinaire
and his comrades. Placed in apposition and dislocated, the second hemistich is
even more puzzling. The emphatic break between the two halves suggests they
represent a question and a response. Consistent with his earlier interpretation,
Richter believes “Eh!” represents a call to order. Depending on the speaker’s
tone, nevertheless, it could express a number of emotions including surprise,
disgust, and contempt. Why “le mot” is qualified by “fatal” is difficult to
say. According to Greet and Lockerbie, the term signifies mystery.11 Richter
suspects it may be an order to retreat.12 Ironically, although fatal is one of
Apollinaire’s favorite words, it is hard to pin down. According to Le Petit
Robert, it could mean “deadly,” “the sign of death,” “disastrous,” “unavoidable,”
or “marked by destiny.” In the present context, the best choice would appear
to be “deadly.” Some kind of military action is evidently being planned against
the enemy. Before the word can be given, however, the Germans launch an
attack themselves. Apollinaire and his comrades are ordered to stop digging
the trench and to shield themselves behind the earthworks piled up in front
of it. Although it was in common military usage, the antique word “créneaux”
continues the medieval tone established by the métaphore filée.
Comme un astre éperdu qui cherche ses saisons

Coeur obus éclaté tu sifflais ta romance
Et tes mille soleils ont vidé les caissons
Que les dieux de mes yeux remplissent en silence
Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons.
The second stanza ignores the war momentarily and focuses on Apollinaire’s
disappointed love for Lou, to whom the poem is nonetheless dedicated. The
theme of suffering in love is announced by the title, Richter asserts, which
refers to Alfred de Musset’s four “Nuit” poems.13 The first four lines constitute
an apostrophe addressed to the poet’s bewildered heart, which resembles a
wandering star “qui cherche ses saisons.” However, stars are fixed luminous points
in the night sky. Although they appear to rotate around the earth, their position
with regard to each other is permanent. The only heavenly bodies that actually
move, besides comets, meteors, and the moon, are the nine planets—known in
The War Poetry 129
Greek as asteres planetes or “wandering stars.” As the seasons progress, they

occupy thirteen constellations in succession to which they return year after
year. Although they continue to wander, they also possess a certain regularity,
which is what Apollinaire’s heart is longing for.
Throughout the war poetry, Greet and Lockerbie note, stars are constantly
compared to shells and vice versa. The image of the heart as an exploded
shell establishes a similar analogy and brings a stale expression—“mon coeur
éclate”—back to life. A violent emotional explosion has emptied the poet’s
heart of vital feelings. Since artillery shells “whistle” through the air before
they strike their target, Apollinaire compares the sound to a person whistling
a tune—ironically, a sentimental romance. By contrast, lines 3 and 4 are rather
obscure. Richter offers two interpretations: (1) the heart has exhausted all of
its resources and (2) the battery has exhausted all of its munitions in repelling
the sudden attack.14 A third possibility also exists: that the artillery-shell-heart
set the munitions off when it exploded with the energy of a thousand suns.
The fourth line appears to describe the broken-hearted poet filling the empty
wagons with his tears. Why his eyes are associated with gods, unfortunately, is
never made clear. The fifth line continues to frustrate critics because it appears
to contradict itself: “Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons.” Like a
passionate suitor who cannot help irritating the woman he adores, mankind
is caught in a nasty bind. While we love life, we continue to offend her by
preventing other people (the enemy) from enjoying her too. As Margaret
Davies notes, Apollinaire has been criticized for his apparent celebration of
war. “In fact it is not war that he celebrates,” she insists, citing this very line,
“but life in the midst of death …, life that had now become so precious.”15
Les obus miaulaient un amour à mourir

Un amour qui se meurt est plus doux que les autres
Ton souffle nage au fleueve où le sang va tarir
Les obus miaulaient
Entends chanter les nôtres
Pourpre amour salué par ceux qui vont périr.
The themes of the previous two stanzas are intertwined in the third stanza. At
its best, Bates declares, quoting portions of the present poem, Apollinaire’s war
poetry presents “a unique appreciation of life and love in the most harrowing
situations.”16 Love and war alternate with life and death as enemy shells fly
overhead and Apollinaire mourns the loss of his beloved Lou. Whereas the
previous shells whistled through the air, the present ones—nicknamed “les
miaulants” according to Tournadre—yowl like cats in the midst of mating.17 In
the present circumstances, the expression “un amour à mourir” is particularly
apt but also highly ironic. The shells fired by the German 77 cannons convey a
love that is both “desperate” and “fatal.” The second line continues to associate
love with death, but this time it is Apollinaire’s passion for Lou that is the target.
Paradoxically, he declares, a love that is dying away is the sweetest love of all.
The scene described in the next line defies both the imagination and
interpretation. How can someone’s breath swim in a river whose water changes
into blood and then dries up? Apollinaire links several metaphors together,
deletes their first terms, and retains their second terms. Reconstructing the
original sentence is virtually impossible. All one can do is proceed by analogy.
Connecting the third line to the preceding line, Greet and Lockerbie offer a
tentative translation: “the poetic self (souffle) willingly immerses itself in the
fatal current of dying love …, drawing nourishment from that experience.” In
their scenario, the drying blood would be associated with an abstraction (dying
love) rather than with a person. Apollinaire would ultimately benefit from this
painful experience, which, like his previous love for Annie and Marie, would
presumably inspire him to write more poetry. Like Greet and Lockerbie,
Richter assumes the individual in question is Apollinaire. Curiously, he argues
that the line also describes “l’amour collectif des soldats.”18 Since it specifically
mentions “ton souffle,” however, this does not seem very likely. Following an
elaborate analysis, Richter concludes that the mysterious “fleuve” describes the
protective trench dug by Apollinaire and his comrades. The blood in question
will presumably be spilled by one of them. Since the trench filled up with water
during the rainy season, one might add, it actually resembled a river at times.
As an indication of how seriously the battery is being bombarded by the
Germans, Apollinaire repeats the initial hemistich in the next line: “Les obus
miaulaient.” Since the French respond by launching their own artillery shells,
which sing rather than yowl, he divides the line into two-halves representing
the two opposing sides. The last line is modeled on a well-known Latin phrase
The War Poetry 131
quoted by Suetonius in De Vita Caesarum: “Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant”

(“Hail Emperor, those who are about to die salute you”). Like many people,
Richter believes this statement was pronounced by the Praetorian Guard
proclaiming their loyalty to the Roman emperor. In reality, these words were
addressed to the emperor Claudius in AD 52 by a group of gladiators hoping
to save their lives. Incredibly, and against all expectations, they received a mass
reprieve. One wonders, naturally, which story the poet was familiar with. Was
he able to separate the historical version from the popular version? For reasons
that will become clear in a moment, Apollinaire substituted “pourpre amour”
for “Imperator.” Although purple was traditionally reserved for royalty, he
could scarcely have wished to proclaim his loyalty to a supreme ruler, as the
Roman soldiers supposedly did. France no longer had a supreme ruler. Neither
could he have intended to ask a supreme ruler for mercy, as the gladiators
did, for the same reason. Eventually, the suspicion arises that the line actually
applies to the Germans, who still had an emperor, rather than to the French.
In retrospect, the fifth line appears to be introduced by the preceding line,
“Entends chanter les nôtres,” which is addressed to the only possible recipient:
“pourpre amour.” “Listen to our shells singing Kaiser Wilhelm,” Apollinaire
declares, “you who are saluted by your soldiers who are about to die.” The
soldiers are neither proclaiming their loyalty nor asking for mercy, it turns out.
They are merely destined to be slaughtered by the French.
Le printemps tout mouillé la veilleuse l’attaque
Il pleut mon âme il pleut mais il pleut des yeux morts
Ulysse que de jours pour rentrer dans Ithaque
Couche-toi sur la paille et songe un beau remords
Qui pur effet de l’art soit aphrodisiaque
Mais
orgues
aux fétus de la paille où tu dors
L’hymne de l’avenir est paradisiaque.
As if the enemy attack were not bad enough, it turns out that it is also
pouring down rain. The protective trench encountered earlier is probably
knee-deep in water. To escape the weather, Apollinaire has withdrawn into a
primitive home-made shelter—doubtless the reed hut described in his letters
to Lou—where he has lit some kind of nightlight.19 As Debon points out, the
second line is modeled on a song entitled “Il pleut bergère,” composed by
Fabre d’Eglantine in the eighteenth century and supposedly inspired by Marie
Antoinette. “La pluie” and “pleuvoir” were military slang, she notes elsewhere,
for machinegun fire and anti-personnel bombs.20 Fortunately, the main attack
appears to be taking place elsewhere, so Apollinaire does not need to take
cover in the soggy trench. The same line also contains one of Apollinaire’s
most haunting images: “il pleut des yeux morts.” For Boisson, pursuing her
mythocritical interpretation, the line evokes the murder of all-seeing Argus.
At the same time, she admits, “ces ‘yeux morts’ sont, certes, les retombées des
fusées éclairantes ou des éclats d’obus.”21 The first explanation is nearly correct.
Apollinaire is referring not to the shells themselves but to the burning “stars”
they release. Since the latter die out before they reach the ground, Apollinaire
compares them to eyes that have gone dead. Deprived of light, it is the human
observers who are temporarily blind not the stars.
Like Ulysses, who must endure one adventure after another, the poet simply
longs to go home. Unlike the hero of the Odyssey, unfortunately, he will not
have a faithful woman waiting for him when he returns—or even a faithful dog.
The most either one can look forward to is an erotic dream, which, since it is
entirely imaginary, represents a “pur effet de l’art.” But—and the contrast here
is marked—even that fails to materialize. Instead of dreaming of a voluptuous
woman, Apollinaire’s alter ego, who is lying on a pile of straw, hears organ
music playing a hymn to the future (which promises to be “paradisiaque”).
Expressing the poet’s fundamental optimism, the poem thus ends on a hopeful
note. Reviewing Calligrammes three years later, André Breton quoted “La Nuit
d’avril 1915” in its entirety. “Il n’appartient qu’aux grands poètes,” he declared,
paraphrasing Verlaine, “de toujours faire luire ‘un brin de paille dans l’étable.’”22
“L’Adieu du cavalier”
When hostilities broke out in August 1914, Marie Laurencin and her German
husband were forced to settle in another country. Writing from Spain to
Apollinaire the following year, she asked her ex-lover for some recent poems,
The War Poetry 133
which she proposed to illustrate and publish in order to raise money for a
charity. On August 20, 1915, Apollinaire sent her seven poems via a mutual
friend, Louise de Faure-Favier, for a slim volume to be entitled Le Médaillon
toujours fermé. For unknown reasons, the volume never appeared, but the
poems were published in the Mercure de France on July 1, 1916. Composed
of only two quatrains, “L’Adieu du cavalier” is written in octosyllables with
alternating rhymes. With one minor exception, this form was adopted by the
other six compositions as well. From the beginning Apollinaire sought a poetic
form that would complement the qualities he discerned in Marie’s art. What
he loved about the latter, he confided in Les Peintres cubistes (1913), was its
“esthétique entièrement féminine.”23 Endowed with “une certaine simplicité
naturelle,” her paintings were both graceful and charming. Since a complicated
poem like “La Nuit d’avril 1915” would never do, Apollinaire limited each
work to a couple of stanzas, kept the lines short, and used simple declarative
sentences. Like its companion poems, “L’Adieu du cavalier” is surprisingly
compact while still light and airy:
Ah Dieu! Que la guerre est jolie
Avec ses chants ses longs loisirs
Cette bague je l’ai polie
Le vent se mêle à vos soupirs
Adieu! Voici le boute-selle

Il disparut dans un tournant
Et mourut là-bas tandis qu’elle
Riait au destin surprenant.
As Peter Read observes, “‘L’Adieu du cavalier’ est un texte difficile, en

dépit de sa brieveté et de son apparence conventionnelle.”24 It turns out to be
nearly as challenging as “La Nuit d’avril 1915” but in a completely different
way. What the poem leaves out, for example, is just as important as what it
includes. Maciej Zurowski believes Apollinaire borrowed the first line from a
Polish song.25 Read calls attention to an English song, entitled “What a Lovely
War,” that Apollinaire could have heard as well.26 Unlike the latter, however,
which is a satirical composition, “L’Adieu du cavalier” depends heavily on
irony, much of which is delayed. Whereas the English singer actually means
the opposite of what he or she says, the French speaker is perfectly sincere.
Judging from his naivety, he appears to be a recent arrival. So far the war has
been a series of enjoyable experiences because he hasn’t been exposed to any
fighting. Every night he gets drunk and sings lusty songs in the cantine with
his fellow soldiers. During the day he has time to craft an aluminum ring for
his beloved girlfriend, about whom we know nothing.
The first line is not just provocative, as several critics claim, it is outrageous.
Nobody but a fool or a psychopath could possibly mistake war for a lovely
experience. It is amazing, nevertheless, how many people fail to read the second
stanza, which contains an important corrective. Despite its obvious absurdity,
they only remember the first line, which they assume is spoken by Apollinaire.
Anthony Hartley makes that mistake in The Penguin Book of French Verse, for
example, where he attributes the first two lines to Apollinaire’s “innocent eye.”27
“Few other poets,” he manages to stammer, “would have chosen precisely that
epithet [‘jolie’] for modern war.” André Breton himself did not know what
to make of the poem when it first appeared. Quoting the first two lines, he
merely praised the poet’s “don prodigieux d’émerveillement.”28 Even more
extraordinary, the former doyenne of Apollinaire studies, Marie-Jeanne Durry,
seems to have misunderstood the composition. Writing in 1968, she evoked
“cette capacité à la fois merveilleuse et presque révoltante qu’Apollinaire
possède de pouvoir s’exclamer ‘Ah! Dieu que la guerre est jolie!’”29 Other
readers find the sentiment so appalling that they quit reading altogether.
Laurence Campa calls attention to the enunciative ambiguity that pervades
the entire poem.30 So much of what transpires is implicit. Are the first five lines
spoken by the same person, she wonders, and if so, who is that person? Or are
they spoken by several different people as in “Lundi rue Christine”? Does the
speaker change from one stanza to the next or remain the same? Which lines, if
any, are spoken by Apollinaire? Critics find the shift from “je” in the third line
to “vos” in the fourth especially disconcerting. Are both lines uttered by the
same individual? Do they both allude to the speaker, as is common in cubist
poetry, or to the speaker and somebody else? Greet and Lockerbie believe they
probably refer to the narrator—presumably the person who also speaks lines 6,
7, and 8.31 Campa manages to agree and to disagree at the same time. “Le ‘je’ du
poème est et n’est pas le ‘moi’ du poète,” she declares; “il est à la fois singulier et
pluriel.”32 The simplest scenario—and therefore the best according to Ockham’s
The War Poetry 135
razor—is to assume that the first five lines are spoken by the horseman. The
first two lines evoke the joys of warfare, and the second two focus on the young
lovers. In line three, he gives his beloved the ring and explains that he made it
for her himself. In line four, she kisses him passionately in return as the wind
suddenly (and symbolically) springs up. Holding her in his arms, he exclaims:
“le vent se mêle à vos soupirs.” Instead of “a more distant attitude” (Greet and
Lockerbie), the switch from “je” to “vos” simply represents a change in focus—
from the horseman to his girlfriend. Her sighs do not convey “boredom” or
“inner emptiness” but rather love and affection.
Completely unexpectedly, the lyrical introduction is succeeded by a
harsh conclusion. The contrast between the two stanzas is positively brutal.
Following the idyllic first scene, the characters (and the reader) are exposed to
the bitter reality. War, they discover, is actually a terrible calamity. Millions of
young men exactly like the horseman died in the First World War. As much as
anything, the distance between the two stanzas is epitomized by their initial
words: “Ah Dieu!” and “Adieu!” Although these are puns, they are intended
to be instructive rather than amusing. The first exclamation communicates
enthusiasm and excitement. The second simply expresses the desire to be
gone. The young man can hardly wait to engage in battle. Responding to a
bugle call, he saddles his horse, abruptly says goodbye, and rides off to his
death. As Campa remarks, “l’adieu du cavalier est un adieu bien cavalier.”33
Thereafter love gives way to indifference and irony, as the horseman’s
narrative is replaced by anonymous narration. First person testimony yields
to impersonal constructions. Margaret Davies detects a surprising fact: the
effect (“Adieu!”) seems to precede the cause (the sounding of the bugle). In his
hurry to construct a symmetrical pun, Apollinaire unconsciously reverses the
two. “Avec une rapidité aussi choquante,” Davies adds, “le présent se mue sans
transition en un passé historique.”34 While two of the final three lines employ
the past definite, situating the action in the distant past, the third utilizes the
imperfect.
Unexpectedly, the last two lines turn out to contain a double surprise.
Although the horseman’s death could perhaps have been predicted from the
first line, nothing has prepared the reader for his beloved’s extraordinary
reaction. In the normal scheme of things, her emotional response would reflect
the tragic fate of her partner. One would expect happiness to be followed by
sadness, depression and despair. In reality, how she receives the tragic news
defies all expectations: she bursts into laughter! Her reaction is not just
surprising, therefore, but totally inappropriate. This shocking turn of events is
virtually unprecedented. It is also one of the things that makes this composition
a little gem. The question that naturally arises is how to interpret the puzzling
conclusion. As Debon points out, the poem was originally inspired by Lou,
who, in an earlier version, “cueillait des fleurs en se damnant” at the end. The
concluding laughter was meant to illustrate both her lack of feeling and her
treacherous character. By removing the original (implicit) reference, Debon
argues, Apollinaire broadened the accusation to include other previous loves
as well. Indeed, there is no reason to stop there. Since Apollinaire suffered
from occasional attacks of misogyny, the accusation may be aimed at women
in general. In his own mind at least, the young woman’s behavior may illustrate
the faithlessness of the female sex.
Since no trace of Lou remains, readers are forced to imagine other reasons for
the woman’s laughter. For Debon she is a “symbole de l’incompréhension, de la
cruauté indifférente,” Campa complains that she is ungrateful for the horseman’s
sacrifice, and Gilberte Jacaret finds her basically unfeeling.35 Greet and Lockerbie
offer three possibilities: she is laughing either to keep from crying, from surprise,
or “as a way of facing up.” Since the horseman is dead, Debon’s second explanation
appears to be irrelevant. There is no way the woman can inflict cruelty on him
now. The remaining explanations are all aspects of what psychiatrists refer to
as “reaction formation.” “An important method of transforming uncomfortable
or unacceptable feelings into something more manageable,” one authority
explains, it is “the superficial adoption and exaggeration of ideas and impulses
that are diametrically opposed to one’s own.”36 The problem is not that the young
woman doesn’t understand what happened, but rather that she understands it
all too well. The reason she seems to be ungrateful or unfeeling is because she
is overwhelmed by her emotions. If, as Campa claims, the poem is “ultimately a
meditation on destiny,” this realization is postponed until later.37 Her immediate
response—and the reader’s—is a purely emotional one.
Although “L’Adieu du cavalier” is fiercely ironic, its irony is delayed until
the last moment. Not until the reader has reached the penultimate line, which
The War Poetry 137
reactivates the first line and infuses it with new meaning, does the poem assume
its ultimate form. Until then, the sentence is merely a thoughtless utterance
pronounced by a silly young man playing soldier. Among other things, the
poem demonstrates that foolish talk, or at least a foolish attitude, can have
serious consequences. The horseman’s death serves as a warning to anyone
seeking to glorify or romanticize warfare. In general, as Jacaret declares, “la
poésie d’Apollinaire est un lyrisme renouvelé et enrichi par l’ironie.”38 At the
poetic level, irony endows his verse both with a cutting edge and with added
poignancy. At the personal level, it serves as a defense mechanism. In this
capacity, it protects Apollinaire from the vicissitudes of love and death. Nowhere
is this more evident than in the war poetry. “L’Adieu du cavalier” is an excellent
example. Composed in the midst of an international conflagration, it allowed
the poet to ward off the memory of Lou and also the constant threat of death.
“Dans l’abri-caverne”
Returning to Nîmes on January 2, 1915, after a short leave spent with Lou
in Nice, Apollinaire struck up a conversation on the train with a young
schoolteacher who lived in Algeria. Madeleine Pagès had spent Christmas
with her elder brother’s family and was traveling to Marseille, where she
planned to take a boat back to Oran. Having exchanged addresses, they began
to correspond after Apollinaire joined his battery in Champagne. In what must
surely rank as one of the most unusual romances, he fell in love with Madeleine,
courted her by mail, and asked her to marry him. For nearly a year, until he
was wounded on March 17, 1916, she provided a precious lifeline to normal
life and an outlet for his erotic fantasies. Apollinaire wrote to her nearly every
day and sometimes more than once. In addition, she inspired a great many
poems that, in S. I. Lockerbie’s words, “fulfill[ed] a vital need for spiritual
replenishment and creative stimulation.”39 However, her greatest gift was her
abiding love, which not only enabled the poet to endure the war but inspired a
similar devotion on his part. As Claude Debon trenchantly observes, “l’amour
seul peut s’opposer à la souffrance . . . Suprême ‘divertissement,’ il permet de se
détourner momentanément de la réalité.”40
The third of five poems inspired by Madeleine and included in

Calligrammes, “Dans l’abri-caverne” was sent to her on October 8, 1915.41
Originally entitled “Plainte,” it was published in La Grande Revue in
November 1917, where it was dated December 1915. The title refers to a
large underground bunker buried at least 20 feet deep, where the poet and
his comrades could take shelter. Although it provided some protection from
enemy fire, the living conditions were primitive at best. “Quelle tristesse,”
Apollinaire wrote to Madeleine on September 30, 1915, “La pluie a inondé le
trou où nous vivons j’ai dormi toute la nuit dans l’eau.”42 Written in free verse,
“Dans l’abri-caverne” contains unusually long lines (up to forty syllables)
interspersed with occasional octosyllables and decasyllables. At times, it is
almost like reading prose.
Je me jette vers toi et il me semble aussi que tu te jettes vers moi

Une force part de nous qui est un feu solide qui nous soude
Et puis il y a aussi une contradiction qui fait que nous ne pouvons
nous apercevoir
En face de moi la paroi de craie s’effrite
Il y a des cassures
De longues traces d’outils traces lisses et qui semblent être faites
dans de la stéarine
Des coins de cassures sont arrachés par le passage des types de
ma pièce.
“Dans l’abri-caverne” is divided into four sections. The first evokes the
frustrating situation of the two lovers, who would like to be together but who
are separated by events beyond their control. Imagining themselves rushing
toward each other with open arms, they are stopped short by cold reality. Not
only can they not embrace each other, but they cannot even see each other.
Nevertheless, although Apollinaire and Madeleine are physically separated,
they are united by the irresistible force of love. Conceived as solid fire, he
explains in “Poème lu au mariage d’André Salmon,” love, like light, is the glue
that holds everything in space together.43 Following this passionate preamble,
the second section provides a brief description of life underground. What
gives champagne its unique taste, is the region’s clay soil with its huge calcium
carbonate deposits. Like the white-walled trenches that appear in several
The War Poetry 139
poems, the bunker is basically carved out of chalk, which crumbles easily and
contains numerous fractures. By contrast, the long, smooth shovel marks on the
walls seem to have been made in tallow. According to Apollinaire, the bunker
provided shelter for himself and “[les] types de ma pièce.” Since the standard
crew consisted of six men, each of whom had a specific task during firing,
the bunker contained seven men in all. This is confirmed by “Chef de pièce,”
sent to Madeleine on October 3, 1915, and by a letter dated October 27, 1915,
which contains a drawing of the bunker. “Moi et mes hommes,” Apollinaire
wrote, “couchons dans un trou recouvert de 2 couches de rondins de craie et
de plaques de tôle ondulée.”
Moi j’ai ce soir une âme qui s’est creusée qui est vide
On dirait qu’on y tombe sans cesse et sans trouver de fond
Et qu’il n’y a rien pour se raccrocher
Ce qui y tombe et qui y vit c’est une sorte d’êtres laids qui me font mal
et qui viennent de je ne sais où
Oui je crois qu ‘ils viennent de la vie d’une sorte de vie qui est dans
l’avenir dans l’avenir brut qu’on n’a pu encore cultiver ou élever
ou humaniser
Dans ce grand vide de mon âme il manque un soleil il manque ce qui éclaire.
C’est aujourd’hui c’est ce soir et non toujours
Heureusement que ce n’est que ce soir.
By the time Apollinaire came to write the third section, he was thoroughly
exhausted and subject to occasional bouts of depression. Like a good portion
of the war poetry, Harrow observes, “Dans l’abri-caverne” reflects “the
extreme pressures of physical survival and psychic self-preservation.”44 On
September 25, 1915, General Joffre mounted a major French offensive that
continued until November 6th. The Second Battle of Champagne, as it came to
be known, gained a mere two and a half miles but consumed all of the available
ammunition and resulted in 145,000 French casualties. “On a canonné toute
la journée,” Apollinaire wrote to Madeleine the first night, “C’est le soir je
me repose jusqu’à minuit trente où je reprends le feu avec ma pièce …. Je
suis fatigué ce soir mon amour de notre tir presque incessant.” “Dans l’abri-
caverne” contained a similar complaint about “la brutalité incessant des coups
de canon” which was later deleted. Since the French cannons could deliver
fifteen rounds per minute—and twice that for short periods of time—it is no
wonder that Apollinaire was exhausted.
The next section continues and develops the image introduced in the
preceding four lines: that of the abri-caverne, which is transformed into
a powerful métaphore filée.45 Instead of a hole in the ground, Apollinaire
complains that he suffers from a hole in his soul. Not only is it completely
empty, but it has no bottom and nothing whatsoever to hold onto. Like the
Slough of Despond in The Pilgrim’s Progress, it is depicted as a bottomless pit.
Like the latter, the metaphor implies, the depths of Apollinaire’s despair are
impossible to plumb. As if this were not enough, the pit is completely pitch
dark and inhabited by ominous beings who like to torture the poet. A more
vivid description of his psychological anguish would be hard to imagine. That
the beings are associated with the future conveys Apollinaire’s momentary
pessimism concerning mankind’s destiny. Such an overwhelming despair is
rarely encountered elsewhere in his writings and reflects the overwhelming
circumstances in which he found himself. Fortunately, Apollinaire catches
himself at this point and hastens to reassure his fiancée. This is just a temporary
mood, he informs her, which will be gone by tomorrow.
Les autres jours je me rattache à toi

Les autres jours je me console de la solitude et de toutes
les horreurs
En imaginant ta beauté
Pour l’élever au-dessus de l’univers extasié
Puis je pense que je l’imagine en vain
Je ne la connais par aucun sens
Ni même par les mots
Et mon goût de la beauté est-il donc aussi vain
Existes-tu mon amour
Ou n’es-tu qu’une entité que j’ai créé sans le vouloir
Pour peupler la solitude
Es-tu une de ces déesses comme celles que les Grecs
avaient douées pour moins s’ennuyer
Je t’adore ô ma déesse exquise même si tu n’es que dans
mon imagination.
The War Poetry 141
What usually keeps Apollinaire from going crazy, he confides in the fourth
section, is the thought of Madeleine, which serves as a kind of magic talisman.
He likes to imagine her beauty in particular, which he raises above the ecstatic
universe like a priest elevating the Host. The parallel with devotional poetry
here is striking. Apollinaire actually seems to be worshipping his fiancée’s
imaginary beauty. His devotion becomes more comprehensible when one
consults the original manuscript. The third line, one discovers, originally read
“en imagining ta nudité.” Thus it is her naked beauty that he praises to the skies.
Since he has never seen his fiancée without her clothes on, he can only imagine
what she looks like. To assuage frustration and anxiety, Harrow comments,
Apollinaire often resorts to “mental self-pleasuring” in the war poetry.46
The remainder of the poem alternates between a meditation on the nature
of beauty and a meditation on the role of the imagination. Apollinaire himself
is finally unable to decide whether Madeleine’s beauty—and thus Madeleine
herself—is real or imaginary. Has he fallen in love with a real woman, he
asks himself in a moment of extraordinary lucidity, or with his own creation
like Pygmalion? For Philippe Renaud, the poem is basically undermined by
Apollinaire’s refusal to decide between the two explanations. Like the poet,
who is “un vide traversé de toutes sortes de fantômes,” Madeleine is “privée de
[sa] ‘substance.’”47 In the last analysis, they are empty constructions devoid of
any real significance. For Harrow, by contrast, the characters’ virtual existence
poses no problem. “Dreaming [which includes fantasizing and imagining] is a
transformative and profoundly re-humanizing process,” she explains, “a means
of overcoming the dualism of self and Other, art and its object, memory and
the real.”48 Rather than delusional, it is highly therapeutic. Apollinaire’s ultimate
strategy adopts the philosophy implicit in this analysis. Even if Madeleine proves
to be an imaginary Greek goddess, he concludes, he loves her just the same.
“Océan de terre”
This poem experienced several major transformations before it assumed its

final form.49 Originally entitled “Le poète,” it was initially a four line stanza
rhyming AABB. From there it evolved into a much longer work containing a
calligrammatic approximation of an octopus with eight tentacles. In Clémence

Jacquot’s opinion, the latter “peut être perçu, dans la mythologie personnelle
d’Apollinaire, comme une figure de la métamorphose plastique.”50 It illustrates
three principles in particular: absorption, synthesis, and energy. By the time
Apollinaire created a third version of “Océan de terre,” the octopus had
disappeared and the poem had acquired a dedication to Giorgio de Chirico.
Writing to Apollinaire toward the end of January 1914, the latter had asked
him to dedicate a poem to him in exchange for several art works he had
received.51 As several critics have pointed out, the central image in “Océan de
terre” recalls de Chirico’s eerie paintings. Whether Apollinaire was actually
inspired by his art, however, is impossible to say. Dated December 1915, the
final manuscript was published in Nord-Sud in February 1918.
Thanking Henri Martineau on July 19, 1913, for his recent review of Alcools,
as noted previously, Apollinaire confided: “chacun de mes poèmes est la
commémoration d’un événément de ma vie.”52 Indeed, one of his more impressive
qualities as a poet is the value he placed on originality. Apollinaire could have
repeated the statement five years later regarding the poems in Calligrammes,
each of which also commemorates a personal experience. The fact that the war
poetry was composed by an actual participant, describing his experiences day
after day, gives it a special cachet. Whereas the underground bunker represented
safety and security while the poet was in the artillery, S. I. Lockerbie observes,
now that he is in the infantry it is associated with dread and fear.53
A G. de Chirico
J’ai bâti une maison au milieu de l’Océan
Ses fenêtres sont les fleuves qui s’écoulent de mes yeux
Des poulpes grouillent partout où se tiennent les murailles
Entendez battre leur triple coeur et leur bec cogner aux vitres
Maison humide
Maison ardente
Saison rapide
Saison qui chante
Les avions pondent des oeufs
Attention on va jeter l’ancre
Attention à l’encre que l’on jette
Il serait bon que vous vinssiez du ciel
The War Poetry 143
Le chèvrefeuille du ciel grimpe

Les poulpes terrestres palpitent
Et puis nous sommes tant et tant à être nos propres fossoyeurs
Pâles poulpes des vagues crayeuses ô poulpes aux becs pâles
Autour de la maison il y a cet océan que tu connais
Et qui ne repose jamais.
One of the ways in which Apollinaire’s war poems reflect the tensions of
battle, Claude Debon remarks, is by deliberately interrupting their unified
tone.54 Passages in regular verse alternate with others in free verse and vice
versa. She cites “Océan de terre” as an example. Abrupt changes in the poem’s
rhythm, one might add, have a similar disruptive effect. The lines vary from a
mere four syllables to verses that are four times as long. Daniel Briolet divides
the poem into four sections.55 In contrast to the first four lines, which are in
free verse, the next four employ alternating feminine rhymes and are set off
from the rest of the text. The remainder, which are again in free verse, fall
into two groups: lines 9–14, which are roughly the same length, and the last
four lines, which end with a rime pauvre (connais/jamais). Lines 9–10 posed a
special problem for Apollinaire: “Les avions pondent des oeufs / Attention on
va jeter l’ancre.” Faced with a verbo-visual conflict, he chose to emphasize their
artistic properties and to downplay their poetic function. Although they were
originally aligned with the next four lines, he moved them to the center to give
the previous four lines a visual base.
Structured around a massive extended metaphor, “Océan de terre” is
filled with surprises from beginning to end. In particular, it contains a series
of hallucinatory images worthy of the future Surrealists. Indeed, writing to
André Breton on June 15, 1918, Louis Aragon included the poem among “ceux
que nous aimons.”56 The first hallucinatory image is provided by the work’s
oxymoronic title, which initially defies comprehension. For one thing, ocean
and land appear to be mutually exclusive. Two of the four primordial elements,
water and earth occupy separate domains. For another thing, the preposition
“de” is ambiguous. Is the ocean from earth or composed of earth? Neither
interpretation seems to make very much sense. Philippe Renaud was perhaps
the first critic to realize that the title is actually a metaphor. But a metaphor for
what? In his opinion, it was “une image des tranchées . . . infiniment ramifiées.”57
It has gradually become apparent, however, that the title refers to the entire
battlefield. Apollinaire makes this connection himself in several letters to Lou
and to Madeleine. Churned up by the incessant artillery bombardments, the
chalky soil resembles an ocean topped by furious white caps.
The first line of the poem introduces another hallucinatory image.
Somehow Apollinaire has managed to construct a house in the middle of
the oceanic battlefield. Since that is obviously impossible, it must represent
another metaphor. Entitled “Le Poète,” the earliest version of “Océan de terre”
contains the following partially crossed out lines: “Je suis comme [vaisseau
perdu sur l’océan] / un palais bâti dans l’océan.” Apollinaire clearly identifies
with the two forerunners of the “maison,” which, like them, is either under the
ocean or on top of it. Its location is still ambiguous at this point. For Michel
Décaudin, the house in the middle of the ocean is “l’image de la poésie dans
l’univers.”58 According to Debon, it is a “métaphore du livre et du poème
en train de se constituer.”59 The second line confirms the previous equation
between the house and the poet. Its windows, Apollinaire declares, are “mes
yeux.” To be sure, the body as a house (or temple) has been a common topos
since time immemorial. The same is true of eyes conceived as windows of
the soul. However, the image of rivers gushing from those eyes is much less
common. Apollinaire may either be profoundly saddened by something, or,
as several writers have suggested, he may be reacting to tear gas unleashed by
the enemy.
The third line manages to clear up a previous question but adds a further
complication. The fact that the poet’s house is surrounded by octopi indicates
that it is under the water. Briolet suggests that it could even be a submarine.60
Or, for that matter, it could also be a diving bell. The question that naturally
arises at this point is why swarms of cephalopods are attracted to the house.
Are they merely curious witnesses, or do they have a more sinister role to play?
Apollinaire is certainly correct: all octopi are equipped with a triple heart and a
parrot beak. Nevertheless, their grotesque appearance makes their presence far
from reassuring. And why on earth are they tapping on the windows? In Anne
Hyde Greet’s opinion, the octopi are a symbol of humanity.61 Like Décaudin,
however, who thinks they are menacing, Debon finds their presence terrifying.62
For that reason, both critics treat the creatures as harbingers of death.
The War Poetry 145
At the metaphoric level, the animal’s beak, bulbous head, and large eyes
resemble the gas masks used in the First World War. Whereas the American
mask had an elephant-like trunk, the French mask connected the filter and the
canister directly to the mouthpiece (Figure 5.2).
Figure 5.2 A French gas mask, Paris, Musée de l’Armée

Peter Read believes the the figure of the octopus was suggested to Apollinaire
by a view of himself wearing his own gas mask.63 Indeed, he suspects the poet
is still wearing the mask and that the whole scene is viewed through his thick,
muddy goggles—the “fenêtres” and “vitres” described elsewhere. At a further
remove, the “bec qui cogne à la vitre” may be a metaphor for the ratatatat of
a machine gun. Greet and Lockerbie suggest that the “octopi” surrounding
the poet are actually his fellow soldiers. This is why he calls them “poulpes
terrestres” in line 14. This realization reminds one in turn of the metaphorical
equation expressed by the title: océan = terre. Since the “ocean” is really the
expanse of ground separating Apollinaire and the Germans, the submerged
“house” must be his underground bunker. Faithful to the initial metaphor,
nonetheless, he depicts the bunker visually as an actual house. Situated in the
middle of the page (and the poem), it occupies the space formerly filled by a
calligrammatic octopus. The reason the house is “humide,” finally, is because
the season is winter. The reason it is “ardente” is because the soldiers are full
of passionate conviction. Since the winter sun is setting sooner, it seems to be
setting more rapidly. And since it is the Christmas season, music can be heard
everywhere, perhaps even in the bunker.
The next three lines, two of which form the house’s foundation, introduce a
little humor into the far from cheery situation: “Les avions pondent des oeufs
/ Attention on va jeter l’ancre / Attention à l’encre que l’on jette.” Greet and
Lockerbie suspect the flying airplanes were inspired by a relative of the octopi:
flying squid. According to Freud, in any event, humor marks the triumph of the
pleasure principle over adverse circumstances.64 The image of airplanes laying
eggs like so many chickens is not only fanciful, therefore, but also therapeutic. It
allows Apollinaire—and the reader—to distance himself from the actual event,
which involves bombing and killing lots of people. Humor permits the poet to
overcome the tragedy of the war, Gilberte Jacaret explains, and to free himself
from his anxiety.65 In short, it is a convenient way of decompressing. This
describes the two remaining lines as well, which are structured chiasmically
around the egregious pun: “ancre”/“encre.” As Jean-Claude Chevalier remarks
regarding Apollinaire, “jamais personne n’avait tant aimé les calembours.”66
Not only did he love to laugh, but, as Décaudin has shown, punning served
as an important compositional device. Not only are puns creative, Chevalier
The War Poetry 147
continues, but they constitute a “prise de possession de la nature.”67 Like the

egg-laying airplanes, they represent a momentary victory over unfortunate
circumstances. The third line alludes both to the octopi and to the poet. While
the former use clouds of ink to conceal themselves, Apollinaire uses ink to
write his poems. For this reason, he even identifies with the octopus in an
earlier poem entited “Le Poulpe.” Debon speculates that the line in “Océan de
terre” may also refer to literature’s precarious existence during the war.
The presence of the anchor is puzzling but consistent with the ocean
metaphor. One wonders where it comes from and who is throwing it out.
Perhaps Apollinaire is still referring to the bombers, which resemble ships
dropping their anchors. In any case, lines 12 and 13 continue to allude to the
sky: “Il serait bon que vous vinssiez du ciel / Le chèvrefeuille du ciel grimpe.”
Although the pronoun “vous” was introduced implicitly in the fourth line
(“Entendez battre …”), it is not clear whom (or what) it refers to. The implicit
“vous” could designate the reader, de Chirico, or even Apollinaire himself.
The explicit “vous” could refer to the ink, the anchor, or several other items.
Thus they do not seem to have the same destinataire. Briolet suspects that
“encre” in this context refers to poetic creativity and thus that the next line
invokes divine inspiration.68 The roots of the climbing honeysuckle, he adds,
are a “metaphorical transmutation” of the octopi’s tentacles. However, Pierre-
Marcel Adéma believes the image may refer to smoke spiraling upward from a
recent bombardment (reported by Greet and Lockerbie).
The last few lines confirm several previous deductions, introduce a chilling
thought, and provide a symmetrical conclusion. The “tu” in the penultimate
line presents one last puzzle. That this individual is familiar with the situation
described in “Océan de terre” quickly narrows down the choices. He is either
one of Apollinaire’s fellow soldiers or Apollinaire himself. At the end, the
reader is left with the horrific image of the poet and his comrades digging
their own graves. Briolet compares them to “des condamnés . . . contraints de
creuser leurs propres tombes.”69 The chiasmic construction in the next line
evokes their deathly pallor and reinforces the preceding image. According to
this interpretation, the tears shed by Apollinaire at the beginning of the poem
are actually bitter tears. However, it is important to recognize that he and his
men are soldiers rather than prisoners. Nobody is forcing them to dig trenches
at the Front. They are there voluntarily (or at least Apollinaire is), and the
trenches are supposed to protect them not serve as their grave. In retrospect,
the comparison of the soldiers to grave diggers illustrates yet another kind
of poetic humor: irony. The line is simply not meant to be taken seriously.
Apollinaire is laughing up his sleeve as he pretends to dig his own grave.
Notes
1 Norma Rinsler, “The War Poems of Apollinaire,” French Studies 15, no. 2 (1971):
169.
2 Els Jongeneel, “Les Combats d’Orphée: La poésie de guerre de Guillaume
Apollinaire,” RELIEF: Revue Electronique de Littérature Francaise 8, no. 2 (2014): 1.
3 Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire (Paris: Livre de Poche, 2002), 135.
4 Ibid., 133; S. I. Lockerbie, “Introduction,” in Guillaume Apollinaire
“Calligrammes,” Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1980), 17–18.
5 See Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008),
222–7.
6 www.militaryfactory.com/armor/detail.asp?armor_id=338
7 Claude Tournadre (Debon), “Notes sur le vocabulaire de la guerre dans
Calligrammes,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 450–5 (1976): 67.
8 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 227. Subsequent references to Debon
without a footnote will refer to this page.
9 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano: Schena and
Paris: Nizet, 1989), 425.
10 Mario Richter, “‘La Nuit d’avril 1915,’” in L’Ecriture en guerre de Guillaume
Apollinaire, ed. Claude Debon (Paris: Calliopées, 2006), 126.
11 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 441. Subsequent
12 Mario Richter, “‘La Nuit d’avril 1915,’” 126.
13 Ibid., 123.
14 Ibid., 128–9.
15 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 267–8.
17 Claude Tournadre, “Notes sur le vocabulaire de la guerre,” 72.
The War Poetry 149
18 Richter, “‘La Nuit d’avril 1915,’” 131.

19 See Ibid., 139.
20 Claude Tournadre, “Notes sur le vocabulaire de la guerre,” 72.
21 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 425–6. She also believes the eyes
are “les regards du poète, qui ne se distingue plus du paon cosmique.”
22 André Breton, “Guillaume Apollinaire,” L’Eventail, October 15, 1918. Repr. in
eds. Marguerite Bonnet et al., Les Pas perdus, Oeuvres complètes, Vol. 1 (Paris:
23 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, eds. Pierre Caizergues
and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 34–5.
24 Peter Read, “‘L’Adieu du cavalier’: théâtre, chansons et poésie de guerre,”
Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes Apollinariennes 6 (November 2009): 57.
25 Maciej Zurowski, “Apollinaire et la Pologne,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22
(1969): 38–42.
26 Read, “‘L’Adieu du cavalier,’” 59–62.
27 The Penguin Book of French Verse, Vol. 4, ed. and trans. Anthony Hartley
(Baltimore: Penguin, 1959), xli.
28 Breton, “Guillaume Apollinaire,” 205.
29 Marie-Jeanne Durry, “Ouverture,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22 (1969): 8.
30 Laurence Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre: experience combattante et activité
poétique (Paris: Garnier, 2010), 44–5.
32 Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre, 45.
33 Ibid.
34 Margaret Davies, “Le Médaillon toujours fermé,” Revue des Lettres Modernes
450–5 (1976): 96.
35 Claude Debon, Claude Debon commente “Calligrammes” de Guillaume
Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2004), 129; Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre,
45; Gilberte Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid dans “Le Poète assassiné” et
“Calligrammes” de G. Apollinaire (Paris: Publibook, 2012), 72.
36 www.psychologytoday.com
37 Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre, 46.
38 Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid, 15.
39 Lockerbie, “Introduction,” 16.
40 Claude Debon, “Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 163–4.
41 See Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 259–61.

42 Guillaume Apollinaire, Lettres à Madeleine: Tendre comme le souvenir, rev. ed.,
ed. Laurence Campa (Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 232. Subsequent references to this
volume will not be footnoted.
43 For a discussion of Empedocles and the concept of solid fire in Apollinaire’s
work, see Lionel Follet, “Encore Empédocle,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 677–81
(1983): 136–9.
45 See Michael Riffaterre, “La Métaphore filée dans la poésie surréaliste,” Langue
Française 3 (September 1969): 46–60.
47 Renaud, Lecture d’ Apollinaire, 417–18.
50 Clémence Jacquot, “‘Le Poulpe,’ une figure de la ‘plasticité’ apollinarienne?,”
Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes Apollinariennes 11 (June 2012): 39.
51 Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec les artistes 1903–1918, eds. Laurence
Campa and Peter Read (Paris: Gallimard, 2009), 787.
52 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres complètes, ed. Michel Décaudin, Vol. 4 (Paris:
Balland-Lecat, 1965–6), 768.
53 Lockerbie, “Introduction,” 18.
54 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 170.
55 Daniel Briolet, Lire la poésie du XXe siècle (Paris: Dunod, 1995), Chapter 2, 17–18.
56 Louis Aragon, Lettres à André Breton 1918–1931, ed. Lionel Follet (Paris:
58 Décaudin, Apollinaire, 139.
59 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 277. Subsequent references to Debon
without a footnote will refer to this page.
60 Briolet, Lire la poésie, 18.
61 Anne Hyde Greet, Apollinaire et le livre de peintre (Paris: Minard, 1977), 116.
62 Décaudin, Apollinaire, 139 and Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 168.
63 Peter Read, “Gaz toxiques et ‘larmes de rire’ dans Calligrammes,” Apollinaire au
feu (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005), 56 and “‘Océan de terre’ et la
guerre des gaz dans Calligrammes,” in “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire
ou la poésie moderne, ed. Samir Marzouki (Tunis: Université de Tunis, 2005), 38.
The War Poetry 151
64 Sigmund Freud, Collected Works, Vol. 21, trans. James Strachey (London:
Hogarth Press, 1962), 163.
65 Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid, 47.
66 Jean-Claude Chevalier, “La poésie d’Apollinaire et le calembour,” Europe 451–2
(November‒December 1966): 56.
67 Ibid., 69.
68 Briolet, Lire la poésie, 19.
69 Ibid., 16.
6
More War Poetry
“Il y a”
The first version of this composition was sent to Madeleine on September 30,
1915, shortly after she returned to Oran from a visit to France. However, it did
not appear in print until three years later, when Calligrammes was published.
Apollinaire had experimented with tabular form once before, in a similar work
sent to Lou on April 5, 1915. By the end of September, however, his affair with
Lou was long over, and he was engaged to be married to Madeleine. Unlike
the earlier composition, which was also entitled “Il y a,” the second poem had
no title initially. Its form, like that of its predecessor, is extraordinarily simple.
It is a list of things that Apollinaire either sees around him, remembers from
the past, or is forced to imagine. Except for the last two verses, the lines all
begin with the demonstrative statement “Il y a”—whence the work’s title. In
theory, the poet could have been influenced by a short poem from Rimbaud’s
Illuminations entitled “Enfance III,” which employs the same device. Although
Apollinaire’s composition is not totally without precedent, therefore, it is
strikingly original nevertheless. As Renée Riese Hubert notes, the poem is
situated entirely in the present or involves the present.1 Images of cruelty,
solitude, anxiety, and death inflicted by the war alternate with others intended
to conjure up Madeleine. While the first half includes a number of references
to Apollinaire’s fiancée, it focuses primarily on the First World War:
Il y a un vaisseau qui a emporté ma bien-aimée

Il y a dans le ciel six saucisses et la nuit venant on dirait
des asticots dont naîtraient les étoiles
Il y a un sous-marin ennemi qui en voulait à mon amour
Il y a mille petits sapins brisés par les éclats d’obus autour de moi
Il y a un fantassin qui passe aveuglé par les gaz asphyxiants

Il y a que nous avons tout haché dans les boyaux de Nietzsche
de Goethe et de Cologne
Il y a que je languis après une lettre qui tarde
Il y a dans mon porte-cartes plusieurs photos de mon amour
Il y a les prisonniers qui passent la mine inquiète
Il y a une batterie dont les servants s’agitent autour des pièces
Il y a le vaguemestre qui arrive au trot par le chemin de
l’Arbre isolé
Il y a dit-on un espion qui rôde par ici invisible comme l’horizon
dont il s’est indignement revêtu et avec quoi il se confond
Il y a dressé comme un lys le buste de mon amour
Il y a un capitaine qui attend avec anxiété les communications de
la T. S. F. sur l’Atlantique
Il y a à minuit des soldats qui scient des planches pour les cercueils.
Composed of simple, direct statements arranged in tabular form, the

poem basically resembles a series of snapshots. Each line forms a complete
sentence by itself and would end with a period if Apollinaire hadn’t abolished
punctuation. The vast majority begin with “il y a” followed by a direct object,
a relative pronoun, and a dependent clause. Coupled with the impersonal
construction at the beginning of each line, the dearth of first person subject
pronouns makes each line seem like a miniature still-life. In reality, although
the poem is disguised as a series of independent observations, it is not nearly
as impersonal or as objective as it seems at first glance. Thanks to a number of
other pronouns—direct, indirect, possessive, and disjunctive—Apollinaire’s
presence makes itself felt from beginning to end. And since the poem
contains only one conjunction (“car”), the lines are linked together in other
ways. In particular, as Gilberte Jacaret has shown, they tend to be arranged
thematically in groups of two and three.2 Although the lines are arranged
sequentially on the page, moreover, they are meant to be apprehended
simultaneously. In reality, each one eventually combines with all the others to
create a gigantic mental collage. Like “Les Fenêtres,” the composition records
what the poet sees, hears, thinks, imagines, and remembers. The portrait
that eventually emerges depicts a generous cross-section of his experience
at the Front.
More War Poetry 155
Despite the dangerous situation in which Apollinaire finds himself, repeating

“il y a” over and over provides a comforting mantra. As Timothy Mathews
notes, the poem contains “a series of affirmative statements about the world.”3
Continuing to assert the existence of so many things in the midst of widespread
destruction is ultimately reassuring. It is a way of fighting back, of resisting
warfare’s corrosive effects on the human psyche. The first few lines introduce the
two principal themes: love and war. Lines 1 and 3 evoke Madeleine’s departure
for Algeria on September 1, 1915, after a brief vacation spent in Provence. A
poem entitled “La Traversée” and several letters reveal that Apollinaire was
worried about her ship being torpedoed by German submarines. The scene
shifts in the second line from the Côte d’Azur to the war zone in Champagne.
According to Claude Debon, the six celestial sausages are stationary balloons,
which the Germans and the French both used as observation posts.4 Outlined
against the night sky, their white shapes resemble maggots, which in turn will
be transformed into stars. This image is curious to say the least. Judging from
a letter cited by Debon and dated October 11, 1915, Apollinaire is referring
to the process of metamorphosis. Unfortunately, he confuses maggots, which
develop into filthy flies, with caterpillars, which become beautiful butterflies.
Without a doubt, the latter make a much more suitable metaphor for the stars.
Following Apollinaire’s remarks about Madeleine and submarines, the next
three lines return to the war in Champagne. Instead of stars and butterflies this
time, the reader is exposed to the horrors of combat. That so many trees have
been devastated by artillery bursts illustrates why the soldiers rarely leave their
trenches. It is simply too dangerous to be out in the open. The infantryman
who staggers by blinded by poison gas is a reminder that the First World War
witnessed the invention not only of trench warfare but also of gas warfare.5 The
latter was invented to overcome the unexpected stalemate posed by the former.
Both sides used tear gas, mustard gas, phosgene gas, and chlorine gas as the war
progressed. Like soldiers today, Apollinaire and his comrades invented names
for topographical features around them. Since the three trenches opposite
belonged to the Germans, they baptized them “Nietzsche,” “Goethe,” and
“Cologne.” Ironically, these are all people and places that Apollinaire greatly
esteemed. One hundred years later, however, it is hard to summon up much
enthusiasm for his claim that the occupiers were cut to pieces by French fire.
Following two lines concerned with Madeleine, whose letters Apollinaire

cherished and whose picture he carried with him, the next four portray life
at the front at a moment when everything happens to be quiet. As German
POWs pass by and artillerymen ready their cannons, the quartermaster arrives
on horseback from Lone Pine with the unit’s mail.6 Rumor has it, Apollinaire
declares in a humorous aside, that an invisible spy has infiltrated the French
ranks. The fact that he is wrapped in the invisible horizon makes it difficult to see
him or to tell them apart. The key to untangling this double enigma depends on
two pieces of information. First, like all French soldiers, the anonymous spy is
wearing a pale blue uniform—not just any blue, furthermore, but bleu horizon.
Second, as Apollinaire complains in “Chant de l’horizon en Champagne” and
elsewhere, the chalky soil makes it impossible to discern the horizon. As a result,
both the spy and the horizon are effectively invisible—like the poet himself. The
remaining three lines evoke Madeleine once more, a captain waiting to receive
a wireless telegram, and soldiers making coffins. At this point, Apollinaire
expands his circle of references to include the whole world:
Il y a des femmes qui demandent du maïs à grands cris devant

un Christ sanglant à Mexico
Il y a le Gulf Stream qui est si tiède et si bienfaisant
Il y a un cimetière plein de croix à 5 kilomètres
Il y a des croix partout de-ci de-là
Il y a des figues de Barbarie sur ces cactus en Algérie
Il y a les longues mains souples de mon amour
Il y a un encrier que j’avais fait dans une fusée de 15 centimètres
et qu’on n’a pas laissé partir
Il y a ma selle exposée à la pluie
Il y a les fleuves qui ne remontent pas leurs cours
Il y a l’amour qui m’entraîne avec douceur
Il y avait un prisonnier boche qui portait sa mitrailleuse sur son dos
Il y a des hommes dans le monde qui n’ont jamais eté à la guerre
Il y a des Hindous qui regardent avec étonnement les compagnes
occidentales
Ils pensent avec mélancolie à ceux dont ils se demandent
s’ils les reverront
Car on a poussé très loin durant cette guerre l’art de l’invisibilité.
More War Poetry 157
The second half of “Il y a” presents a kaleidoscopic view of contemporary

events all over the world. While the entire poem constitutes “[un] montage
rapide d’images oniriques et surprenantes,” to quote Anna Boschetti,
this describes the first six lines in particular, which read like a simultanist
manifesto.7 Apollinaire was well informed about events in Mexico City thanks
to his brother Albert, who was employed by a French bank there. In 1915,
a severe frost and massive crop failure led to an alarming shortage of corn,
beans, rice, and other staples. As a result, there was a flurry of riots during
the Spring and Summer in which many people died. “Fatal Food Riots in
Mexico City,” the New York Times trumpeted on June 8th, “Children, carried
by starving mothers, crushed to death before corn depots.” As Apollinaire
implies in the poem, the rioters were mostly women—women who had
families they needed to feed. Subsequent lines evoke the Gulf Stream, which
transports warm water up America’s East Coast and over to Europe, an
anonymous cemetery filled with crosses. That the latter image is repeated
in the following line underlines a disturbing poetic trend. Beginning with
the invisible spy, Debon points out, the previous affirmation of existence “se
voit progressivement mise en cause par l’évocation indirecte de la mort et de
l’invisibliité, qui la nient.” Unfortunately, the positive effect of the comforting
mantra is being slowly undermined.
Casting about for images to add to his list, Apollinaire chooses a prickly
pear cactus in Algeria, which, paradoxically, reminds him of Madeleine’s
long supple hands. The link between the two lines is apparently based
on incongruity rather than similarity. Closer to hand, the poet spies an
inkwell, which he crafted from an unused flare, and also his saddle, which
he shouldn’t have left out in the rain. In addition to providing inspiration
for his poems, the war supplies him with some of the materials he needs to
write them. Like a river flowing down a gentle slope, Apollinaire muses, his
love for Madeleine is completely irreversible. It simply carries him along
with its gentle flow. Believe it or not, he continues, there are men who have
never gone to war—unlike the German prisoner he saw who used to be a
machine gunner. Interestingly, the Indian soldiers at the Front do not seem
to be any happier than the enemy prisoners. Not only are they astonished at
the ferocity of the war, but they also fear they will never see their friends and
relatives again. In some respects they resemble the Senegalese soldier in “Les
Soupirs du servant de Dakar,” who misses his home terribly and has no idea
where he is. Apollinaire seems to have been under the impression that, like
many Africans, the Indians were inexperienced conscripts. In reality, they
were not only professional soldiers—members of the Indian Army—but also
volunteers. Approximately 1.3 million Indians served in the First World War,
and over 74,000 lost their lives.
As the reality of the war begins to seep in and the sound of the comforting
mantra grows fainter and fainter, Apollinaire’s faith in existence, and thus
in humanity, decreases little by little too. The accumulation of impersonal
pronouns finally threatens to sabotage his original project. “Il y a” runs
the risk of becoming “Il n’y a pas.” Presence is in danger of succumbing to
absence, visibility to invisibility, and life to death. “Le monde se réduit à
un présent ligoté,” Hubert declares, “où le poète tâche vainement d’affirmer
son existence en ayant recours à l’humour noir.”8 Debon attributes a similar
role to the poet’s “humour macabre.” Hoping to combat the pernicious
development described above, Apollinaire resorts to an additional strategy
employing irony, wordplay, and understatement. To begin with, “l’art de
l’invisibilite” can be interpreted in several different ways. Since trench
warfare was the norm during the First World War, the participants were
actually hidden from each other much of the time. However, as Debon notes,
the phrase itself refers to techniques associated with camouflage, whose goal
is to make someone completely invisible. Apollinaire goes one step further by
associating the phrase with death, which, he jokes, makes everybody invisible
sooner or later. Not surprisingly since the Indians are involved in a war, they
risk being killed. What makes the conclusion so interesting is that death is
never mentioned by name. “Invisibilité” is merely an implicit metaphor and a
fairly opaque one at that. The reader has to construct a four-term homology
to arrive at the correct interpretation: seeing/not seeing = alive/dead or
alternatively: seeing/alive = not seeing/dead. Whether Apollinaire manages
to affirm his existence by employing this defensive strategy is hard to say.
For the moment, at least, existential disaster has been averted thanks to his
outrageous humor.
More War Poetry 159
“Le Chant d’amour”
Sent to Madeleine on December 7, 1915, the original manuscript was one

of a series of “poèmes secrets” intended for her eyes only. Since she and
Apollinaire were engaged to be married, he spoke openly of the conjugal
delights that awaited them and shared his erotic fantasies. Preparing the poem
for publication two years later, however, he felt compelled to suppress these
private allusions. As a result, when “Le Chant d’amour” appeared in Nord-Sud
in December 1917, it had become a completely different poem.9
Voici de quoi est fait le chant symphonique de l’amour
Il y a le chant de l’amour de jadis
Le bruit des baisers éperdus des amants illustres
Les cris d’amour des mortelles violées par les dieux
Les virilités des héros fabuleux érigées comme
des pièces contre avions
Le hurlement précieux de Jason
Le chant mortel du cygne
Et l’hymne victorieux que les premiers rayons du soleil
ont fait chanter à Memnon l’immobile
Il y a le cri des Sabines au moment de l’enlèvement
Il y a aussi les cris d’amour des félins dans les jongles
La rumeur sourde des sèves montant dans les plantes
tropicales
Le tonnerre des artilleries qui accomplissent le terrible
amour des peuples
Les vagues de la mer où naît la vie et la beauté
Il y a là le chant de tout l’amour du monde.
In theory, this unassuming little poem of fourteen lines represents a free verse
sonnet. There is no rhyme scheme whatsoever, and the lines vary in length from six
to twenty-five syllables. Unfortunately, since rhyme and/or meter are essentially
what characterizes the sonnet, without them the concept simply evaporates. “Le
Chant d’amour” is simply a short free verse poem. That it concludes with an
alexandrine is the only trace of the sonnet that might have been. If any feature
cries out for recognition, it is the composition’s idiosyncratic structure, which

has not been seen in French poetry since François Villon. Like “Il y a,” the
poem resembles a shopping list more than a conventional poem. As Michel
Décaudin remarks, both works “représentent une nouvelle avancée vers la
simplification du langage poétique.”10 Whereas “Il y a” presents a world-wide
tranche de vie, “Le Chant d’amour” lists a series of sounds associated with love,
which are enumerated one by one. The examples in the first nine lines are
essentially mythological. Those in the remaining lines are taken from nature,
the war, and mythology again. Since these sounds are all meant to be heard at
the same time, the poem is basically a simultanist composition.
As the reader soon discovers, the poem’s title is somewhat misleading.
The work is not an ordinary love song, in which a singer expresses his love
for his beloved, but rather a symphonic composition—an elaborate musical
arrangement for a full orchestra. As such, it constitutes an extended metaphor.
The individuals who appear in the poem are portrayed as musicians and
the sounds they produce as music. Although Apollinaire claims his initial
examples are taken from long ago, only one can truly be called historical: “les
amants illustres.” One thinks immediately of Dante and Beatrice or Petrarch
and Laura. The remaining examples are borrowed from myth and legend. The
next line is unexpected to say the least. While one can easily recall women in
Classical mythology who were raped by a god, that they responded with “cris
d’amour” is surprising. The implication seems to be that the gods were such
great lovers that the women actually enjoyed the experience. A quick survey
reveals that this is a common sexual fantasy of women as well as men. By line 4,
Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie assert inexplicably, “the reader becomes
aware that Apollinaire’s hymn to love is, primarily, a hymn to the heroism he
sees around him.”11 On the contrary, as the reader will discover, the role of
the First World War in this poem is practically insignificant. The fifth line is
a good example. In his haste to revise the original manuscript, Apollinaire
overlooked the fact that it contains no sounds at all. Furthermore, although
several Classical gods have phallic identities, such as Dionysos and Priapus,
one is hard pressed to think of a Classical hero who fits that description.
That Jason, the leader of the Argonauts, suddenly begins to howl in
line 6 has two possible (or simultaneous) explanations. When, after numerous
More War Poetry 161
adventures, he finally manages to obtain the Golden Fleece, he lets out

howls of exultation. Now he can return to Iolcus, give the Fleece to his uncle
Pelias who has usurped the throne, and take his rightful place as king. The
expression “hurlement précieux” strikes one as bizarre. Since it is the Fleece
that is precious rather than Jason’s howls, “précieux” seems to be a displaced
modifier. The other explanation for his howling is that it represents an
unexpurgated remnant of the earlier poem. Since “toison” in Apollinaire’s
erotic vocabulary refers to female pubic hair, when Jason finally obtains the
Fleece his quest ends with a howling orgasm. The reference to the swan’s song
in the next line has a similar explanation. According to the earliest manuscript,
Zeus, disguised as a swan, is impregnating Leda. At the same time, because
the song is “mortel,” it evokes the legend of the dying swan, which sings its
beautiful song only once—as it slowly expires. Greet and Lockerbie believe the
swan sings his dying song because he is impregnating Leda. The reference to
the statue of Memnon in line 8 is actually to two Egyptian statues which the
Greeks (mistakenly) thought represented a hero of the Trojan War. Following
an earthquake in 27 BC, one of the pair began to emit a strange singing sound
at dawn, caused by changes in temperature and humidity. Since Memnon was
a mighty warrior—nearly the equal of Achilles—Apollinaire portrays the song
as an “hymne victorieux.” Concluding the initial list, the legendary Sabine
women kick and scream as they are carried off to become early Roman wives.
Since the Sabine king refused to let them marry outside their community, the
Roman men simply decided to abduct them.
At this point, for no apparent reason, Apollinaire switches from recounting
past incidents to describing contemporary events. Although Gilberte Jacaret
argues that the two halves are opposed to each other, their lengths are too
dissimilar, and the transition between them is seamless.12 The “cris d’amour” of
the big cats mating in the tropical jungle parallel those of the women violated
earlier by the Classical gods. Contrasting with the silent sound of sap rising in
the stems of tropical plants, the thundering artillery is positively deafening.
That the cannons are accomplishing the terrible love of warring peoples is a
terrible thought in itself. Ultimately, as Jacaret (and Freud) remind us, “guerre
et amour ont la même origine, la même force.”13 In this and other poems, S. I.
Lockerbie adds, the erotic drive extends beyond Apollinaire himself and is
portrayed as “a fundamental life force which is larger than hate and unites the
combating nations.”14 Proof that Lockerbie is correct may be found in lines 12
and 13, which illustrate his remarks perfectly. Throughout the war poetry,
cannons are potent phallic symbols as well as weapons of war. Critics who
dismiss line 5 as evidence of Apollinaire’s phallic narcisism are missing the
whole point. There is nothing gratuitous about the comparison of cannons
to “les virilités des héros fabuleux” (or vice versa). The symbolic cannons
represent one half of the universal sexual equation: the masculine principle.
The other half is to be found in the penultimate line, which evokes the birth
of Venus (or Aphrodite), the goddess of beauty and love. It is not the goddess
herself who interests Apollinaire so much as the sea from which she springs.
Portrayed as the source of all life, the latter represents the universal feminine
principle. That the waves are juxtaposed with cannons in the preceding line
is no accident. Representing “tout l’amour du monde,” the poem symbolically
re-enacts the original cosmic coupling.
“Chevaux de frise”
Apollinaire sent this passionate love poem to Madeleine on November 18,

1915—two days before he actually joined the infantry. Together with twelve
other war poems by him, it was published in La Grande Revue in November
1917. One wonders how many of his readers actually understood the work’s
title, which, even fifty years later, famously eluded Roger Shattuck.15 While
chevaux de frise are certainly not Friesland horses, English translations
are notoriously hard to come by. The best Google Translator can do is
“entanglements,” which is too broad. Every other dictionary translates (or
fails to translate) the term as “chevaux-de-frise.” Invented by the Dutch in
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the latter consisted of a row of
X-shaped obstacles equipped with sharp wooden spikes and/or barbed wire
designed to repel cavalry. Apparently called “knife-rests” by the British, they
were frequently used in the First World War to plug gaps in the barbed wire.
With this in mind, one wonders if the poem’s jagged right edge represents
spikes waiting to impale the enemy.
More War Poetry 163
Be that as it may, the text’s spiky aspect belies the ease with which the
reader is able to follow its development. Despite its atypical appearance and
frequent changes in line length, the poem flows effortlessly. Following the
first eight lines, which set the stage for the rest of the poem, there are no
stanza breaks to impede the flow. “Under the apparent ease,” Margaret Davies
remarks, “it is a triumph of suave versification uniting a variety of metre in
its rich music.”16 Although the poem is written in free verse, and hence does
not rhyme, it utilizes numerous rhetorical devices to achieve “a sweep that
matches the ecstatic nature of [its chosen] theme.” The preceding observation
is by Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, who list accumulation, repetition,
deft changes in rhythm, internal echoes, and innumerable assonantal
variations among these devices.17 Several commentators have also detected
the influence of biblical texts, especially the Psalms. As Davies declares, “It is
no accident that [Apollinaire] evokes le Paraclet, nor that he makes mention
of lilies and ‘cantiques.’”18 Unexpectedly, the critics are deeply divided as to the
poem’s merit. In Davies’ opinion, it is not only a lyrical tour de force but also
“the most perfect of [Apollinaire’s] love poems to Madeleine.”19 By contrast,
Claude Debon and Philippe Renaud complain that its style is too artificial, too
unconvincing.20 To the former, the poem resembles a homework assignment.
To the latter, it resembles a rhetorical exercise. In addition, Renaud dislikes the
fact that the composition is so intensely personal. It reveals more of the poet’s
psychology, he confides, than he really cares to know. To which Davies would
presumably reply that lyric poetry is supposed to be personal. That’s why the
poet is so often the one who is speaking.
According to Didier Alexandre, the compositions in Alcools all begin in one
of three ways: with a physical observation, a comment directed at someone
else, or a first person subject pronoun.21 With a few prominent exceptions,
such as “Lundi rue Christine” and “Venu de Dieuze,” this describes the poems
in Calligrammes as well. “Chevaux de frise” begins with a physical observation:
Pendant le blanc et nocturne novembre

Alors que les arbres déchiquetés par l’artillerie
Vieillisaient encore sous la neige
Et semblaient à peine des chevaux de frise
Entourés de vagues de fils de fer
Mon coeur renaissait comme un arbre au printemps

Un arbre fuitier sur lequel s’épanouissent
Les fleurs de l’amour.
The initial scene is thoroughly depressing. Although it is only November, the

night is freezing, and everything is buried under the snow. Severely maimed
by the enemy’s artillery fire, the poor trees are wasting away and may not last
until Spring. Indeed, since Apollinaire compares them to chevaux de frise,
which are only 4 or 5 feet high, they have probably been decapitated. At this
point something miraculous takes place. Motivated by his love for Madeleine,
Apollinaire experiences a renaissance in his heart as if the dying trees were
suddenly transformed into flowering fruit trees. “With a beautifully smooth
movement,” Shattuck observes, “[the opening scene] is transformed into a
magical panorama of an entirely different nature.”22 This is the first of several
metamorphoses that counteract the winter and impel the poem forward. As
“Le Chant d’amour” illustrates repeatedly, love is a powerful motive force. The
next section develops this theme in greater detail:

Tandis que chantaient épouvantablement les obus
Et que les fleurs mortes de la terre exhalaient
Leurs mortelles odeurs
Moi je décrivais tous les jours mon amour à Madeleine
La neige met de pâles fleurs sur les arbres
Et toisonne d’hermine les chevaux de frise
Que l’on voit partout
Abandonnés et sinistres
Chevaux muets
Non chevaux barbes mais barbelés
Et je les anime tout soudain
En troupeau de jolis chevaux pies
Qui vont vers toi comme de blanches vagues
Sur la Méditerranée
Et t’apportent mon amour.
Resuming the poem once more, Apollinaire evokes the same depressing
November with the same artillery shells howling all around him. This time
More War Poetry 165
the dying trees are replaced by dead flowers whose earthy smell contrasts
markedly with the future odor of blossoming fruit trees. Briefly cheered by the
thought of his daily letters to Madeleine, the poet describes the winter scene
in more positive terms. For a moment, the snow falling on the trees resembles
delicate flower petals and that covering the barbed wire obstacles resembles
a luxurious ermine coat. Looking around, however, the poet perceives other
chevaux de frise that make a much less favorable impression. Standing in
the snow, he jokes, these mute “horses” resemble real horses—not Barbary
horses but barbed horses. Immediately, a second metamorphosis takes
place. Somehow Apollinaire transforms the group of barbed wire obstacles
into a herd of piebald horses that gallop off to Algeria to present Madeleine
with his love. As Greet and Lockerbie note, there is a suggestion of a third
metamorphosis that transforms the horses into seahorses, so they can cross
the Mediterranean “comme de blanches vagues.” Unfortunately, what may
strike some readers as a charming flight of fancy may seem totally gratuitous
to others. Renaud accuses Apollinaire of acting like a professional magician
instead of like a poet.23 The next section is addressed entirely to Madeleine in
her role as Apollinaire’s muse:
Roselys ô panthère ô colombes étoile bleue

O Madeleine
Je t’aime avec délices
Si je songe à tes yeux je songe aux sources fraîches
Si je pense à ta bouche les roses m’apparaissent
Si je songe à tes seins le Paraclet descend
O double colombe de ta poitrine
Et vient délier ma langue de poéte
Pour te redire
Je t’aime
Ton visage est un bouquet de fleurs
Aujourd’hui je te vois non Panthère
Mais Toutefleur
Et je te respire ô ma Toutefleur
Tous les lys montent en toi comme des cantiques d’amour
et d’allégresse
Et ces chants qui s’envolent vers toi
M’emportent à ton côté

Dans ton bel Orient où les lys
Se changent en palmiers qui de leurs belles mains
Me font signe de venir.
This extended flight of lyricism is virtually unprecedented. In the space

of only twenty lines, Apollinaire’s love for Madeleine bursts its bounds and
cascades down the page like a lyrical waterfall. “Now that he is in a state of
almost religious fervour and supplication,” Davies remarks, “he falls into the
style of the Psalms.”24 Unfortunately, this statement is seriously misleading. For
one thing, there is nothing spiritual about Apollinaire’s lyrical outburst. He is
filled not with religious fervor but with ardent passion. The section begins and
concludes with a statement of his great love for Madeleine. For another thing,
Apollinaire has come not as a supplicant, to beg a favor from his fiancée, but
simply to praise her inspirational beauty. The section itself was not inspired by
sacred hymns, finally, but by a text that celebrates the joy of earthly love: “The
Song of Songs” (also known as “The Song of Solomon”). Astonishingly, neither
reference is listed in Robert Couffignal’s comprehensive catalogue of biblical
references in Apollinaire’s works.25
Surrounded by flowers and symbolic animals, as befits her great beauty,
Madeleine sits quietly as Apollinaire praises her physical attributes. In contrast
to the biblical author, who creates an extensive catalogue of his bride’s assets,
he focuses primarily on her head and torso. Like Solomon, who tells his bride
“thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks,” Apollinaire announces that Madeleine’s
eyes remind him of cool springs. Like the king of Israel, who compares his
bride’s lips to “a thread of scarlet,” he compares his fiancée’s lips to a bouquet
of roses. Both men praise their beloved’s breasts, finally, which resemble
twin fawns in the first instance and twin doves in the second. The holy spirit
that inspires Apollinaire to write poetry, he confides, is not the Paraclete but
rather that embodied by Madeleine’s lovely breasts. Since her face resembles
a bouquet of flowers, he continues, he will call her “Toutefleur” instead of
“Panthère.” As Debon notes, her new name is essentially the equivalent of her
former name since “panthère” combines pan (tout) with anthos (fleur). Since
lilies in particular are a symbol of purity (and virginity), “The Song of Songs”
refers to them frequently. For example, Solomon’s bride declares in one place:
More War Poetry 167
“I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys.” For her part, Madeleine
also appears to identify with lilies, whose spirit rises within her like a joyful
love song. Other songs destined for his fiancée carry Apollinaire off to the
Orient—by which he means Algeria—where another transformation occurs.
The lilies suddenly become beckoning palm trees.
Following this development, a star shell bursts high over head signaling
Apollinaire’s return to the front lines in Champagne. This is the final
metamorphosis in the poem. The lilies and palm trees are replaced by a
nocturnal flower that showers the poet with stars. Although the latter rain
down like tears, there is nothing sad about them. They are joyful tears that
express his overwhelming love for Madeleine. Nothing seems to have changed
since the beginning of the poem, and yet everything has changed. “Grâce à un
rêve,” Renée Riese Hubert explains, “le réel s’anime dans le feu de la guerre et de
l’amour.”26 By the time one reaches the poem’s conclusion, one thing has become
clear. The “dispute” between Davies and Shattuck on the one hand and Debon
and Renaud on the other has ceased to make much sense. The final section
is both a perfect love song, as the first two critics maintain, and a rhetorical
exercise as the second two insist. By the end of the poem, these qualities have
ceased to be opposed to each other and have become complementary. The
reason the preceding lines seem artificial, one comes to realize, is because they
have incorporated some of the mannerisms of “The Song of Songs,”—which,
nevertheless, is widely acknowledged to be a masterpiece. Combining the
biblical text with Apollinaire’s text, “Chevaux de frise” is itself a masterpiece—a
hybrid masterpiece—with its own unique characteristics. “The attainment of
a truly great poet lies not in how he illustrates the world,” Shattuck concludes,
“but how he transforms it to create a new reality.”27
“Tristesse d’une étoile”
Although “Tristesse d’une étoile” is not, strictly speaking, a war poem, it

is included here because it records Apollinaire’s state of mind after being
wounded on March 17, 1916. As he was quietly reading the Mercure de
France in the late afternoon, a piece of shrapnel pierced his right temple. The
fact that he was wearing his helmet, as instructed, may have saved his life.
Evacuated to the rear, Apollinaire was hospitalized in Paris for several months
while he regained his health. Gradually resuming his literary activities during
the Summer, he composed “Tristesse d’une étoile” for a poetry reading on
November 19th. Since he was not feeling well when the day came, however,
he asked Jean Cocteau to read it for him. Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie
wonder if the poem is somehow related to Victor Hugo’s “Tristesse d’Olympio,”
but apart from their titles they have virtually nothing in common.28 Whereas
the latter is a ponderous composition filled with memories of the past, the
former is lively and situated firmly in the present. While “de” has a possessive
function in the first title, it represents a causal connection in the second title.
Unlike Olympio, who is overcome with sadness, the star is not sad itself but
rather the source of Apollinaire’s sadness. That it is also a metaphor for the
poet’s wound quickly becomes apparent:
Une belle Minerve est l’enfant de ma tête

Une étoile de sang me couronne à jamais
La raison est au fond et le ciel est au faîte
Du chef où dès longtemps Déesse tu t’armais
Divided into three quatrains, this intriguing poem employs an alternating rhyme
scheme and is composed entirely of alexandrines. Except for a single rime riche
in the third stanza, all the rhymes are suffisantes. Not surprisingly, Apollinaire
immediately associated his gory head wound with the birth of Minerva (or
Athena), who sprang forth both fully developed and fully armed from the head
of Jupiter (or Zeus). The mythological narrative was far too compelling, the
poetic possibilities far too attractive, to escape his notice. In addition to being the
goddess of wisdom, Minerva was also the goddess of the arts and the goddess
of war—both areas that keenly interested the poet. The fact that she was a virgin
goddess had interesting possibilities as well. For better or for worse, the first line
can be read in at least three different ways. At the purely metaphorical level, it
represents a description of Apollinaire’s head wound. At the symbolic level, there
are two possibilities, both revolving about the poet’s flexible concept of raison.
Personified by Minerva, raison includes such notions as wisdom, good
sense, logic, the ability to reason, reason itself, intelligence, intelligent behavior,
More War Poetry 169
and mature judgment. Its precise meaning depends on the context in which it
occurs. On the one hand, the emergence of Minerva from Apollinaire’s head
may be read as an escape or a desertion. In which case the poet would be
left without the qualities enumerated above. On the other hand, since he calls
Minerva “l’enfant de ma tête,” the episode may also be read as a kind of birth, as
a re-emergence of the qualities associated with raison. In which case, Minerva
would not abandon him but remain at his side as a tutelary deity. Possibly
inspired by the third line, whose meaning is obscure, Greet and Lockerbie opt
for the second choice. They claim that Apollinaire will regain his lost reason—
if it is truly lost—in “La Jolie Rousse.” Upon closer examination, however, the
third scenario appears to be more convincing. As Madeleine Boisson notes,
Minerva almost certainly represents Jacqueline Kolb, whom Apollinaire
encountered during the summer and whom he would eventually marry.29
Since Jacqueline personifies raison in “La Jolie Rousse,” which celebrates her
entry into the poet’s life (see Chapter 7), there is good reason to think that she
and Minerva are identical. In fact, therefore, Apollinaire did not lose his reason
when Minerva was born. She and Jacqueline have been by his side ever since.
Superimposing the image of a bloody star on that of a crown, the second
line is perhaps more difficult to visualize. Boisson suggests that Apollinaire
chose to compare his wound to a star because it can be seen as a hole in the
celestial vault.30 At the same time, as Greet and Lockerbie point out, the second
image recalls Christ and his crown of thorns. As such, it introduces the theme
of suffering, which continues throughout the remainder of the poem:
C’est pourquoi de mes maux ce n’était pas le pire
Ce trou presque mortel et qui s’est étoilé
Mais le secret malheur qui nourrit mon délire
Est bien plus grand qu’aucune âme ait jamais celé.
Et je porte avec moi cette ardente souffrance
Comme le ver luisant tient son corps enflammé
Comme au coeur du soldat il palpite la France
Et comme au coeur du lys le pollen parfumé.
As Greet and Lockerbie remark, the second stanza seems to have been directly
inspired by a line from Baudelaire’s “La Vie antérieure.” However, neither poet
identifies the source of the suffering that secretly pursues him or, as far as one
can tell, attempts to combat that suffering. Nor do the three similes in the
third stanza shed any light on Apollinaire’s “ardente souffrance,” whose initial
play on words (both “ardent” and “burning”) is echoed in the next line by
his “corps enflammé”—both “flaming” and “inflamed.” Greet and Lockerbie
suspect the first expression refers to the poet’s courage under fire. Whereas
the situation of the glowworm closely parallels Apollinaire’s own situation, the
next two lines neglect to continue the parallel constructions, and the similes
grow progressively weaker. Although the soldier’s heart is presumably burning
with patriotism, he does not exhibit any sign of suffering. And the pollen in the
lily’s heart is neither burning nor suffering; it simply has a pleasant smell. The
use of the impersonal “il,” finally, weakens the similes still further. Reviewing
the whole stanza’s imagery, Greet and Lockerbie believe it evokes “the various
sides to love.”
Since Apollinaire confides that the pain makes him delirious, he could
possibly be suffering from a physical ailment. However, the fact that the pain
is even worse than that caused by his head wound, makes this interpretation
unlikely. In the absence of a physical explanation, therefore, one begins to
suspect that the poet’s anguish is psychological. Indeed, theories abound as
to what is troubling him. Michel Décaudin suggests Apollinaire is suffering
from a lifelong identity crisis.31 Boisson provides a two-pronged explanation:
that he suffers from insecurity about his birth date and that he is afraid of
going mad like Ludwig II of Bavaria.32 Margaret Davies believes Apollinaire
is afraid his poetry will be grievously affected by his head wound.33 Greet and
Lockerbie offer several choices. According to them, his “ardente souffrance”
may refer to misadventures in love, the death of friends, overwhelming
fatigue, or his engagement to Madeleine. Since “Tristesse d’une étoile” was
composed following Apollinaire’s horrendous experience in the war, the
final three possibilities are the most likely. While he was certainly heavily
fatigued and had also lost some friends in the war, the most traumatic
experience must have been breaking with Madeleine, who had offered him
daily support for nearly two years and who looked forward to marrying him.
The only reason he was able to withstand life at the front at all was because
he had her love to sustain him. Although the final break was doubtless a
terrible blow for her, Scott Bates remarks, it must have caused Apollinaire
More War Poetry 171
great sorrow as well.34 Racked with guilt at having shamefully deceived an

innocent young girl, he would be haunted by that “secret malheur” for the
rest of his life.
Notes
1 Renée Riese Hubert, “L’Elan vers l’actuel dans la poésie d’Apollinaire et de

Breton,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 183–8 (1968): 197.
2 Gilberte Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid dans “Le Poète assassiné” et
“Calligrammes” de G. Apollinaire (Paris: Publibook, n.d.), 141–5.
University of Manchester Press, 1987), 217.
Subsequent references to this poem will be to the same page.
5 See Peter Read, “Gaz toxiques et ‘larmes de rire’ dans Calligrammes,” in
Apollinaire au feu (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005), 49–58.
6 For a map of the area with the place names in the poem, see ibid.
7 Anna Boschetti, La poésie partout: Apollinaire, homme-époque (1898–1918)
(Paris: Seuil, 2001), 200.
8 Hubert, “L’Elan vers l’actuel,” 198.
11 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes”
12 Gilberte Jacaret, La Dialectique de l’ironie et du lyrisme dans “Alcools” et
“Calligrammes” (Paris: Nizet, 1984), 59–62.
13 Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid, 176–7.
14 S. I. Lockerbie, “Introduction,” in Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 17.
15 Roger Shattuck, trans. and ed. Selected Writings of Guillaume Apollinaire (New
York: New Directions, 1971), 188–91.
16 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martins Press, 1964), 275.
17 Greet and Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 492. Subsequent
references to this poem will not be footnoted but will be to pp. 492–3.
19 Ibid.
20 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 343; Philippe Renaud, Lecture
d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 423.
21 Didier Alexandre, Guillaume Apollinaire “Alcools” (Paris: Presses Universitaires
de France, 1994), 82–5.
22 Shattuck, Selected Writings, 32.
25 Robert Couffignal, L’Inspiration biblique dans l’oeuvre de Guillaume Apollinaire
(Paris: Minard, 1966).
26 Hubert, “L’Elan vers l’actuel,” 198.
27 Shattuck, Selected Writings, 31.
references to this poem will be to pp. 496–8.
29 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano: Schena
and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 287. Laurence Campa, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris:
31 Décaudin, Apollinaire, 143.
32 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 287–8.
34 Scott Bates, Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 128.
7
Order and Adventure
“La Victoire”
Paradoxically, although the final version seems to have only taken a week to put
together, “La Victoire” has a long and complex history.1 Portions of it antedate
some of the earliest poems in Alcools, including “La Chanson du mal-aimé”
(1903). The final manuscript consists of five sheets dated March 11, 1917, plus
a sixth sheet dated March 12, 1917. The finished poem appeared in the first
issue of Nord-Sud, edited by Pierre Reverdy, only three days later. A note on the
first page invited young poets, many of whom had been dispersed by the war,
to reorganize and regroup around the well-known figure of Apollinaire. “Plus
que quiconque aujourd’hui,” part of it read, “il a tracé des routes neuves, ouvert
de nouveaux horizons.” Written by the poet himself, who was trying to revive
the pre-war literary scene, it was simply signed “N. S.” By 1917, Apollinaire had
already become the de facto head of the Parisian avant-garde. Although he was
only thirty-seven years old, he was regarded as something of an elder statesman
by the younger generation, which included the future Surrealists. Like André
Breton, who was sixteen years younger than Apollinaire, Paul Eluard, Philippe
Soupault, and Louis Aragon were born between 1895 and 1897. The challenges
facing Apollinaire at this point in his career were appreciable. As chef d’école,
Peter Read points out, “il s’efforce . . . de réconcilier les deux rôles qu’il se
donne dans l’éditorial de Nord-Sud, celui de pionnier et celui de rassembleur.”2
Apollinaire needed to be advanced enough to impress his young admirers but
not so advanced that his readers could not follow him.
One glance at “La Victoire” is enough to convince even a casual reader
that it is far from a traditional poem. While “Chevaux de frise” has a jagged
right hand margin, the remainder of the poem is relatively unremarkable.
At most, Apollinaire varies the line lengths from time to time to liven things
up. By comparison, “La Victoire” seems raggedy and extremely fragmentary.

No matter how hard one scrutinizes the text, there doesn’t seem to be any
consistent pattern. Some of the lines rhyme, for example, and some of them
don’t. The poem’s beginning and end are dominated by alexandrines, while the
central portion is written entirely in free verse. Like the line lengths, moreover,
which vary from one to twenty syllables, the stanzas themselves are wildly
irregular. The shortest one consists of a single verse, while the longest one
contains twenty-one lines. Not surprisingly, in view of its impressive variety,
the poem appears to be continually in motion. The reader must constantly
readjust his or her focus in order to follow its development. This impression is
reinforced at the verbal level, where the subject frequently changes from one
stanza to the next. In the end, these characteristics conspire to create a poem
that is pulsing with energy.
As Debon declares, “La Victoire” “est le plus grand des derniers poèmes
écrits par Apollinaire.”3 How fitting that its roots stretch all the way back to his
poetic beginnings. In keeping with its persistent irregularity, the composition is
not constructed around a rigid framework but is designed to retain maximum
flexibility. Philippe Renaud calls attention to the role of thematic overlapping,
multiplicity, and discontinuity.4 Of these three rhetorical devices, the first is
perhaps the most important. “La Victoire” advances not in a linear fashion
but by means of overlapping themes—two steps forward and one step back.
That is the only structure the poem has, a structure that looks backward as
well as forward. The initial theme of winged flight is followed by the themes of
blindness, sight, language, and innovation. Claude Debon discerns two different
voices in “La Victoire.”5 The powerful lyric voice of Alcools is intertwined with
a brash new revolutionary voice, the voice of the past with that of the future.
Apollinaire’s strong lyric presence is evident from the very beginning:
Un coq chante je rêve et les feuillards agitent

Leurs feuilles qui ressemblent à de pauvres marins
Ailés et tournoyants comme Icare le faux
Des aveugles gesticulant comme des fourmis
Se miraient sous la pluie aux reflets du trottoir
Leurs rires amassés en grappes de raisin

Order and Adventure 175
As the preceding lines demonstrate, much of “La Victoire” is written in the

first person and the present tense. The speaker addresses the reader directly.
Advancing a mythological interpretation, Madeleine Boisson argues that
the “je” is Aeacus, the king of the Myrmidons.6 However, all the remaining
critics assume he is Apollinaire. The very first line appears to situate the poem
precisely, both in time and in space. Since a rooster can be heard crowing, it
must be early morning. The fact that Apollinaire is still sleeping confirms that
impression and suggests he is home in bed. Before the poem has really begun,
however, one encounters a feature that is surprisingly common in “La Victoire”:
multiple contradictions. How on earth can the poet hear a rooster crow from his
apartment in the center or Paris? The nearest farm is miles away! For that matter,
how can he hear anything at all, since he is supposed to be sleeping? Is he really
asleep, one wonders, or is he simply pretending? Logically, since he is dreaming,
he must be asleep. The second activity is a prerequisite for the first. However, the
only reason we know Apollinaire is dreaming is because he tells us so himself,
which he couldn’t do if he were actually dreaming! In any case, one can no more
truthfully say “I am sleeping” than one can say “I am dead.” No wonder the
Surrealists loved this poem—it refuses to stand still for a minute. Although the
concept of multiplicity fills some readers with dread, like that of indeterminacy
or undecidability, in reality it represents a two-edged sword. Where there
are multiple contradictions there are also multiple possibilities to explore
and multiple opportunities to exploit. As Read observes, “Les juxtapositions
contradictoires de ‘La Victoire’ semblent dégager une énergie singulière.”7
At this point, having scarcely begun, one is faced with two choices: either
to continue reading, despite the presence of an unreliable narrator, or to
dismiss the poem altogether. Readers who choose the first alternative, through
curiosity and force of habit, succumb to the text’s linear momentum. More
than anything, it is the experience of reading that matters, of following the
poem’s unexpected twists and turns to the very end. Despite the contradictions
described above, the critics seem to agree that Apollinaire is dreaming during
the first six lines. Whether all of it is a dream or whether it is interrupted by
sounds coming from outside is left to the reader to decide. Ironically, the noisy
rooster may not exist at all. Like the slim branches rustling in the wind, perhaps,
it may be part of Apollinaire’s dream. The single branch in “Lul de Faltenin”
is bare and serves as a weapon. In “La Victoire,” the branches have leaves and
wave gaily in the breeze, like sailors saying goodbye to their sweethearts.
The second stanza could have easily been borrowed from Hieronymus Bosch.
Unexpectedly, Apollinaire’s dream suddenly turns into a nightmare. Whereas
the first stanza is simply puzzling, Mario Richter observes, “la seconde strophe
confère au rêve . . . un caractère d’absurdité angoissante et grotesque.”8 Whirling
around like Icarus plunging to his death, winged blind men are gesticulating like
ants. One wonders what they are supposed to represent—Cupids? Angels?—and
what they are doing here. The reason Icarus is called “le faux,” Anne Hyde Greet
and S. I. Lockerbie explain, is because his wings are only made of wax.9 Among
other things, Read adds, the poem portrays the poignant situation of former
soldiers who were blinded by gas and who wandered helplessly around Paris.10
Although Boisson connects the ants to the story of Aeacus, who dreamed
of the sacred oak of Dodona swarming with multiple Icaruses, the comparison
between the insects and blind men would seem to be based on simple observation.
While ants can see, they communicate mainly by touching each other’s
antennae. In contrast to the blind men, who seem helpless, the gesticulating
insects are simply seeking information. These are not just any ants, moreover,
but winged ants, which emerge in swarms three to five days after a heavy rain.
Among other things, this explains why the blind men are juxtaposed with
puddles of rainwater. Apollinaire expands the bizarre comparison by giving
them wings. The fact that the puddles serve as impromptu mirrors reveals yet
another contradiction. Like the ants that served as their model, the blind men
can see after all. Like Icarus before them, they too turn out to be false. Curiously,
although they appear to be lost, they seem to find the experience exhilarating.
Whirling round and around, the blind men laugh uproariously until they fall
down together. At least, this is one possible interpretation of line 6, which again
must have fascinated Breton and his friends.
Ne sors plus de chez moi diamant qui parlais

Dors doucement tu es chez toi tout t’appartient
Mon lit ma lampe et mon casque troué
Regards précieux saphirs taillés aux environs de Saint-Claude

Les jours étaient une pure émeraude.
Je me souviens de toi ville des météores

Ils fleurissaient en l’air pendant ces nuits où rien ne dort
Jardins de la lumière où j’ai cueilli des bouquets
Tu dois en avoir assez de faire peur à ce ciel

Qu’il garde son hoquet
On imagine difficilement
A quel point le succès rend les gens stupides et tranquilles
A l’institut des jeunes aveugles on a demandé

N’avez-vous point de jeune aveugle ailé.
Most critics believe the dream sequence ends with the sixth line, but,
as we will discover, there seems to be at least one more sequence as well.
Indeed, since the poem begins with the statement “je rêve,” all of “La Victoire”
may be a dream. It becomes increasingly difficult, in any case, to tell which
sections are dreams and which are not. The next stanza confirms our earlier
impression that Apollinaire is home in bed. Awaking from his bizarre dream
(or perhaps dreaming that he has awoken?), he addresses the woman lying
beside him, whom he calls “diamant,” and asks her to stay with him forever.
Despite his attempt to conceal her identity, she is clearly his future wife,
Jacqueline Kolb, who was known to her friends as “Ruby.” Following a chance
encounter during the summer of 1916, she and Apollinaire had become
lovers. In March 1917, she became pregnant but unfortunately suffered a
miscarriage.11 As we saw in “Tristesse d’une étoile” (Chapter 6), Jacqueline
not only personifies la raison but is also portrayed as Minerva/Athena. The
next two poems employ the very same symbolism: “La Victoire” and “La Jolie
Rousse.” Together with “Tristesse d’une étoile,” they were conceived, among
other things, as loving tributes to Apollinaire’s bride. The title “La Victoire”
refers not only to the approaching victory of the Allies over the Central
Powers, Boisson points out, but also to Jacqueline in her guise as Minerva/
Athena.12 In the latter role, she is simultaneously the goddess of Victory, the
goddess of Wisdom, and the goddess of the State. As the latter, she is the
protectress both of France and of Western civilization, threatened once again
by Barbarians from the north. While the lamp next to Apollinaire’s bed is
one of Minerva’s traditional attributes, symbolizing wisdom, the hole in his

helmet testifies to her miraculous birth.
Greet and Lockerbie call attention to the role of synesthesia in the first
stanza quoted above, and elsewhere in the poem. Like the previous “rires
amassés en grappes de raisin,” the image of a talking diamond exploits sight
and sound simultaneously. The second stanza praises Jacqueline’s beauty
and the days the lovers have spent together. Continuing the rare gem theme,
Apollinaire compares her eyes to sapphires and the precious days to emeralds.
Saint-Claude is a commune in the Jura Mountains where he previously saw
gemstones being shaped and polished. However, Greet and Lockerbie believe
the sapphires refer to the poet’s own eyes. In either case, sight triumphs over
blindness as time and space coincide. Jean Burgos proposes an entirely different
scenario in which the three gems symbolize Apollinaire’s poetic qualities.13
The next two stanzas evoke one of the poet’s nicest memories of the
Front, which, with a brief nod to La Ville Lumière, he depicts as the “ville
des météores.” In contrast to the fighting during the day, when there was
nothing much to look at, the nocturnal pyrotechnics—described in poem
after poem—were spectacular. Since the meteors streaking through the air are
followed by flower imagery, Apollinaire seems to be referring to star shells
bursting overhead (see Chapter 5). Used to illuminate the landscape, as noted
previously, they resemble meteors when launched but blossom into “flowers”
when they reach the top of their trajectory, burst open, and rain down showers
of sparks. Addressing the battlefield directly, Apollinaire draws a humorous
parallel between celestial and human affairs. Although the pyrotechnics were
supposed to frighten away the sky’s hiccups, he jokes, it hasn’t worked at all.
These comments are followed by two short stanzas that were apparently
inserted at random. In theory, since the speaker or speakers are never
identified, they pose a whole series of questions, all of which are unanswerable.
Is Apollinaire speaking to somebody else? Could somebody be speaking to
him? Are these snatches of overheard conversation like those in “Lundi rue
Christine”? Are they both even uttered by the same person? Since the rest of
“La Victoire” seems to be spoken and/or thought by Apollinaire, the simplest
course, in keeping with Occam’s razor, is to treat them as the poet’s random
thoughts. According to Claude Debon, the first stanza expresses the poet’s
annoyance with people he has recently encountered in Paris.14 Now that he has
returned to civilian life, he finds himself surrounded by smug shopkeepers for
whom the war has no meaning. The second stanza reveals that Apollinaire is
still haunted by the winged blind men encountered earlier. Greet and Lockerbie
detect a satirical note in the assumption that a center exists where blind
people can be bought and sold like cattle and sheep. Modern commercialism
apparently knows no bounds. Nevertheless, they prefer to interpret the lines
metaphorically—as “a demand for fresh poetic inspiration.” Interestingly, an
Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles actually exists in Paris. Founded in 1784
and situated on the boulevard des Invalides, it was the first specialized school
for blind students in the world.
At this point, Apollinaire introduces one of the poem’s two major themes—
the search for a new poetic language. Addressing the millions of mouths in the
world, it opens with an enthusiastic apostrophe:
O bouches l’homme est à la recherche d’un nouveau langage
Auquel le grammairien d’aucune langue n’aura rien à dire
Et ces vieilles langues sont tellement près de mourir

Que c’est vraiment par habitude et manque d’audace
Qu’on les fait encore servir à la poésie
Mais elles sont comme des malades sans volonté

Ma foi les gens s’habitueraient vite au mutisme
La mimique suffit bien au cinéma.
While Apollinaire was off fighting the war, a radical new movement
surfaced in New York, Switzerland, and Barcelona. Eventually baptized “Dada”
by Tristan Tzara and his colleagues in Zurich, it was dedicated, among other
things, to completely reinventing art and literature. In addition to visual
poems, for example, the Dadaists created sound poems composed entirely of
nonsense syllables and words. In Italy F. T. Marinetti and the Futurists were
also experimenting with visual effects and were exploring the possibilities of
onomatopoeia. Although Apollinaire was surprisingly well informed about
these developments, by the time he returned to Paris he found himself in danger
of being left behind. As Renaud notes “le poète sent qu’il perd le gouvernail
et qu’il est le jouet de puissances qui parfois le dépassent.”15 In “La Victoire,”
therefore, one witnesses a struggle not only to master language but also to
solidify his position as leader of the avant-garde. On the one hand, Debon
declares, the poem is “une interrogation sur les problèmes du langage.” On the
other hand, it is preoccupied with “l’avenir de la poésie.”16 More than anything,
perhaps, Apollinaire is concerned to demonstrate that he is a cutting-edge poet.
Mais entêtons-nous à parler

Remuons la langue
Lançons des postillons
On veut des nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons
On veut des consonnes sans voyelles
Des consonnes qui pètent sourdement
Imitez le son de la toupie
Laissez pétiller un son nasal et continu
Faites claquer votre langue
Servez-vous du bruit sourd de celui qui mange sans civilité
Le raclement aspiré du crachement ferait aussi une belle consonne
Les divers pets labiaux rendraient aussi vos discours claironnants
Habituez-vous à roter à volonté
Et quelle lettre grave comme un son de cloche
A travers nos mémoires.
Although the stanza continues for another twenty-one lines, Apollinaire

suddenly changes the subject. One wonders at this point how Apollinaire’s
recommendations are meant to be interpreted. Is he serious, or is he merely
pulling the reader’s leg? As Greet and Lockerbie observe, the poet’s intentions
become increasingly unclear as he progresses. While some of his initial ideas
seem to have possibilities, by the time he recommends (linguistic) belching
and farting it is hard to believe he is sincere. Although Apollinaire initially
appears to endorse sign language, ultimately he dismisses the idea in favor of
some kind of spoken language (“Mais entêtons-nous à parler”). Unfortunately,
the two choices he presents seem either impracticable or impractable (or
both). He asks the reader to choose between a language consisting entirely of
consonants and one that utilizes rude digestive noises. That they were modeled
on contemporary experiments with phonetic poetry (poésie bruitiste) is plain
to see. Like them, they are composed of sounds instead of words.
Interestingly, opinion is divided as to what Apollinaire was hoping to achieve

here. While Debon insists he is parodying the sound poets, Anna Boschetti
rushes to his defense.17 Instead of “ridicule” and “derision,” she detects “une
invitation à ne pas se laisser rebuter par l’apparence peu sérieuse ou vulgaire
de ces explorations.” Nevertheless, Apollinaire would denounce the sound
poets eight months later in “L’Esprit nouveau et les poètes.” However, there
is no need to choose between these two interpretations. Susan Harrow offers
a thoughtful alternative. “Apollinaire reflects on the scope and the limits of
experimentalism,” she explains, “when language is reduced to raw, meaning-
free sound . . . [He] hovers between musing playfulness and an ironic alertness
to the dangers of linguistic disintegration.”18 To this I would add that being
outrageous does not necessarily imply ridicule or condemnation. During his
lifetime, Apollinaire was continually accused of being a farceur, a blagueur,
or a mystificateur because he was deliberately provocative. One suspects that
his outrageous comments in “La Victoire” were simply designed to generate
some publicity—as in fact they certainly did. When all is said and done, in any
case, Apollinaire’s basic thesis remains unscathed: the modern age needs to be
expressed in and by a modern language. Ultimately, of course, “La Victoire” is
concerned with language only insofar as it applies to poetry. Ironically, since
most of Apollinaire’s examples involve speech, it is concerned with language
that is written rather than spoken—with mots rather than paroles.
Nous n’aimons pas assez la joie

De voir les belles choses neuves
O mon amie hâte-toi
Crains qu’un jour un train ne t’émeuve
Plus
Regarde-le plus vite pour toi
Ces chemins de fer qui circulent
Sortiront bientôt de la vie
Ils seront beaux et ridicules.
The first nine lines express the second major theme of “La Victoire”—the
beauty of modern things and hence of the modern world. The transition from
the notion of a “nouveau langage” to “les belles choses neuves” is both seamless
and logical. Since the two sections share the same aesthetic, they also share
the same stanza. Unfortunately, as Apollinaire reminds Jacqueline, beauty,

especially modern beauty, is only transient. Whence the necessity to enjoy
it before it fades away—either because it loses its initial appeal or because
it succumbs to the ravages of time. Viewed from a hundred years later, his
prediction about the fate of modern trains, if not of modern railroads, seems
amazingly accurate. Today steam locomotives appear quaint and hopelessly
outmoded. Although propeller airplanes are still around, they have suffered a
similar devaluation. As Renaud points out, the threat of becoming outmoded
is related to the need to find a new language.19 The demand for new words is as
acute as the demand for new machines. Modern progress is relentless.
Deux lampes brûlent devant moi

Comme deux femmes qui rient
Je courbe tristement la tête
Devant l’ardente moquerie
Ce rire se répand
Partout
Parlez avec les mains faites claquer vos doigts
Tapez-vous sur la joue comme sur un tambour
O paroles
Elles suivent dans la myrtaie
L’Eros et l’Antéros en larmes
Je suis le ciel de la cité.
The remainder of the stanza is initially rather puzzling. Apollinaire fixes his
attention on two lamps before him which, in an apparent burst of paranoia,
he compares to two women who are laughing at him. Never mind that the
women do not really exist, being the second term in a simile, and that the
text does not say they are laughing at Apollinaire (or indeed at anyone at all).
Convinced that he is somehow at fault, he hangs his head in shame as the
laughter expands to encompass the whole world. Surprisingly, a number of
critics confuse this scene with reality (or at least with what passes for reality
in the poem). Richter, for example, concludes that the imaginary women are
laughing at “les belles choses.”20 However, nothing in the scene appears to
make any sense—from the lamps’ mysterious effect on Apollinaire to the two
women’s sudden appearance and their impossibly expansive laughter. Upon
reflection, the reason for Apollinaire’s strange behavior eventually becomes

clear. He is not experiencing a psychotic episode after all but seems merely to
have fallen asleep. The situation is exactly the same as in the second stanza.
As before, his dreams assume the form of a colorful nightmare. In reality,
Apollinaire has nothing to be ashamed about.
This episode is followed by two lines that flirt with sign language once again
before returning to the theme of speech. As they are exchanging “paroles” with
one another, Eros and his brother Anteros enter a sacred myrtle grove, for which
Apollinaire especially coined the term myrtaie.21 That the grove is sacred to
Aphrodite doubtless explains why both gods are in tears. Or perhaps only Anteros is
in tears—it’s impossible to tell from the construction. Ironically, although Anteros
is the avenger of unrequited love according to one tradition, according to another
tradition, which Apollinaire invokes here, he represents “l’amour antiphysique.”22
In other words, Anteros is basically Anti-Eros, the opposite of his brother. That
they are quarrelling over love is confirmed by the fact that they have just entered
Aphrodite’s precinct. What makes this encounter particularly interesting is that
both gods are portrayed as winged youths. Since love is traditionally blind, this
suggests that the whirling blind men in stanza 2 are Eros and Anteros! Or are
they? Despite the temptation to lump them together, which would have important
consequences for the rest of the poem, they do not seem to be identical. Deprived
of any real substance, at this point the blind men are simply a motif that is repeated
at intervals. The next five stanzas return to the question of speech:
Ecoutez la mer
La mer gémir au loin et crier toute seule

Ma vois fidèle comme l’ombre
Veut être enfin l’ombre de la vie
Veut être ô mer vivante infidèle comme toi
La mer qui a trahi des matelots sans nombre

Engloutit mes grands cris comme des dieux noyés
Et la mer au soleil ne supporte que l’ombre
Que jette des oiseaux les ailes éployées
La parole est soudaine et c’est un Dieu qui tremble

Avance et soutiens-moi je regrette les mains
De ceux qui les tendaient et m’adoraient ensemble

Quelle oasis de bras m’accueillera demain
Connais-tu cette joie de voir des choses neuves
O voix je parle le language de la mer

Et dans la port la nuit les dernières tavernes
Moi qui suis plus têtu que non l’hydre de Lerne.
Apollinaire turns to the sea at this point, which is moaning and crying in
the distance, because it provides a convenient model. The best way of being
faithful to life, he declares paradoxically, is to be unfaithful. Like the sea,
life is always changing and thus demands to be viewed through a variable
lens. For some time now, Apollinaire has been growing in size and ambition.
Greet and Lockerbie call him “all-encompassing.” For Debon he represents
a demiurge, whose enormous appetite matches his size.23 She attributes this
development to his equally enormous effort to vanquish time. Somehow
Apollinaire has also become “le ciel de la cité.” Now, as the wordplay on “têtu”
humorously emphasizes, he stubbornly insists on appropriating the language
of the sea. The Lernaean Hydra was a water monster equipped with multiple
heads. As soon as one was chopped off, it grew several replacements. As
Read points out, the sea can be viewed in two very different ways, much
like blindness.24 Just as the latter can be a hindrance or an asset (think of
Homer), the sea is associated with drowning but also with poetic language.
Nevertheless, since the sea is much larger than Apollinaire, it swallows his
mighty cries as quickly as it swallowed Icarus before him. This last, implicit,
allusion to the son of Daedalus explicitly connects him to Apollinaire, for
whom he symbolizes the poet. This is why the motif occurs repeatedly. Like
Icarus, he engages in dangerous (poetic) adventures that could easily end in
failure.
The theme of poetic language introduces the next stanza, where it is
celebrated, praised, and explicitly glorified: “La parole est soudaine et c’est
un Dieu qui tremble.” Words, as opposed to sounds, are really what interest
Apollinaire. Just as language is and is not the poet’s creation, Renaud explains,
it is and is not divine.25 The spoken word appears magically out of nowhere but
is shaped and expressed by the poet’s mouth. The written word pops into the
poet’s head but is shaped and expressed by his or her hand. What Apollinaire is
really talking about, however, is not how words are produced but the nature of
poetic inspiration, which appears absolutely miraculous. That the magic word
is “trembling” when it arrives says more about the recipient than anything
else. To a person who has been eagerly waiting for illumination, the inspired
word seems to be positively glowing. Meanwhile as the gigantic poet advances,
propped up by other hands, he remembers his past admirers and anticipates
future admirers.
La rue où nagent mes deux mains

Aux doigts subtils fouillant la ville
S’en va mais qui sait si demain
La rue devenait immobile
Qui sait où serait mon chemin
Songe que les chemins de fer
Seront démodées et abandonnées dans peu de temps
Regarde
La Victoire avant tout sera

De bien voir au loin
De tout voir
De près
Et que tout ait un nom nouveau.
The scene suddenly changes, and Apollinaire finds himself walking

down a long, empty road leading away from the port. We have no idea how
he got there or where he is headed. Curiously, despite his calm demeanor,
he appears to be tentatively feeling his way with his hands. Eventually the
realization dawns on the reader that Apollinaire cannot see where he is going.
Suddenly, with no advance warning, he seems to have become blind! This
unexpected incident connects him to the second principal motif: the blind
men encountered previously, who, like Icarus, also symbolize the poet. Like
them, he advances one step at a time, exploring first one idea then another
with no end in sight. To a certain extent, since they represent different aspects
of the poet, the two motifs tend to overlap. Icarus cannot see the end that
is reserved for him either. Perhaps this also explains why the blind men are
equipped with wings—to emphasize their resemblance to Icarus and vice
versa. As Greet and Lockerbie note, the road is surprisingly fluid. It flows
past Apollinaire like a river or like time. More precisely, since his progress is
compared to swimming, it envelopes him and carries him along with it. Since
ultimately the road represents the course of his life, the longer it continues the
better.
The final stanza recalls a similar stanza in “Les Collines” about
towering heroes who are gifted with superior sight. As Read notes,
Apollinaire “retrouve finalement . . . le ton prophétique qui sied aux poètes
homeriques, aveugles mais voyants.”26 Returning to the theme of victory
announced in the title, he provides an ambitious three-pronged summary
that is not a definition so much as a program for the future. The first two
recommendations appear to focus on the individual. The third needs to
be implemented by society in general. Victory will only be achieved, he
announces, after one has acquired prophetic vision. As in “Les Collines,”
the reader needs to learn how to foresee the future. By the same token,
victory will only be achieved after one has developed microscopic vision.
The reader needs to become accustomed to the minute observation of daily
life. Finally, Apollinaire insists, victory will only be achieved after society
has devised a new language to replace the old one. Modern life needs to be
expressed by and in a language that can accommodate all the rapid changes
that are taking place.
Debon thinks Apollinaire envisions a language composed of visual images,
much like his calligrams.27 Once a universal language has been created, she
explains, everyone will finally be able to communicate with everyone else.
Peter Por traces the final line back to biblical sources and before that to
Orpheus.28 The idea of conferring new names on everything is apparently a
very old tradition. In addition to conquering the enemy, victory itself assumes
many different forms in “La Victoire.” Designating Jacqueline first of all, it
involves prophesy, close observation, and linguistic innovation according to
Apollinaire. In Read’s opinion, victory will result from conquering ignorance,
powerlessness, time, and death.29 According to Michel Décaudin, it will be
“celle d’une poétique nouvelle ouverte sur l’avenir.”30 For Margaret Davies, “La
Victoire” is essentially a poem about poetry. Described in “L’Esprit nouveau et
les poètes,” the victory she foresees is that of “the poet perpetually renewing
both himself and poetry.”31
“La Jolie Rousse”
Although Apollinaire had no idea his life was nearly over when he wrote “La
Jolie Rousse,” in retrospect the composition serves as a moving poetic testament.
Since it is the final poem in Calligrammes, moreover, it provides the volume
with important closure. Spanning the immense distance from “Liens” to “La
Victoire” by way of “Les Fenêtres,” “Lettre-Océan,” and “Chevaux de Frise,” the
poem possesses an unusually broad focus. In addition, it provides a glimpse of
a happier, more secure Apollinaire who is about to marry Jacqueline—the “jolie
rousse” of the title. As the authors of the Oeuvres poétiques note, “la serénité
retrouvée dans l’amour devient le symbole d’une confidence sûre et lucide.”32
Published in the Swiss journal L’Eventail on March 15, 1918, “La Jolie Rousse”
is divided into seven unequal sections. The first three stanzas are composed of
vers libres, the next three are rhymed, and the last is again written in free verse.
Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sens

Connaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu’un vivant peut connaître
Ayant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l’amour
Ayant su quelquefois imposer ses idées
Connaissant plusieurs langages
Ayant pas mal voyagé
Ayant vu la guerre dans l’Artillerie et l’Infanterie
Blessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroforme
Ayant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l’effroyable lutte
Je sais d’ancien et de nouveau autant qu’un homme seul
pourrait des deux savoir
Et sans m’inquiéter aujourd’hui de cette guerre
Entre nous et pour nous mes amis
Je juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l’invention
De l’Ordre et de l’Aventure.
In contrast to the previous poem, which is often difficult to follow, “La

Jolie Rousse” is carefully organized and crystal clear. Addressing his audience
directly, Apollinaire advances methodically, line by line and point by point,
until he has finished. As a result of this linear approach, Philippe Renaud
observes, he is transformed into “une personnalité paraissant extérieur à l’acte
poétique.”33 The reader receives the impression that it is Apollinaire himself

who is speaking rather than the poet who bears his name. As Susan Harrow
puts it, “the writing self and the written self coincide.”34 To some extent,
therefore, the composition may be viewed as an aesthetic manifesto—which
Renaud views as a serious defect. The fact that “La Jolie Rousse” is discursive,
he believes, destroys its value as a poem: “Une fois le poète disparu, le ‘poème’
demeure comme une carcasse.”
Attempting to maintain the delicate balance between poetry and prose,
Apollinaire adopts a presentational mode initially. “Dès les premiers vers,”
Jeanine Moulin declares, “le poète cherche par l’énumération de ses mérites—
âge, expérience, connaissance—à inspirer la confiance.”35As several critics
have noted, the first line echoes the beginning of Paul Claudel’s epic play Tête
d’or, composed in 1889. The fact that it is an alexandrine looks forward to the
fifth stanza and confers a leisurely rhythm on much of the poem. Lines 2 and
10 employ a figure of speech known as epanadiplosis, where a sentence begins
and ends with approximately the same word. The rest of Apollinaire’s soliloquy
is filled with binary oppositions. Life is contrasted with death, sadness with
joy, old with new, tradition with invention, and Order with Adventure. The
next three stanzas are preocupied with defending the members of the avant-
garde, who clearly belong to the second category:
Vous dont la bouche est faite à l’image de Dieu

Bouche qui est l’ordre même
Soyez indulgents quand vous nous comparez
A ceux qui furent la perfection de l’ordre
Nous qui quêtons partout l’aventure
Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemis
Nous voulons vous donner de vastes et d’étranges domaines
Où le mystère en fleurs s’offre à qui veut le cueillir
Il y a là des feux nouveaux des couleurs jamais vues
Mille phantasmes impondérables
Auxquels il faut donner de la réalité
Nous voulons explorer la bonté contrée énorme où tout se tait
Il y a aussi le temps qu’on peut chasser ou faire revenir
Pitié pour nous qui combattons toujours aux frontières
De l’illimité et de l’avenir
Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés.
While the second stanza continues to discuss the dichotomy between Order
and Adventure, it is concerned above all with posterity. “Vous dont la bouche
est faite à l’image de celle de Dieu” refers to future critics, whose judgement will
be as final and as absolute as God’s. What they say will ultimately determine
Apollinaire’s reputation and that of his avant-garde colleagues. Wondering how
they will look compared to the greatest artists and writers of the past, he urges
his judges to be merciful. Since God is the creator of the universe, the equation
between “bouche” and “ordre” in the second line needs no explanation. It is
he who imposed order on the primordial chaos in the first place. However,
as Scott Bates discovered, the line also refers to an obscure character in the
Kabbalah.36 The angel both of order and of God’s mouth, Sidra forms and
informs such crucial pronouncements as “Let there be light.”
Whereas the first stanza is devoted to Apollinaire and the second to future
critics, the third stanza is concerned almost entirely with the avant-garde. The
transition from je to vous and now to nous parallels the poem’s progress. In order
to illustrate the nature of the avant-garde imagination, Apollinaire employs
several clever metaphors. In particular, he attempts to pacify hostile critics by
portraying modern artists and writers as explorers. Like Christopher Columbus,
he declares, they have set out to discover vast and strange domains occupied
by mysterious flowers, dazzling fires, and brilliant new colors. Like the early
explorers, who returned from their voyages with tobacco, corn, and cacao, they
plan to offer their discoveries to society at large (“Nous voulons vous donner …”).
Clarifying the avant-garde aesthetic program as he proceeds, Apollinaire also
stresses the need to translate numerous ideas (“phantasmes”) into tangible form.
Continuing his voyage of discovery in the next stanza, he expands the list of avant-
garde projects to include temporal experiments as well. An additional proposal
to explore la bonté, however one chooses to interpret that term, is puzzling.
Unfortunately, as Claude Debon remarks, the concept does not seem to have had
any precise meaning for the poet.37 She speculates that “la bonté serait une facon
d’accueillir le monde, de lui manifester de la tendresse.” Interestingly, Apollinaire
originally wrote “volonté,” which may have been mistakenly transcribed.
Dropping the explorer metaphor at this point, Apollinaire depicts the

members of the avant-garde as patriotic soldiers fighting on two frontiers at
once. The themes of timelessness and the future illustrate his previous remark
about experimenting with temporal constructions. Suddenly overcome by a
wave of humility, Apollinaire asks his present and future critics to take pity on
him and his colleagues: “Pitié pour nous, . . . / Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour
nos péchés.” Judging from their three-part structure and the mention of “sins,”
these lines seem to be a prayer as much as a plea. Indeed, they are modeled on
the “Kyrie Eleison,” a Gregorian chant used in many church offices. Although
Margaret Davies interprets these lines as an expression of guilt, they are really
an apology for aesthetic mistakes committed over the years.38 The fact that
avant-garde artists and writers fight on such ill-defined terrain, Apollinaire
implies, makes erreurs virtually inevitable.
Voici que vient l’été la saison violente
Et ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printemps
O Soleil c’est le temps de la Raison ardente
Et j’attends
Pour la suivre toujours la forme noble et douce
Qu’elle prend afin que je l’aime seulement
Elle vient et m’attire ainsi qu’un fer l’aimant
Elle a l’aspect charmant
D’une adorable rousse
Ses cheveux sont d’or on dirait

Un bel éclair qui durerait
Ou ces flammes qui se pavanent
Dans les roses-thé qui se fanent
Mais riez riez de moi

Hommes de partout surtout gens d’ici
Car il y a tant de choses que je n’ose vous dire
Tant de choses que vous ne me laisseriez pas dire
Ayez pitié de moi.
Since the next two stanzas evoke Apollinaire’s encounter with Jacqueline,
they are unusually lyrical. In addition to uniform line lengths, moreover, they
employ a variety of rhymes. Stanza 5 consists largely of alexandrines and stanza
6 of octosyllables. The first line rhymes with the last line in the preceding
stanza, the final four lines form two couplets, and the remaining rhymes
assume random configurations. At thirty-seven years of age, Apollinaire
is aware of no longer being a young man. At this point in his life, he looks
forward to settling down. Prepared to enjoy the summer of his years, he tells
the sun, he is looking forward to embracing “la Raison ardente.” As we saw in
“Tristesse d’une étoile,” this expression describes Jacqueline, who personifies
reason and who will preside over his mature years. For this reason, as noted
earlier, she represents Minerva/Athena, who personifies wisdom. According
to the famous philologist Max Müller, Madeleine Boisson reports, the name
“Athena” is derived from the Sanskrit Ahaná, meaning “la brûlante.” That, she
maintains, is why Apollinaire calls his future wife “la Raison ardente.”39
However, apart from the question of how much Sanskrit Apollinaire knew,
there is a much simpler reason for choosing to call Jacqueline “ardente.”
She had beautiful red hair, which the poet in fact praises a few lines later.
Referring both to the intensity of her reasoning and to her flaming hair,
“ardente” is thus a pun—as is “l’aimant” five lines later. Similarly, as Boisson
points out, Jacqueline is “adorable” both because she is lovable and because,
as Minerva/Athena, she is the object of religious veneration.40 Apollinaire
compares her hair to gold, lightning, flames, and roses in the next to last
stanza. Renaud reports that the second line is a translation of the neo-
Platonic formula fulgur manens.41 “L’idée géniale,” Boisson explains, “a été
de douer de durée l’instant fulgurant pour réaliser la paradoxale synthèse de
l’éternel et du transitoire.”42
Unfortunately, as Debon notes, Calligrammes ends on a pathetic note.43
After parading his qualifications, explaining his poetic mission, and celebrating
Jacqueline, Apollinaire appears to collapse. Suddenly, with no provocation
whatsoever, he invites the readers of “La Jolie Rousse” not only to pity him
but also to make fun of him! Paul Waldo Schwartz takes this statement at face
value. Recalling “the tragi-comic figure of the circus clown” in Apollinaire’s
poetry, he points to his “pathos and hermeticism, frivolity and profundity” in
“La Jolie Rousse.”44 According to this interpretation, Apollinaire would finally
assume the persona of a circus performer. However, most critics do not believe
the first line is intended to be taken seriously. Indeed, they believe it means the
opposite of what it says. Whether Apollinaire’s words are meant to be ironic or

sarcastic is hard to say, but they are clearly uttered in protest.
Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie attribute the unexpected outburst to
“his fear of the public’s incomprehension.” Upon reflection, however, it appears
to be motivated more by anger than by fear. “After I have patiently explained
what I am trying to accomplish,” he seems to be saying, “you still don’t get it,
do you. I don’t know why I bother.” The remainder of the final stanza is more
complicated. Although “car” implies that the first line is related to the third and
fourth lines by cause and effect, this is obviously impossible. The request to
laugh at Apollinaire because he has suffered so much (presumably in the war)
is absurd. Once again, the words mean the opposite of what they say. In reality,
the poet is asking his audience for support because he has been through hell.
As in the first stanza, Renaud notes, “on retrouve ici l’idée que les épreuves sont
un gage de qualité et de perfectionnement.”45 However, although Apollinaire’s
earlier pleas were concerned with his poetry, his final request for pity is for
personal reasons.
Notes
1 See Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008),
354–61.
2 Peter Read, “‘La Victoire’ d’Apollinaire: contexte, sources et images,” En hommage
à Michel Décaudin, ed. Pierre Brunel et al. (Paris: Minard, 1986), 212.
3 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 362. Subsequent references to this
poem in this volume will not be footnoted but will be to this page.
5 Claude Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire’” in ed. Michel Décaudin,
Apollinaire inventeur de langages (Paris: Minard, 1973), 168.
6 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Schena: Fasano and
Paris: Nizet, 1989), 290–2.
7 Read, “‘La Victoire’ d’Apollinaire,” 203.
8 Mario Richter, La Crise du Logos et la quête du mythe: Baudelaire, Rimbaud,
Cendrars, Apollinaire (Neuchâtel: La Baconnière, 1976), 114.
9 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes”

(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 499. Subsequent references will
not be footnoted but will be to pp. 498–506.
10 Peter Read, “Gaz toxiques et ‘larmes de rire’dans Calligrammes,” in Apollinaire au
feu (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005), 53.
11 Laurence Campa, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2013), 656 and 687
respectively.
12 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 294. For Minerva/Athena’s
connection to the poet’s personal mythology, see p. 295.
13 Jean Burgos, “Sur la thématique d’Apollinaire,” La Revue des Lettres Modernes
217–22 (1969): 148.
14 Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire,’” 170.
17 Claude Debon quoted in Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire (Paris: Livre de Poche,
2002), 142; Anna Boschetti, La Poésie partout: Apollinaire homme-époque
(1898–1918) (Paris: Seuil, 2001), 219.
2004), 74.
20 Richter, La Crise du Logos, 131.
21 See Claude Debon, Apollinaire: glossaire des oeuvres complètes (Paris: La
Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1988).
26 Read, “Gaz toxiques,” 53.
28 Peter Por, “Notes en marge des textes d’Apollinaire,” Guillaume Apollinaire 18.
Revue des Lettres Modernes (1991): 137–8.
30 Michel Décaudin, “La Guerre dans Calligrammes,” in ed. Samir Mouzouki,
“Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire ou la poésie moderne (Tunis: Ecole
Normale Supérieure, 2005), 49.
31 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martins Press, 1964), 296.
32 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, eds. Marcel Adéma and Michel
Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1109.
35 Jeanine Moulin, Guillaume Apollinaire: textes inédits (Geneva: Droz & Lille
Giard, 1952), 143.
36 Scott Bates, “Notes sur ‘Simon Mage’ et Isaac Laquedem,” Revue des Lettres
Modernes 123–6 (1965): 70.
37 Claude Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981),
178–9.
40 Ibid., 300.
41 Philipe Renaud, “Brèves,” Que Vlo-Ve? Bulletin International des Etudes sur
Guillaume Apollinaire, 4th series, 12 (October–December 2000): 128.
44 Paul Waldo Schwartz, Cubism (New York: Praeger, 1971), 38.
Conclusion
Concluding his lengthy study of the poet, Michel Décaudin—the doyen of

Apollinaire studies—attempted to sum up his contribution to modern French
poetry. Instead of drawing up a list of specific inventions, such as cubist poetry,
conversation poetry, or visual poetry, he identified three broad areas in which
his influence was decisive. After the Comte de Lautréamont and Arthur
Rimbaud, he declared, Apollinaire was “un des premiers à savoir que la poésie
n’est pas affaire de règles, ni de respect des valeurs du goût et du beau . . . et que
son domaine est illimité.”1 Illustrated by the poems included in Calligrammes,
these principles were eventually adopted by modern poetry in general. They
are so widespread today that it is hard to imagine a time when they never
existed, a time when writing poetry was like putting on a corset.
Apollinaire was one of the first poets to cast off the yoke imposed in the
seventeenth century by the members of the Académie Française. In the realm of
prosody, everything was closely regulated, from the number of syllables in a line
to the kinds of rhyme that were permissable and the order in which they could
appear. By comparison English and American poets had it fairly easy. Composing
French poetry was an arduous task that demanded endless calculations and
constantly interfered with what the poet was trying to say. How poets expressed
themselves was at least as important as what they succeeded in expressing. At
the beginning of the twentieth century, free verse was the most daring verse
form available. Cultivated by the Symbolists, it was also relatively new. Invented
during the 1880s by Gustave Kahn and Jules Laforgue, the French version
quickly caught on. Although Apollinaire was a talented composer of traditional
poetry—he boasted that he had instilled new vigor into the eight-syllable line—
he preferred to write in free verse, which he liberated still further until there
were no restrictions at all. His freest poetry is to be found in Calligrammes,
where he experiments with a wide variety of poetic forms, many of them never
encountered before. Freedom essentially allowed Apollinaire to do whatever he
wanted. As a result, the volume practically pulsates with creative energy.
196 Conclusion
Another area in which modern poets have managed to shake off restrictions
imposed by the Academy is that of taste and beauty. It was traditionally felt that
a certain decorum (bienséance) should prevail in poetry and that readers were
not to be puzzled, offended, or shocked. As readers of Calligrammes quickly
discover, Apollinaire’s poems are not always easy to assimilate. Although he
was capable of writing perfectly limpid poetry, like “Un Fantôme de nuées”
or “L’Adieu du cavalier,” many of the poems contain puzzling references or are
difficult to read for structural reasons. While the former are part of his Symbolist
heritage, the latter reflect the influence of Cubism. In addition, Apollinaire was
in the forefront of those who sought to open up poetry to new experiences.
Like many poets who came after him, he believed modern poetry should
reflect modern life—much of which was unsavory, shocking, and/or downright
ugly. Nevertheless, he also found much of it to be exciting. This accounts for
the presence of criminals in “Lundi rue Christine,” sexual references in poems
like “Le Chant d’amour,” farts and spitting in “La Victoire,” and gesticulating
blind men in “La Victoire.”2 It also explains references to wireless telegraphy,
phonographs, airplanes, streetcars, cinemas, and other modern inventions.
As examples of the “vastes et d’étranges domaines” evoked in “La Jolie
Rousse,” which are entirely metaphorical, Apollinaire cites mystery, new
colors, phantasms (ideas), time, and “la bonté”—whatever that may be. The
domain of mystery includes such works as “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,”
whose protagonist has no eyes, no nose, and no ears. The domain of aesthetics
is illustrated by poems like “Les Fenêtres” and thus includes the notion of time
as well. A third domain also exists, an intellectual domain that incorporates
poems such as “Le Chant d’amour,” whose subject is love. Since these are all
ultimately related to each other, they can be grouped together and assigned
to the larger realm of the imagination. Although new physical domains are
not mentioned in “La Jolie Rousse,” they obviously play an important role in
Calligrammes too. While poems were written by other poets during the First
World War, none of them equal works like “Dans l’abri-caverne” or “Océan
de terre.” These are not just poems about the war, but poems describing
Apollinaire’s intimate experiences with a unique variety of circumstances. For
all of these reasons, Calligrammes deserves to take its place alongside Alcools
as one of the great poetic achievements of the twentieth century.
Conclusion 197
Notes

2 For an excellent study of Apollinaire’s use of obscenity, see Antoine Fongaro,
“De l’obscène à l’érotique voilé dans Calligrammes,” in Apollinaire poète: exgèses
et discussions 1957–1987 (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail-Toulouse,
1988), 231–45.
Appendix
Liens
Cordes faites de cris
Sons de cloches à travers l’Europe

Siècles pendus
Rails qui ligotez les nations

Nous ne sommes que deux ou trois hommes
Libres de tous liens
Donnons-nous la main
Violente pluie qui peigne les fumées

Cordes
Cordes tissées
Cables sous-marins
Tours de Babel changés en ponts
Araignées-Pontifes
Tous les amoureux qu’un seul lien a liés
D’autres liens plus ténus

Blancs rayons de lumière
Cordes et Concorde
J’écris seulement pour vous exalter

O sens o sens cheris
Ennemis du souvenir
Ennemis du désir
Ennemis du regret
Ennemis des larmes
Ennemis de tout ce que j’aime encore
Appendix 199
Links
Cords made of cries
Sound of bells across Europe

Hanging centuries
Rails binding nations together

We are only two or three men
Free from all chains
Let us join hands
Violent rain combing the smoke

Cords
Woven cords
Submarine cables
Towers of Babel changed into bridges
Spider-Pontiffs
The lovers all joined by a single link
Other more tenuous links

White rays of light
Cords and Concord
I write only to exalt you

Oh senses cherished senses
Enemis of memory
Enemies of desire
Enemies of regret
Enemies of tears
Enemies of everything I still love
200 Appendix
Les Fenêtres

Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales
Abatis de pihis
Il y a un poème à faire sur l’oiseau qui n’a qu’une aile
Nous l’enverrons en message téléphonique
Traumatisme géant
Il fait couler les yeux
Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises
Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche
Tu soulèveras le rideau
Et maintenant voilà que s’ouvre la fenêtre
Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière
Beauté pâleur insondables violets
Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos
On commencera à minuit
Quand on a le temps on a la liberté
Bigorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l’Oursin du couchant
Une vielle paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre
Tours
Les tours ce sont les rues
Puits
Puits ce sont les places
Puits
Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes
Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir
Aux Chabines marronnes
Et l’oie oua-oua trompette au nord
Où les chasseurs de ratons
Raclent les pelleteries
Etincelant diamant
Vancouver
Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l’hiver
O Paris
Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles
La fenêtre s’ouvre comme une orange
Le beau fruit de la lumière
Appendix 201
Windows
From red to green the yellow fades away

When macaws sing in their native forests
Heaps of dead pihis
There is a poem to be written about the bird with a single wing
We will send it by telephone
Enormous bruise
It makes your eyes run
See the pretty girl among the young girls from Turin
The poor young man blew his nose in his white tie
Raise the curtain
And see the window slowly opening
Spiders when hands wove the light
Beauty paleness fathomless violets
We will try in vain to rest
We will begin at midnight
When you have time you have liberty
Welks Monkfish multiple Suns and the sunset’s Urchin
An old pair of yellow shoes before the window
Towers
The towers are streets
Wells
Wells are public squares
Wells
Hollow trees sheltering vagabond Quadroon girls
The young men sing melancholy songs
To the chestnut girls
And wa-wa geese trumpet in the north
Where raccoon hunters
Scrape fur skins
Sparkling diamond
Vancouver
Where the train covered with snow and nocturnal flickerings flees the winter
O Paris
From red to green the yellow fades away
Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New York and the Antilles
The window opens like an orange
The lovely fruit of light
202 Appendix
Lundi rue Christine
La mère de la concierge et la concierge laisseront tout passer

Si tu es un homme tu m’accompagneras ce soir
Il suffirait qu’un type maintînt la porte cochère
Pendant que l’autre monterait
Trois becs de gaz allumés

La patronne est poitrinaire
Quand tu aura fini nous jouerons une partie de jacquet
Un chef d’orchestre qui a mal à la gorge
Quand tu viendras à Tunis je te ferai fumer du kief
Ça a l’air de rimer
Des piles de soucoupes des fleurs un calendrier

Pim pam pim
Je dois fiche près de 300 francs à ma probloque
Je préférerais me couper le parfaitement que de les lui donner
Je partirai à 20 h. 27
Six glaces s’y dévisagent toujours
Je crois que nous allons nous embrouiller encore davantage
Cher monsieur
Vous êtes un mec à la mie de pain
Cette dame a le nez comme un ver solitaire
Louise a oublié sa fourrure
Moi je n’ai pas de fourrure et je n’ai pas froid
Le Danois fume sa cigarette en consultant l’horaire
Le chat noir traverse la brasserie.
Ces crêpes étaient exquises

La fontaine coule
Robe noire comme ses ongles
C’est complètement impossible
Voici monsieur
La bague en malachite
Le sol est semé de sciure
Alors c’est vrai
La serveuse rousse a été enlevée par un libraire
Appendix 203
Monday Rue Christine
The concierge and her mother will let us in

If you are a man you will come with me tonight
We need a guy to watch the front door
While the other goes upstairs
Three gas lights burning

The proprietress is tubercular
When you have finished we’ll play a game of backgammon
An orchestra leader with a sore throat
When you come to Tunis we’ll smoke some kief
That appears to rhyme
Piles of saucers some flowers a calendar

Clink clank clunk
I owe my landlady nearly 300 francs
I’d rather cut off my exactly than pay him
I’m leaving at 8:27 p.m.

Six mirrors stare each other down
I think we’re going to find ourselves in an even worse mess
Dear Sir
You are a crummy no good pimp
That lady has a nose like a tapeworm
Louise forgot her fur
I don’t have a fur but I’m not cold
The Dane smokes a cigarette while consulting the timetable
The black cat crosses the restaurant
Those crepes were marvelous

The water is running
A dress as black as her finger nails
That’s completely impossible
Here sir
The malachite ring
The floor is covered with sawdust
So it’s true
The redheaded waitress ran off with a bookseller
204 Appendix
Un journaliste que je connais d’ailleurs très vaguement
Ecoute Jacques c’est très sérieux ce que je vais te dire
Compagnie de navigation mixte
Il me dit monsieur voulez-vous voir ce que je peux faire d’eaux-fortes et de

tableaux
Je n’ai qu’une petite bonne
Après déjeuner café du Luxembourg

Une fois là il me présente un gros bonhomme
Qui me dit
Ecoutez c’est charmant
A Smyrne à Naples en Tunisie
Mais nom de Dieu où est-ce
La dernière fois que j’ai été en Chine
C’est il y a huit ou neuf ans
L’Honneur tient souvent à l’heure que marque la pendule
La quinte major
Appendix 205
A journalist I barely know
Listen Jacques what I am going to tell you is very serious
Cargo liner company
He says to me Sir can I show you what I can do with etchings and paintings
I only have a single maid
After lunch at the Café du Luxembourg

Once I get there he introduces me to a big guy
Who tells me
Listen it’s charming
In Smyrna in Naples in Tunisia
But for God’s sake where is it
The last time I went to China
That was eight or nine years ago
Honor often depends on what time it is
A royal flush
206 Appendix
Arbre
Tu chantes avec les autres tandis que les phonographs galopent

Où sont les aveugles où s’en sont-ils allés
La seule feuille que j’aie cueillie s’est changée en plusieurs mirages
Ne m’abandonnez pas parmi cette foule de femmes au marché
Ispahan s’est fait un ciel de carreaux émaillés de bleu
Et je remonte avec vous une route aux environs de Lyon
Je n’ai pas oublié le son de la clochette d’un marchand de coco d’autrefois

J’entends déjà le son aigre de cette voix à venir
Du camarade qui se promènera avec toi en Europe
Tout en restant en Amérique
Un enfant
Un veau dépouillé pendu à l’étal
Un enfant
Et cette banlieue de sable autour d’une pauvre fille au fond de l’est
Un douanier se tenait là comme un ange
A la porte d’un misérable paradis
Et ce voyageur épileptique écumait dans la salle d’attente des premières
Engoulevent Blaireau
Et la Taupe-Ariane
Nous avions loué deux coupés dans le transsibérien
Tour à tour nous dormions le voyageur en bijouterie et moi
Mais celui qui veillait ne cachait point un revolver armé
Tu t’es promené à Leipzig avec une femme mince déguisée en homme

Intelligence car voilà ce que c’est qu’une femme intelligente
Et il ne faudrait pas oublier les légendes
Dame-Abonde dans un tramway la nuit au fond d’un quartier désert
Je voyais une chasse tandis que je montais
Et l’ascenseur s’arrêtait à chaque étage
Appendix 207
Tree
You sing with the others while the phonographs gallop

Where are the blind men where have they gone
The single leaf I picked has become several mirages
Don’t abandon me among this crowd of market women
Isfahan has become a sky of enamelled blue tiles
And together with you I retrace a road near Lyons
I have not forgotten the sound of a cocoa-seller’s bell long ago

I hear the shrill voice already of that
Future friend who will walk with you in Europe
While remaining in America
A child
A skinned calf hanging in the butcher’s stall
A child
And that sandy neighborhood surrounding a poor town in the far east
A customs officer stood there like an angel
At the door of a dilapidated paradise
And the epileptic traveler foamed at the mouth in the first class waiting room
Nighthawk Badger
And the Mole-Ariadne
We reserved two compartments on the Transsiberian Railway
The jewelry salesman and I took turns sleeping
But whoever remained awake brandished a cocked revolver
You walked in Leipzig with a slim woman disguised as a man

Intelligence for that’s an intelligent woman for you
And don’t forget the legends
Lady Bountiful on a streetcar at night in the depths of a deserted neighborhood
And I spied a hunt while I was rising
And the elevator stopped at each floor
208 Appendix
Entre les pierres

Entre les vêtements multicolores de la vitrine
Entre les charbons ardents du marchand de marrons
Entre deux vaisseaux norvégiens amarrés à Rouen
Il y a ton image
Elle pousse entre les bouleaux de la Finlande
Ce beau nègre in acier
La plus grand tristesse

C’est quand tu reçus une carte postale de La Corogne
Le vent vient du couchant

Le métal des caroubiers
Tout est plus triste qu’autrefois
Tous les dieux terrestres vieillissent
L’univers se plaint par ta voix
Et des êtres nouveaux surgissent
Trois par trois
Appendix 209
Between the stones

Between the multicolored clothes in the shop window
Between the glowing coals of the chestnut seller
Between two Norwegian vessels docked at Rouen
There is your image
It springs up between the Finnish birches
This handsome steel Negro
Your greatest sadness

Was when you received the postcard from La Corogne
The wind blows from the west

The metal of the Carob trees
Everything is sadder than before
All the earthly gods are growing older
The universe laments with your voice
And new beings spring forth
Three by three
210 Appendix
A travers l’Europe
A.M.Ch.
Rotsoge
Ton visage écarlate ton biplan transformable en hydroplan
Ta maison ronde oú il nage un hareng saur
Il me faut la clef des paupières
Heureusement que nous avons vu M. Panado
Et nous sommes tranquilles de ce côté-là
Qu’est-ce que tu vois mon vieux M. D…
90 ou 324 un homme en l’air un veau qui regarde à travers
le ventre de sa mère
J’ai cherché longtemps sur les routes

Tant d’yeux sont clos au bord de routes
Le vent fair pleurer les saussaies
Ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre
Regarde mais regarde donc
Le vieux se lave les pieds dans la cuvette
Una volta ho inteso dire Chè vuoi
Je me mis à pleurer en me souvenant de vos enfances
Et toi tu me montres un violet épouvantable
Ce petit tableau où il y a une voiture m’a rappelé le jour

Un jour fait de morceaux mauves jaunes bleus verts et rouges
Où je m’en allais à la campagne avec une charmante cheminée
tenant sa chienne en laisse
Il n’y en a plus tu n’as plus ton petit mirliton
La cheminée fume loin de moi des cigarettes russes
La chienne aboie contre les lilas
La veilleuse est consumée
Sur la robe ont chu des pétales
Deux anneaux d’or près des sandales
Au soleil se sont allumés
Mais tes cheveux sont le trolley
A travers l’Europe vêtu de petits feux multicolores
Appendix 211
All Across Europe
A.M.Ch.
Rotsoge
Your scarlet face your biplane transformable into a seaplane
Your round house where a kipper swims
I need the key to eyelids
Luckily we have seen M. Panado
And we are not worried about that aspect
What are you looking at my old friend M. D. …
90 or 324 a man in the air a calf looking across its mother’s stomach
I searched for a long time along the roads

So many eyes are closed along the edge of the roads
The wind makes the weeping willows cry
Open open open open open
Look but look now
The old man is washing his feet in the basin
Una volta ho inteso dire Chè voi
Remembering your childhood I began to cry
And you you show me a horrible violet
This little painting with a car reminds me of the day

A day made of mauve yellow blue green and red pieces
When I went walking in the country with a charming smokestack holding
her dog on a leash
There are no more you no longer have your little toy flute
The smokestack smokes Russian cigarettes far from me
The dog barks at the lilacs
The lamp has gone out
Petals have fallen on the dress
Two gold rings near some sandals
Have burst into fire in the sun
But your hair is the trolley
All across Europe dressed in tiny multicolored lights
212 Appendix
Le Musicien de Saint-Merry
J’ai enfin le droit de saluer des êtres que je ne connais pas

Ils passent devant moi et s’accumulent au loin
Tandis que tout ce que j’en vois m‘est inconnu
Et leur espoir n’est pas moins fort que le mien
Je ne chante pas ce monde ni les autres astres

Je chante toutes les possibilités de moi-même hors de ce monde et des astres
Je chante la joie d’errer et le plaisir d’en mourir
Le 21 du mois de mai 1913

Des millions de mouches éventaient une splendeur
Quand un homme sans yeux sans nez et sans oreilles
Quittant le Sébasto entra dans la rue Aubry-le Boucher
Jeune l’homme était brun et ce couleur de fraise sur les joues
Homme Ah! Ariane
Il jouait de la flûte et la musique dirigeait ses pas
Il s’arrêta au coin de la rue Saint-Martin
Jouant l’air que je chante et que j’ai inventé
Les femmes qui passaient s’arrêtaient près de lui
Il en venait de toutes parts
Lorsque tout à coup les cloches de Saint-Merry se mirent à sonner
Le musicien cessa de jouer et but à la fontaine
Qui se trouve au coin de la rue Simon-Le-Franc
Puis Saint-Merry se tut
L’inconnu reprit son air de flûte
Et revenant sur ses pas marcha jusqu’à la rue de la Verrerie
Où il entra suivi par la troupe des femmes
Qui sortaient des maisons
Qui venaient par les rues traversières les yeux fous
Les mains tendues vers le mélodieux ravisseur
Il s’en allait indifférent jouant son air
Il s’en allait terriblement
Puis ailleurs
A quelle heure le train partira-t-il pour Paris
Appendix 213
The Musician of Saint-Merry
At last I have the right to greet unfamiliar beings

They pass before me and gather in the distance
While everything about them is strange
And their hope is no less strong than mine
I sing not of this world nor of other stars

I sing the possibilities of myself beyond this world and the stars
I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of a wanderer’s death
The 21st day of the month of May 1913

Ferryman of the dead and swarming Merry-widows
Millions of flies were fanning a splendor
When a man with no eyes no nose and no ears
Leaving the Sébasto turned into the rue-Aubry–le-Boucher
The young man was dark with a strawberry blush on his cheeks
Man Oh! Ariadne
He was playing the flute and the music guided his steps
He halted at the corner of the rue Saint-Martin
Playing the tune I am singing and which I invented
All the women in his vicinity gathered near him

They came from every direction
When Saint-Merry’s bells suddenly began to ring
The musician stopped playing and drank from the fountain
At the corner of the rue Simon-le-Franc
Then Saint-Merry fell silent
The stranger resumed his melody on the flute
And retracing his steps walked as far as the rue de la Verrerie
Which he entered followed by the flock of women
Who were coming out of the houses
Who were coming out ot the side streets with wild eyes
Hands stretched toward the melodious ravisher
Unconcerned he strolled along playing his tune
He strolled along terribly
And elsewhere
What time does a train leave for Paris?
214 Appendix
A ce moment
Les pigeons des Moluques fientaient des noix muscades
En même temps
Mission catholique de Bôma qu’as tu fait du sculpteur
Ailleurs
Elle traverse un pont qui relie Bonn à Beuel et disparaît à travers Pützchen
Au même instant
Une jeune fille amoureuse du maire
Dans un autre quartier

Rivalise donc poète avec les étiquettes des parfumeurs
En somme ô rieurs vous n’avez pas tiré grand-chose des hommes

Et à peine avez-vous extrait un peu de graisse de leur misère
Mais nous qui mourons de vivre loin l’un de l’autre
Tendons nos bras et sur ces rails roule un long train de marchandises
Tu pleurais assise près de moi au fond d’un fiacre
Et maintenant
Tu me ressembles tu me ressembles malheureusement
Nous nous ressemblons comme dans l’architecture du siècle dernier

Ces hautes cheminées pareilles à des tours
Nous allons plus haute maintenant et ne touchons plus le sol
Et tandis que le monde vivait et variait

Le cortège des femmes long comme un jour sans pain
Suivait dans la rue de la Verrerie l’heureux musicien
C’est quand jadis le roi s’en allait à Vincennes
Quand les ambassadeurs arrivaient à Paris
Quand le maigre Suger se hâtait vers la Seine
Quand l’émeute mourait autour de Saint-Merry
Les femmes débordaient tant leur nombre était grand
Dans toutes les rues avoisinantes
Et se hâtaient raides comme balle
Afin de suivre le musicien
Appendix 215
At that moment
Pigeons were leaving nutmeg droppings in the Moluccas
At the same time
Catholic mission in Boma what have you done with the sculptor
Elsewhere
She crosses a bridge connecting Bonn and Beuel and disappears in the
direction of Pütchen
At the same moment

A girl in love with the mayor
In another quarter
So emulate oh poet the labels of perfume-makers
In short oh mockers you have not gotten a great deal out of men
And you have barely extracted a little grease from their misery
But we who are dying because we live so far apart
Stretch out our arms and along these rails rolls a long freight train
Seated next to me you were crying in the back of a horse-drawn cab
And now
You resemble me unhappily you resemble me
We resemble each other as in the architecture of the last century

Those tall chimneys shaped like towers
We are going higher and higher now and no longer touch the ground
And while the world was living and fluctuating
The procession of women long as a day without bread

Followed the lucky musician in the rue de la Verrerie
Processions oh processions
When long ago the king would leave for Vincennes
When the ambassadors would come to Paris
When the meager Suger hastened toward the Seine
When the rioting died out around Saint-Merry
So numerous were the women that they overflowed
Into all the neighboring streets
Hurrying swift as a bullet
To follow the musician
216 Appendix
Ah! Ariane et toi Pâquette et toi Amine

Et toi Mia et toi Simone et toi Mavise
Et toi Colette et toi la belle Geneviève
Elles ont passé tremblantes et vaines
Et leurs pas légers et prestes se mouvaient selon la cadence
De la musique pastorale qui guidait
Leurs oreilles avides
L’inconnu s’arrêta un moment devant une maison à vendre

Maison abandonnée
Aux vitres brisées
C’est un logis du seizième siecle
La cour sert de remise à des voitures de livraisons
C’est là qu’entra le musicien
Sa musique qui s’éloignait devint langoureuse
Les femmes le suivirent dans la maison abandonnée
Et toutes y entrèrent confondues en bande
Toutes toutes y entrèrent sans regarder derrière elles
Sans regretter ce qu’elles ont laissé
Ce qu’elles ont abandonné
Sans regretter le jour la vie et la mémoire
Il ne resta bientôt plus personne dans la rue de la Verrerie
Sinon moi-même et un prêtre de Saint-Merry
Nous entrâmes dans la vieille maison
Mais nous n’y trouvâmes personne

Voici le soir
A Saint-Merry c’est l’Angélus qui sonne
C’est quand jadis le roi revenait de Vincennes
Il vint une troupe de casquettiers
Il vint des marchands de bananes
Il vint des soldats de la garde républicaine
O nuit
Troupes de regards langoureux des femmes
O nuit
Toi ma douleur et mon attente vaine
J’entends mourir le son d’une flûte lointaine
Appendix 217
Oh! Ariadne and you Pâquette and you Amine

And you Mia and you Simone and you Mavise
And you Colette and you lovely Genevieve
They passed by trembling and vain
And their quick light steps moved in cadence
To the pastoral music guiding
Their eager ears
The stranger stopped a moment before a house for sale

An abandoned house
With broken windows
A sixteenth-century dwelling
With delivery vans parked in the courtyard
The musician proceeded to enter
His music became languorous as it grew fainter
The women followed him into the abandoned house
And all of them entered together in a group
All all entered without a backward glance
Without regretting light life or memory
Soon no one was left in the rue de la Verrerie
But myself and a priest from Saint-Merry
We entered the old house
But we found no one there
It is evening
At Saint-Merry the Angelus is ringing
When long ago the king would return from Vincennes
There came a troop of hatters
There came some banana pedlars
There came some Republican Guardsmen
Oh night
Flock of languorous feminine glances
Oh night
You my sorrow and my vain expectation
I hear the sound of a flute dying away in the distance
218 Appendix
Un Fantôme de nuées
Comme c’était la veille du quatorze juillet

Vers les quatre heures de l’après-midi
Je descendis dans la rue pour aller voir les saltimbanques
Ces gens qui font des tours en plein air

Commencent à être rares à Paris
Dans ma jeunesse on en voyait beaucoup plus qu’aujourd’hui
Ils s’en sont allés presque tous en province
Je pris le boulevard Saint-Germain

Et sur une petite place située entre Saint-Germain-des-Près et la statue de Danton
Je rencontrai les saltimbanques
La foule les entourait muette et résignée à attendre

Je me fis une place dans ce cercle afin de tout voir
Poids formidables
Villes de Belgique soulevées à bras tendu par un ouvrier russe de Longwy
Haltères noirs et creux qui ont pour tige un fleuve figé
Doigts roulant une cigarette amère et délicieuse comme la vie
De nombreux tapis sales couvraient le sol

Tapis qui ont des plis qu’on ne défera pas
Et où quelques taches jaunes ou vertes ont persisté
Comme un air de musique qui vous poursuit
Vois-tu le personnage maigre et sauvage

La cendre de ses pères lui sortait en barbe grisonnante
Il portait ainsi toute son hérédité au visage
Il semblait rêver à l’avenir
En tournant machinalement
Un orgue de Barbarie
Dont la lente voix se lamentait merveilleusement
Les glouglous les couacs et les sourds gémissements
Les saltimbanques ne bougeaient pas

Le plus vieux avait un maillot couleur de ce rose violâtre qu’ont aux joues
certaines jeunes filles fraîches mais près de la mort
Ce rose-là se niche surtout dans les plis qui entourent souvent leur bouche
Appendix 219
A Phantom of Clouds
Since it was the evening before Bastille Day

Toward four o’clock in the afternoon
I went down the street to see the acrobats
These people who perform outdoors

Are beginning to be scarce in Paris
In my youth you saw a lot more than today
Almost all of them have gone to the provinces
I took the Boulevard Saint-Germain

And on a little square between Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Danton’s statue
I encountered the acrobats
The crowd surrounded them silently resigned to waiting

I found a space in the circle where I could see everything
Enormous weights
Belgian cities lifted at arm’s length by a Russian worker from Longwy
Hollow black dumbbells with a frozen river for a handle
Fingers rolling a cigarette as bitter and delicious as life
Numerous dirty rugs covered the ground

Rugs with wrinkles that will never come out
Rugs almost entirely the color of dust
And with a few yellow or green spots that persist
Like a musical tune that pursues you
Do you see that savage skinny man

His fathers’ ashes were transformed into his graying beard
His entire heredity was visible on his face
He seemed to dream of the future
While mechanically cranking a barrel organ
Whose slow voice lamented marvelously
Emitting glug-glugs squawks and muffled moans
The acrobats didn’t budge

The oldest had a rosy violet costume the same color as the cheeks of
certain young girls near death
The rosiness tends to nestle in the creases around their mouths

220 Appendix
Ou près des narines

C’est un rose plein de traîtrise
Cet homme portait-il ainsi sur le dos

La teinte ignoble de ses poumons
Les bras les bras partout montaient la garde
Le second saltimbanque
N’était vêtu que de son ombre
Je le regardai longtemps
Son visage m’échappe entièrement
C’est un homme sans tête
Un autre enfin avait l’air d’un voyou

D’un apache bon et crapule à la foi
Avec son pantalon bouffant et les accroche-chaussettes
N’aurait-il pas eu l’apparence d’un maquereau à sa toilette
La musique se tut et ce furent des pourparlers avec le public

Qui sou à sou jeta sur le tapis la somme de deux francs cinquante
Au lieu des trois francs que le vieux avait fixés comme prix des tours
Mais quand il fut clair que personne ne donnerait plus rien

On se décida à commencer la séance
De dessous l’orgue sortit un tout petit saltimbanque habillé de rose
pulmonaire
Avec de la fourrure aux poignets et aux chevilles
Il poussait des cris brefs
Et saluait en écartant gentiment les avant-bras
Mains ouvertes
Une jambe en arrière prête à la génuflexion

Il salua ainsi aux quatre points cardinaux
Et quand il marcha sur une boule
Son corps mince devint une musique si délicate que nul parmi les
spectateurs
n’y fut insensible
Un petit esprit sans aucune humanité
Pensa chacun
Et cette musique des formes
Appendix 221
Or near their nostrils

It is a rosiness filled with treachery
Thus the man bore the ignoble color of his lungs

On his back
Arms human arms everywhere mounted guard
The second acrobat

Was dressed only in his shadow
I watched him a long time
His face escapes me altogether
He is a man with no head
Another looked like a thug

Like a ruffian who was both good natured and a scoundrel
With his baggy pants and garters holding up his socks
He looked like a dolled-up pimp
The music stopped followed by negotiations with the public
Which centime by centime tossed the sum of two and a half francs onto the
rug
Instead of the three francs set by the old man as the price of the
performance
But when it was clear that no one was going to give any more
They decided to begin the show
From beneath the organ a tiny acrobat emerged dressed in pulmonary pink
With fur around his wrists and ankles
He uttered short cries
And saluted by gracefully parting his forearms
With his fingers outspread
One leg in back ready to genuflect

He saluted the four cardinal directions
And when he balanced on a ball
His slim body became a music so delicate that none of the spectators
failed to be moved
A tiny spirit with no humanity
Everyone thought
And the music of forms
222 Appendix
Détruisit celle de l’orgue mécanique

Que moulait l’homme au visage couvert d’ancêtres
Le petit saltimbanque fit la roue

Avec tant d’harmonie
Que l’orgue cessa de jouer
Et que l’organiste se cacha le visage dans les mains
Aux doigts semblables aux descendants de son destin
Foetus miniscules qui lui sortaient de la barbe
Nouveaux cris de Peau-Rouge
Musique angélique des arbres
Disparition de l’enfant
Les saltimbanques soulevèrent les gros haltères à bout de bras

Ils jonglèrent avec les poids
Mais chaque spectateur cherchait en soi l’enfant miraculeux

Siècle ô siècle des nuages
La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou
ô batailles la terre tremble comme une mandoline

COMME LA BALLE A TRAVERS LE CORPS
LE SON TRAVERSE la vérité
car la RAISON C’est ton Art Femme
que cet oeillet te dise la loi des odeurs

qu’on n’a pas encore promulguée
et qui viendra un jour régner sur nos cerveaux
bien + précise + subtile que les sons qui nous dirigent
Je préfere ton nez à tous tes organes ô mon amie
Il est le trône de la future SAGESSE
O nez de la pipe les odeurs (centre O fourneau) y forgent les chaînes O

(O univers) infiniment déliées qui lient les autres raisons formelles
Appendix 223
Destroyed that of the mechanical organ

Cranked by the the man whose face was covered by his ancestors
The tiny acrobat turned cartwheels

With such harmony
That the organ stopped playing
And the organist hid his face in his hands
Whose fingers resembled descendents of his destiny
Miniscule fetuses sticking out of his beard
New Redskin cries
Angelic music of the trees
Disappearance of the child
The acrobats lifted the heavy dumbbells at arm’s length

They juggled with the weights
But each spectator searched in himself for the miraculous child

Century oh century of clouds
The Mandolin the Carnation and the Bamboo
oh battles the earth trembles like a mandolin

LIKE A BULLET PIERCING A BODY
SOUND PIERCES truth
for REASON is your Art Woman
let this carnation teach you the law of odors

that is yet to be formulated
and which one day will reign over our brains
much more precise and subtle than the sounds that direct us
I prefer your nose to all your other organs my dear
It is the throne of future WISDOM
Oh nose of the pipe odors (center O bowl) forge infinitely tenuous

chains there O (O universe) linking the other formal reasons together
224 Appendix
La Nuit d’avril 1915
A L. de C.-C.
Le ciel est étoilé par les obus des Boches

La forêt merveilleuse où je vis donne un bal
La mitrailleuse joue un air à triples-croches
Mais avez-vous le mot
Eh! oui le mot fatal
Aux créneaux Aux créneaux Laissez là les pioches
Comme un astre éperdu qui cherche ses saisons

Coeur obus éclaté tu sifflais ta romance
Et tes mille soleils ont vidé les caissons
Que les dieux de mes yeux remplissent en silence
Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons
Les obus miaulaient un amour à mourir

Un amour qui se meurt est plus doux que les autres
Ton souffle nage au fleueve où le sang va tarir
Les obus miaulaient
Entends chanter les nôtres
Pourpre amour salué par ceux qui vont périr
Le printemps tout mouillé la veilleuse l’attaque

Il pleut mon âme il pleut mais il pleut des yeux morts
Ulysse que de jours pour rentrer dans Ithaque
Couche-toi sur la paille et songe un beau remords
Qui pur effet de l’art soit aphrodisiaque
Mais
orgues
aux fétus de la paille où tu dors
L’hymne de l’avenir est paradisiaque.
Appendix 225
April Night 1915
A L. de C.-C.
The sky is starred by the Hun’s shells

The marvelous forest where I live is holding a ball
The machine gun plays a tune in ¾ time
But do you have the word
Eh! yes the fatal word
To the earthworks To the earthworks Drop your picks
Like a bewildered star searching for its seasons

Heart exploded shell you whistled your love song
And your thousand suns have emptied the caissons
That the gods of my eyes fill in silence
We love you oh life and we irritate you
The shells were yowling a deadly love

A dying love is sweeter than any other
Your breath swims in the river where blood will dry up
The shells were yowling a deadly love
Listen to ours sing
Purple love saluted by those about to die
Spring drenched in rain the nightlight the attack

It is raining my dear it is raining but it’s raining dead eyes
Ulysses so many days to return home to Ithaca
Fall asleep on the straw and dream a beautiful remorse
A purely artistic effect that is aphrodisiac
But
organ music
on the straw where you sleep
The hymn to the future is paradisiac
226 Appendix
L’Adieu du cavalier
Ah Dieu! Que la guerre est jolie

Avec ses chants ses longs loisirs
Cette bague je l’ai polie
Le vent se mêle à vos soupirs
Adieu! Voici le boute-selle

Il disparut dans un tournant
Et mourut là-bas tandis qu’elle
Riait au destin surprenant
Dans l’abri-caverne
Je me jette vers toi et il me semble aussi que tu te jettes vers moi

Une force part de nous qui est un feu solide qui nous soude
Et puis il y a aussi une contradiction qui fait que nous ne pouvons
nous apercevoir
En face de moi la paroi de craie s’effrite
Il y a des cassures
De longues traces d’outils traces lisses et qui semblent être faites
dans de la stéarine
Des coins de cassures sont arrachés par le passage des types de ma pièce
Moi j’ai ce soir une âme qui s’est creusée qui est vide
On dirait qu’on y tombe sans cesse et sans trouver de fond
Et qu’il n’y a rien pour se raccrocher
Ce qui y tombe et qui y vit c’est une sorte d’êtres laids qui me font mal
et qui viennent de je ne sais où
Oui je crois qu‘ils viennent de la vie d’une sorte de vie qui est dans
l’avenir dans l’avenir brut qu’on n’a pu encore cultiver ou élever
ou humaniser
Dans ce grand vide de mon âme il manque un soleil il manque ce qui éclaire
C’est aujourd’hui c’est ce soir et non toujours
Heureusement que ce n’est que ce soir
Les autres jours je me rattache à toi
Les autres jours je me console de la solitude et de toutes les horreurs
En imaginant ta beauté
Appendix 227
The Cavalier’s Farewell
Oh God! what a lovely war

With its songs its leisure hours
I have polished this ring
The wind mingles with your sighs
Farewell! the call to saddle up sounds

He disappeared around a corner in the road
And died over there while she
Laughed at fate’s surprises
In the Underground Bunker
I propel myself toward you and I think you propel yourself toward me
A force comes from within us that is a solid fire welding us together
And yet paradoxically we cannot glimpse each other
Opposite me the chalk wall crumbles
There are some fractures
Some long smooth traces of tools apparently made in tallow
Some of the fractures’ corners have been damaged in passing by
members of my crew
My soul this evening is hollow and empty
One could fall into it forever seemingly without hitting the bottom
And there is nothing to grab onto
What falls into it and lives there is a bunch of ugly beings that hurt me
and come from I don’t know where
Yes I think they come from life from a kind of future life in the brutish future
not yet cultivated or improved or humanized
In my soul’s huge emptiness there is no sun there is no kind of light
It is today it is tonight but not forever
Luckily it is only for tonight
Other days I cling to you
Other days I console myself for the solitude and for all the horrors
228 Appendix
Pour l’élever au-dessus de l’univers extasié

Puis je pense que je l’imagine en vain
Je ne la connais par aucun sens
Ni même par les mots
Et mon goût de la beauté est-il donc aussi vain
Existes-tu mon amour
Ou n’es-tu qu’une entité que j’ai créé sans le vouloir
Pour peupler la solitude
Es-tu une de ces déesses comme celles que les Grecs
avaient douées pour moins s’ennuyer
Je t’adore ô ma déesse exquise même si tu n’es que dans mon imagination.
Océan de terre
To G. de Chirico
J’ai bâti une maison au milieu de l’Océan
Ses fenêtres sont les fleuves qui s’écoulent de mes yeux
Des poulpes grouillent partout où se tiennent les murailles
Entendez battre leur triple coeur et leur bec cogner aux vitres
Maison humide
Maison ardente
Saison rapide
Saison qui chante
Les avions pondent des oeufs
Attention on va jeter l’ancre
Attention à l’encre que l’on jette
Il serait bon que vous vinssiez du ciel
Le chèvrefeuille du ciel grimpe
Les poulpes terrestres palpitent
Et puis nous sommes tant et tant à être nos propres fossoyeurs
Pâles poulpes des vagues crayeuses ô poulpes aux becs pâles
Autour de la maison il y a cet océan que tu connais
Et qui ne se repose jamais
Appendix 229
By imagining your beauty

And raising it above the ecstatic universe
Then I think that I am imagining it in vain
I don’t know it through any of my senses
Nor even by words
And my taste for beauty is it also as vain
Do you exist my love
Or are you only a being I have created involuntarily
To populate my solitude
Are you like one of those goddesses the Greeks created to stave off
boredom
I adore you my exquisite goddess even if you exist only in my imagination
Ocean of Earth
To G. de Chirico
I have built a house in the middle of the Ocean
Its windows are the streams that flow from my eyes
Octopi swarm all over the walls
Listen to their triple hearts beat and their beaks tap on the windows
Humid house
Ardent house
Rapid season
Singing season
The airplanes are laying eggs
Pay attention they are throwing out the anchor
Pay attention to the ink they are throwing out
It would be excellent if you descended from the sky
The sky’s honeysuckle is climbing
The terrestrial octopi palpitate
And then many of us are basically our own gravediggers
Pale octopi of the chalky waves oh octopi with pale beaks
Surrounding the house is that ocean you know well
And which is continually in motion
230 Appendix
Il y a
Il y a dans le ciel six saucisses et la nuit venant on dirait

des asticots dont naîtraient les étoiles
Il y a un sous-marin ennemi qui en voulait à mon amour
Il y a mille petits sapins brisés par les éclats d’obus autour de moi
Il y a un fantassin qui passe aveuglé par les gaz asphyxiants
Il y a que nous avons tout haché dans les boyaux de Nietzsche
de Goethe et de Cologne
Il y a que je languis après une lettre qui tarde
Il y a dans mon porte-cartes plusieurs photos de mon amour
Il y a les prisonniers qui passent la mine inquiète
Il y a une batterie dont les servants s’agitent autour des pièces
Il y a le vaguemestre qui arrive au trot par le chemin de
l’Arbre isolé
Il y a dit-on un espion qui rôde par ici invisible comme l’horizon
dont il s’est indignement revêtu et avec quoi il se confond
Il y a dressé comme un lys le buste de mon amour
Il y a un capitaine qui attend avec anxiété les communications de
la T. S. F. sur l’Atlantique
Il y a à minuit des soldats qui scient des planches pour les cercueils.
Il y a des femmes qui demandent du maïs à grands cris devant
un Christ sanglant à Mexico
Il y a le Gulf Stream qui est si tiède et si bienfaisant
Il y a un cimetière plein de croix à 5 kilomètres
Il y a des croix partout de-ci de-là
Il y a des figues de Barbarie sur ces cactus en Algérie
Il y a les longues mains souples de mon amour
Appendix 231
There is / There Are
There is a ship that has taken my beloved away

There are six sausages in the sky and at nightfall they resemble maggots
which will give birth to the stars
There is an enemy submarine that threatened my beloved
There are a thousand little fur trees broken by the shells bursting around me
There is a soldier passing by blinded by clouds of poison gas
There is everything we have blasted to pieces in the Nietzsche Goethe
and Cologne trenches
There is my longing for a letter that hasn’t come
There are several photos of my beloved in my wallet
There are prisoners who pass by looking very unhappy
There is a battery whose crew busy themselves with the cannons
There is a quartermaster arriving at a trot on the Lone Tree path
There is a spy prowling around whom they say is as invisible as the horizon
he is unworthily wearing and which he blends into
There is a portrait of my beloved as upright as a lily
There is a captain anxiously awaiting radio messages on the Atlantic
There are soldiers at midnight sawing planks for coffins
There are women loudly demanding corn before a bleeding Christ in
Mexico City
There is the Gulf Stream so temperate and beneficial
There is a cemetery full of crosses 5 kilometers away
There are crosses everywhere over here over there
There are prickly pears on the cacti in Algeria
There are my beloved’s long supple hands
There is an inkwell I made from an empty 15 centimeter shell
232 Appendix
Il y a un encrier que j’avais fait dans une fusée de 15 centimètres et qu’on n’a
pas laissé partir
Il y a ma selle exposée à la pluie
Il y a les fleuves qui ne remontent pas leurs cours
Il y a l’amour qui m’entraîne avec douceur
Il y avait un prisonnier boche qui portait sa mitrailleuse sur son dos
Il y a des hommes dans le monde qui n’ont jamais eté à la guerre
Il y a des Hindous qui regardent avec étonnement les compagnes
occidentales
Ils pensent avec mélancolie à ceux dont ils se demandent s’ils les reverront
Car on a poussé très loin durant cette guerre l’art de l’invisibilité.
Le Chant d’amour
Voici de quoi est fait le chant symphonique de l’amour

Il y a le chant de l’amour de jadis
Le bruit des baisers éperdus des amants illustres
Les cris d’amour des mortelles violées par les dieux
Les virilités des héros fabuleux érigées comme des pièces contre avions
Le hurlement précieux de Jason
Le chant mortel du cygne
Et l’hymne victorieux que les premiers rayons du soleil ont fait chanter
à Memnon l’immobile
Il y a le cri des Sabines au moment de l’enlèvement
Il y a aussi les cris d’amour des félins dans les jongles
La rumeur sourde des sèves montant dans les plantes tropicales
Le tonnerre des artilleries qui accomplissent le terrible amour des peuples
Les vagues de la mer où naît la vie et la beauté
Il y a là le chant de tout l’amour du monde.

Appendix 233
There is my saddle exposed to the rain

There are rivers that never reverse their course
There is love that sweetly carries me away
There was a Kraut prisonner who carried his machine gun on his back
There are men in the world who have never been to war
There are Hindus who regard the Western campaigns with astonishment
They wonder sadly if they will ever see their friends and relatives again
For the art of invisibility has greatly advanced during this war
The Song of Love
This is what love’s symphonic hymn comprises

There is the love song of by-gone days
The sound of famous lovers’ passionate kisses
The love cries of mortal women violated by the gods
The virilities of fabled heros erect like anti-aircraft guns
The precious shouting of Jason
The mortal song of the swan
And the victorious hymn the first rays of sunlight caused immobile
Memnon to sing
There is the cry of the Sabine Women as they were carried off
There are also the love cries of felines in the jungles
The quiet sound of sap rising in tropical plants
The thunder of artilleries inflicting the terrible love of nations
The waves in the sea where life and beauty are born
That is the love song of the whole world

234 Appendix
Chevaux de Frise

Alors que les arbres déchiquetés par l’artillerie
Vieillisaient encore sous la neige
Et semblaient à peine des chevaux de frise
Entourés de vagues de fils de fer
Mon coeur renaissait comme un arbre au printemps
Un arbre fuitier sur lequel s’épanouissent
Les fleurs de l’amour

Tandis que chantaient épouvantablement les obus
Et que les fleurs mortes de la terre exhalaient
Leurs mortelles odeurs
Moi je décrivais tous les jours mon amour à Madeleine
La neige met de pâles fleurs sur les arbres
Et toisonne d’hermine les chevaux de frise
Que l’on voit partout
Abandonnés et sinistres
Chevaux muets
Non chevaux barbes mais barbelés
Et je les anime tout soudain
En troupeau de jolis chevaux pies
Qui vont vers toi comme de blanches vagues
Sur la Méditerranée
Et t’apportent mon amour.
Roselys ô panthère ô colombes étoile bleue

O Madeleine
Je t’aime avec délices
Si je songe à tes yeux je songe aux sources fraîches
Si je pense à ta bouche les roses m’apparaissent
Si je songe à tes seins le Paraclet descend
O double colombe de ta poitrine
Et vient délier ma langue de poéte
Pour te redire
Je t’aime
Ton visage est un bouquet de fleurs
Appendix 235
Barbed-Wire Barricades
During the white November nights

While the trees cut to pieces by the artillery
Were growing older beneath the snow
And scarcely resembled barbed-wire barricades
Surrounded by waves of iron wire
My heart was reborn like a tree in springtime
A fruit tree on which
Love’s flowers bloom
During the white November nights

While the shells sang horribly
And earth’s dead flowers exhaled
Their deadly odors
I described my love to Madeleine every day
The snow pasted pale flowers on the trees
And ermine fleeces on the barbed-wire barricades
That you see everywhere
Abandoned and sinister
Mute horses
Not Barbary horses but barbed
And I transform them suddenly
Into a herd of lovely piebald horses
That run toward you like white waves
On the Mediterranean
And bring you my love
Roselily oh panther oh doves blue star

Oh Madeleine
Filled with delight I love you
If I think of your eyes I think of cool springs
If I think of your mouth I think of roses
If I think of your breasts the Paraclete descends
Oh double dove of your breast
And comes to loosen my poet’s tongue
To repeat
I love you
Your face is a bouquet of flowers
236 Appendix
Aujourd’hui je te vois non Panthère

Mais Toutefleur
Et je te respire ô ma Toutefleur
Tous les lys montent en toi comme des cantiques d’amour
et d’allégresse
Et ces chants qui s’envolent vers toi
M’emportent à ton côté
Dans ton bel Orient où les lys
Se changent en palmiers qui de leurs belles mains
Me font signe de venir.
La fusée s’épanouit fleur nocturne
Quand il fait noir
Et elle retombe comme une pluie de larmes amoureuses
De larmes heureuses que la joie fait couler
Et je t’aime comme tu m’aimes
Madeleine
Tristesse d’une étoile
Une belle Minerve est l’enfant de ma tête

Une étoile de sang me couronne à jamais
La raison est au fond et le ciel est au faîte
Du chef où dès longtemps Déesse tu t’armais
C’est pourquoi de mes maux ce n’était pas le pire

Ce trou presque mortel et qui s’est étoilé
Mais le secret malheur qui nourrit mon délire
Est bien plus grand qu’aucune âme ait jamais célé
Et je porte avec moi cette ardente souffrance

Comme le ver luisant tient son corps enflammé
Comme au coeur du soldat il palpite la France
Et comme au coeur du lys le pollen parfumé
Appendix 237
Today I see you not as a Panther

But as Allflower
And I breathe you oh my Allflower
The lilies all rise in you like canticles of love and happiness
And those songs flying toward you
Take me to your side
In your lovely Orient where the lilies
Change into palm trees which with their lovely hands
Motion to me to come
The signal flare blooms nocturnal flower
When it is dark
And falls to earth like a rain of amorous tears
Of happy tears flowing from joy
And I love you like you love me
Madeleine
The Sadness of a Star
A lovely Minerva is the child born from my head

A star of blood crowns me forever
Reason is down below and heaven is at the top
Of my head where for so long Goddess you armed yourself
That is why it is not the worst of my troubles
This nearly mortal hole transformed into a star
But the secret sorrow that nourishes my delirium
Is much greater than any soul has ever concealed
And I carry this ardent suffering with me

Like the glow worm bearing its flaming body
Like France throbbing in a soldier‘s heart
Like the fragrant pollen in the heart of a lily
238 Appendix
La Victoire
Un coq chante je rêve et les feuillards agitent

Leurs feuilles qui ressemblent à de pauvres marins
Ailés et tournoyants comme Icare le faux

Des aveugles gesticulant comme des fourmis
Se miraient sous la pluie aux reflets du trottoir
Leurs rires amassés en grappes de raisin
Ne sors plus de chez moi diamant qui parlais

Dors doucement tu es chez toi tout t’appartient
Mon lit ma lampe et mon casque troué
Regards précieux saphirs taillés aux environs de Saint-Claude

Les jours étaient une pure émeraude.
Je me souviens de toi ville des météores

Ils fleurissaient en l’air pendant ces nuits où rien ne dort
Jardins de la lumière où j’ai cueilli des bouquets
Tu dois en avoir assez de faire peur à ce ciel

Qu’il garde son hoquet
On imagine difficilement
A quel point le succès rend les gens stupides et tranquilles
A l’institut des jeunes aveugles on a demandé

N’avez-vous point de jeune aveugle ailé.
O bouches l’homme est à la recherche d’un nouveau langage

Auquel le grammairien d’aucune langue n’aura rien à dire
Et ces vieilles langues sont tellement près de mourir

Que c’est vraiment par habitude et manque d’audace
Qu’on les fait encore servir à la poésie
Mais elles sont comme des malades sans volonté

Ma foi les gens s’habitueraient vite au mutisme
La mimique suffit bien au cinéma
Mais entêtons-nous à parler

Remuons la langue
Appendix 239
Victory
A cock crows I am dreaming and the branches shake

Their leaves that resemble poor sailors
Winged and whirling like Icarus the false

Some blind men gesticulating like ants
Were gazing at their reflections on the rainy sidewalk
Their laughs heaped up in bunches of grapes
Don’t leave me again talkative diamond

Sleep sweetly you are at home everything belongs to you
My bed my lamp and my punctured helmet
Precious glances sapphires cut near Saint-Claude

The days were a pure emerald
I remember you city of meteors

They bloomed in the air during those sleepless nights
Gardens of light where I picked bouquets
You must be tired of frightening the sky

Let it keep its hiccups
It’s difficult to imagine

How stupid and content success makes people
At the institute for the blind someone asked

“Don’t you have a young blind person with wings”
Oh mouths mankind is seeking a new language

No grammarian anywhere will be involved
And these old languages are so near to dying

That it is only from habit and lack of boldness
That people still use them for poetry
But they resemble listless patients

Frankly people would soon adapt to muteness
Pantomiming works just fine in the movies
But let’s insist on speaking

Let’s move our tongues about
240 Appendix
Lançons des postillons

On veut des nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons
On veut des consonnes sans voyelles
Des consonnes qui pètent sourdement
Imitez le son de la toupie
Laissez pétiller un son nasal et continu
Faites claquer votre langue
Servez-vous du bruit sourd de celui qui mange sans civilité
Le raclement aspiré du crachement ferait aussi une belle consonne
Les divers pets labiaux rendraient aussi vos discours claironnants

Habituez-vous à roter à volonté
Et quelle lettre grave comme un son de cloche
A travers non mémoires.
Nous n’aimons pas assez la joie
De voir les belles choses neuves
O mon amie hâte-toi
Crains qu’un jour un train ne t’émeuve
Plus
Regarde-le plus vite pour toi
Ces chemins de fer qui circulent
Sortiront bientôt de la vie
Ils seront beaux et ridicules.
Deux lampes brûlent devant moi
Comme deux femmes qui rient
Je courbe tristement la tête
Devant l’ardente moquerie
Ce rire se répand
Partout
Parlez avec les mains faites claquer vos doigts
Tapez-vous sur la joue comme sur un tambour
O paroles
Elles suivent dans la myrtaie
L’Eros et l’Antéros en larmes
Je suis le ciel de la cité.
Ecoutez la mer
La mer gémir au loin et crier toute seule

Appendix 241
Let’s splutter
We want new sounds new sounds new sounds
We want consonants without vowels
Consonants that burst quietly
Imitate the sound of a top
Make a prolonged nasal sound that crackles
Clack your tongue
Make muffled noises like a slob eating
The aspirated scrape of spitting would also make a lovely consonant
Various labial farts would also emphasize your words

Train yourself to belch at will
And what letter cuts like the sound of a bell
Across our memories
We don’t fully love the joy
Of seeing beautiful new things
Oh my dear make haste
Be afraid that one day a train will fail to
Move you
Look at it faster for your own sake
These circulating railroad trains
Will soon vanish from our lives
They will be beautiful and ridiculous
Two lamps are burning before me
Like two women who are laughing
I sadly bow my head
Before that ardent mockery
Their laughter spreads
Everywhere
Speak with your hands click your fingers
Tap on your cheek as on a drum
O words
In the myrtle garden they follow
Eros and Anteros in tears
I am the city’s sky
Listen to the sea
The sea moaning far away and crying all alone

242 Appendix
Ma vois fidèle comme l’ombre

Veut être enfin l’ombre de la vie
Veut être ô mer vivante infidèle comme toi
La mer qui a trahi des matelots sans nombre

Engloutit mes grands cris comme des dieux noyés
Et la mer au soleil ne supporte que l’ombre
Que jette des oiseaux les ailes éployées
La parole est soudaine et c’est un Dieu qui tremble

Avance et soutiens-moi je regrette les mains
De ceux qui les tendaient et m’adoraient ensemble
Quelle oasis de bras m’accueillera demain
Connais-tu cette joie de voir des choses neuves
O voix je parle le language de la mer

Et dans la port la nuit les dernières tavernes
Moi qui suis plus têtu que non l’hydre de Lerne.
La rue où nagent mes deux mains

Aux doigts subtils fouillant la ville
S’en va mais qui sait si demain
La rue devenait immobile
Qui sait où serait mon chemin
Songe que les chemins de fer
Seront démodées et abandonnées dans peu de temps
Regarde
La Victoire avant tout sera

De bien voir au loin
De tout voir
De près
Et que tout ait un nom nouveau.
Appendix 243
My voice as faithful as my shadow

Wants finally to be the shadow of life
Wants to be oh living sea unfaithful like you
The sea which has betrayed innumerable sailors

Engulfs my loud cries like drowned gods
And the sunny sea only supports the shadows
Cast by birds with outspread wings
The word is sudden and it is a God that trembles

Advance and support me I miss the adoring hands
Of those who stretched them toward me all together
What oasis of arms will welcome me tomorrow
Do you know the joy of seeing new things
Oh voices I speak the language of the sea

And in the harbor at night the last taverns
I who am more stubborn than the Hydra of Lerna
The street where my two hands are swimming

With subtle fingers searching the town
Disappears but who knows if tomorrow
The street might become immobile
Who knows where my path would be
Just think railroads
Will be old fashioned and abandoned before long
Look
Victory will be above all

To see far into the distance
To see everything
Close at hand
And may everything have a new name
244 Appendix
La Jolie Rousse
Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sens

Connaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu’un vivant peut connaître
Ayant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l’amour
Ayant su quelquefois imposer ses idées
Connaissant plusieurs langages
Ayant pas mal voyagé
Ayant vu la guerre dans l’Artillerie et l’Infanterie
Blessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroforme
Ayant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l’effroyable lutte
Je sais d’ancien et de nouveau autant qu’un homme seul
pourrait des deux savoir
Et sans m’inquiéter aujourd’hui de cette guerre
Entre nous et pour nous mes amis
Je juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l’invention
De l’Ordre et de l’Aventure.
Vous dont la bouche est faite à l’image de Dieu

Bouche qui est l’ordre même
Soyez indulgents quand vous nous comparez
A ceux qui furent la perfection de l’ordre
Nous qui quêtons partout l’aventure
Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemis

Nous voulons vous donner de vastes et d’étranges domaines
Où le mystère en fleurs s’offre à qui veut le cueillir
Il y a là des feux nouveaux des couleurs jamais vues
Mille phantasmes impondérables
Auxquels il faut donner de la réalité
Nous voulons explorer la bonté contrée énorme où tout se tait

Il y a aussi le temps qu’on peut chasser ou faire revenir
Pitié pour nous qui combattons toujours aux frontières
De l’illimité et de l’avenir
Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés.
Voici que vient l’été la saison violente

Et ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printemps
O Soleil c’est le temps de la Raison ardente
Appendix 245
The Pretty Redhead
Here I am before you a man full of sense

Knowing as much about life and death as a living man can know
Having experienced the pains and the joys of love
Having sometimes been able to impose my ideas
Knowing several languages
Having traveled quite a bit
Having seen the war in the Artillery and the Infantry
Wounded in the head trepanned under chloroform
Having lost my best friends in the horrible conflict
I know as much about old and new as one person can know
And without worrying today about that war
Between us and for us my friends
I judge the long quarrel between tradition and invention
Between Order and Adventure
You whose mouth is made in the image of God’s

Mouth that is order itself
Be indulgent when you compare us
To those who were the perfection of order
We who search for adventure everywhere
We are not your enemies

We want to give you vast and strange domains
Where mystery in flower awaits those who will pick it
There are new fires and colors never seen before
A thousand imponderable visions
Waiting to become reality
We want to explore kindness that enormous silent country

There is also time which can be suppressed or evoked
Pity us who continually fight on the frontiers
Of the unknown and the future
Pity our errors pity our sins
Here is summer the violent season

And my youth is dead like the springtime
Oh Sun it is the time of ardent Reason
246 Appendix
Et j’attends
Pour la suivre toujours la forme noble et douce
Qu’elle prend afin que je l’aime seulement
Elle vient et m’attire ainsi qu’un fer l’aimant
Elle a l’aspect charmant
D’une adorable rousse
Ses cheveux sont d’or on dirait

Un bel éclair qui durerait
Ou ces flammes qui se pavanent
Dans les roses-thé qui se fanent
Mais riez riez de moi

Hommes de partout surtout gens d’ici
Car il y a tant de choses que je n’ose vous dire
Tant de choses que vous ne me laisseriez pas dire
Ayez pitié de moi.
Appendix 247
And I am waiting
To follow forever the noble and gentle form
She assumes so I will love only her
She arrives and draws me to her as a magnet does iron
She has the charming appearance
Of an adorable redhead
Her hair is made of gold one would say

A lovely lasting lightning flash
Or those flames that erupt
In the fading tea roses
But laugh laugh at me

People everywhere and especially those from here
For there are so many things I don’t dare tell you
So many things you would not let me say
Take pity on me
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1964.
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971‒6 (1991): 133–48.
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Alphabetisch geordnete Sammlung der enartigen Ausdrücke des pariser Argot.
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Waggaman, Beatrice. “Art abstrait pictural et poétique dans ‘Les Fenêtres’ de Delaunay
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(1959): 18–19.
Index
Achilles, 161 Breton, André, 61, 79, 132, 134

Adéma, Pierre-Marcel, 147 Breunig, LeRoy C., 31
Aeacus, 175 Briolet, Daniel, 143, 144, 147
Alcools, 3, 5, 6, 7, 14–15, 142, 163, 173, Burgos, Jean, 178
174, 196 Butor, Michel, 6, 98–9
Aldama, Juan, 101 Brunel, Pierre, 17
Alexandre, Didier, 163
Alighieri, Dante, 78, 160 Caizergues, Pierre, 65
Anteros, 183 Cameron, John Wesley, 18, 19, 20
Antoinette, Marie, 132 Campa, Laurence, 134–6
Aphrodite, 162, 182 Cangiullo, Francesco, 96
Aragon, Louis, 23, 143, 193 Canudo, Ricciotto, 50, 53
Arbouin, Gabriel, 97 “Carte postale,” 110
“Arbre,” 36–50, 51, 64, 206–9 Case d’armons, 110, 125
Argus, 127, 132 Cazottes, Jacques, 54
Ariadne, 45, 64, 75, 77, 78 Cendrars, Blaise, 38–9, 40, 41, 42, 44,
Aristophanes, 76 45–6, 48, 50
Athena, 168, 177, 191 Chagall, Marc, 44, 50–6
“A travers l’Europe,” 29, 50–6, 210–211 “Chant de l’horizon en Champagne,” 156
“Avènement des fumées,” 109 “Chef de pièce,” 139
Chevalier, Jean-Claude, 106, 146–7
Barthes, Roland, 120n32 “Chevaux de Frise,” 162–7, 173, 187
Barzun, Henri-Martin, 103 Chirico, Giorgio de, 75, 142, 147
Bates, Scott, 33, 41–2, 45, 51, 52, 56, Christ, Jesus, 169
58n43, 75, 93, 98, 129–30, 170–1 Clark, J. G., 17, 20, 21
189 Claudel, Paul, 188
Baudelaire, Charles, 7, 82, 88, 169 Claudius, 131
Baudier, Paul, 79 Cocteau, Jean, 168
Beatrice, 160 “Coeur couronne et miroir,” 107
Beelzebub, 74, 78 Coligny-Châtillon, Louise, 108–9, 125,
Bergman Pär, 17, 22 128, 124, 130, 132, 136–7, 144, 146,
Bibesco, Princess Marthe, 42 153, 160, 170, 195
Billy, André, 13, 19, 35, 80 Columbus, Christopher, 189
Boisson, Madeleine, 17, 22, 29–32, 51–2, conversation poetry, 14, 29–36, 37
54, 56, 80–8, 84–5, 127, 169, 170 Couffignal, Robert, 166
Bosch, Hieronymus, 176 Correggio, 98
Boschetti, Anna, 37–8, 96, 98, 107, 157, “Cors de chasse,’ 72
181 Cortège d’Orphée, 74
Boucher, Alfred, 52 Couffignal, Robert, 44
Boutet, Fréderic, 37, 39, 45 Cubist poetry, 5, 7–23, 29–37, 38–56,
Braque, Georges, 30, 98 61–79, 93–106, 159–67, 176–92
Index 257
D..., M., 53 Dulaure, J. A., 73, 76

Daedalus, 184 Duneton, Claude, 53
Dame-Abonde, 47–8 Durry, Marie-Jeanne, 134
“Dans l’abri-caverne,” 137–41, 196 Dutton, K. R., 14
Danton, Georges Jacques, 80 Dyssord, Jacques, 30, 34–6, 103
Davies, Margaret, and “Arbre,” 38;
“Chevaux de Frise,” 163; “Il y a,” Eglantine, Fabre, d’, 132
155; “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 135; “La Eiffel, Gustave, 52
Jolie Rousse,” 190; “La Mandoline Eluard, Paul, 173
l’oeillet et le bambou,” 110, 112–13, Empedocles, 20, 78
117; “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124; Erigone, 56
“La Victoire,” 186; “Le Musicien de Eros, 78, 183
Saint-Merry,”62, 67; “Les Fenêtres,” Et moi aussi je suis peintre, 98
14; “Lettre-Océan,” 96, 102; “Liens,” Euripedes, 75
11; “Lundi rue Christine,” 30–1; Eurydice, 41, 74
“Tristesse d’une étoile,” 170; “Un experimental poetry, 6, 7–23, 29–56,
Fantôme de nuées,” 85; “Vitam 61–79, 93–118
Impendere Amori,” 90n24
Debon, Claude, 5, and “A travers l’Europe,” Fagus, Félicien, 107–8
50–1; “Arbre,” 38, 41, 46, 48, 49; Faure-Favier, Louise de, 133
“Chevaux de Frise,” 163, 167; “Dans Fongaro, Antoine, 67, 72, 81, 86, 88, 103,
l’abri-caverne,” 137; “Il y a,” 155, 157, 113, 197n2
158; “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 136; “La Fort, Paul, 7
Jolie Rousse,” 189; “La Mandoline Freud, Sigmund, 77, 146, 161
l’oeillet et le bambou,” 116; “La Nuit
d’avril 1915,” 127, 130, 132; “La Gauthier-Villars, Henry, 50
Victoire,” 174, 178–9, 180, 181, 184, Geinoz, Philippe, 51, 53–4, 56
186; “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” Go ldenstein, Jean-Pierre, 100–1, 103, 104,
61; “Les Fenêtres,” 13, 14; “Liens,” 7, 110
8, 10; “Lundi rue Christine,” 31–4, 36; Grammont, Maurice, 4
“Océan de terre,” 143, 144, 147; “Un Greet, Anne Hyde, and “A travers
Fantôme de nuées,” 80, 82, 85, 88 l’Europe,” 51, 56; “Arbre,” 41, 46,
Décaudin, Michel, 5, 14, 47, 47, 49, 50; “Chevaux de Frise,”
62, 124, 144, 146, 169, 163, 165; “L’Adieu du cavalier,”
170, 186, 195 134–6; “La Jolie Rousse,” 192; “La
Delaunay, Robert, 11–23, 83, 106 Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,”
Delbreil, Daniel, 97, 105 117; “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124,
Delcourt, Maurice, 53 128, 129, 130; “La Victoire,” 176,
Denis, Maurice, 53 178, 179, 180, 184, 185; “Le Chant
Dickow, Alexandre, 37–9, 41–6, 48 d’amour,” 160, 161; “Le Musicien de
Dininman, Françoise, 97, 105 Saint-Merry,” 62; “Les Fenêtres,” 11,
Dionysos, 74, 75, 76, 13, 16, 17, 19, 22; “Lettre-Océan,”
77, 78, 160 105; “Liens,” 8, 11; “Lundi rue
Dostoievski, Feodor, 45 Christine,” 32; “Océan de terre,”
Douanier Rousseau, 44–5, 115 144, 146, 147; “Tristesse d’une
Duchamp, Marcel, 30 étoile,” 168, 169, 170; “Un Fantôme
Duhamel, Georges, 53 de nuées,” 83, 85, 87
258 Index
Harrow, Susan, 5, 6, 32, 33, 44, 67, 87, “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124–32, 133
139–41, 181, 188 “La Traversée,” 155
Hartley, Anthony, 134 “La Tzigane,” 21
Hera, 79, 88 Laura, 160
Herodotus, 76 Laurencin, Marie, 46, 48–9, 56, 71, 78,
Hermes, 74 115, 130, 132–3
Homer, 184 Lautréamont, Comte de, 195
Homeric Hymns, 75 “La Victoire,” 173–86, 187, 196
Hubert, Etienne-Alain, 51, 52, 53 Le Bestiaire, 114
Hubert, Reneé Riese, 153, 158, 167 “Le Chant d’amour,” 159–72, 196
Huerta, Victoriano, 101, 104 “Le Chat, 114
Hugo, Victor, 168 Leda, 161
Hydre de Lerne, 184 “L’Emigrant de Landor Road,” 38–9
Le Médaillon toujours fermé, 133
Icarios, 54, 56 “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” 29, 61–79,
Icarus, 52, 106, 176, 184, 185 81, 83, 196
“Il pleut,” 9 Le Poète assassiné, 46, 71
Ixion, 79–80, 86, 88, 106 “Le Poulpe,” 147
“Il y a,” 153–8, 160 “Le Roy, Eugène, 103
“Les Fenêtres,” 8, 11–23, 37, 51, 83, 96,
Jacaret, Gilberte, 136–7, 146, 154, 162 104, 154, 196
Jacquot, Clémence, 42 “Les Fiançailles,” 46
Jason, 160–1 Les Peintres cubistes, 10, 30, 83, 86, 106,
Jongeneel, Els, 123–4 133
Jupiter, 168 “L’Esprit nouveau et les poètes,” 181, 186
“Les Collines,” 186
Kahn, Gustave, 195 “Les Soupirs du servant de Dakar,” 158
Kaiser Wlhelm, 131 “Lettre-Océan,” 93–106, 107, 187
Kay, W. Blandford, 20 Levaillant, Jean, 106
Keats, John, 114 “Le Voyageur,” 54
Kolb, Jacqueline, 169, 177, 178, 182, 186, “Liens,” 7–11, 118, 187
187, 190, 191 life in the artillery, 1–2, 123–58, 162–7
Kostrowitzky, Albert de, 49, 100–2, 105, life in the infantry, 1–2, 123, 124
157 Linkhorn, Renée, 12, 18–19, 20–1
Lockerbie, S. I., 8, 25n48 and “A travers
L’Antitradition futuriste, 96 l’Europe,” 51; “Arbre,” 38, 41, 46,
“La Chanson du mal-aimé,” 10, 49, 56, 47, 49, 50; “Chevaux de Frise,” 163,
63, 173 165; “Dans l’abri-caverne,” 137;
“La Clef,” 52–3, 54, 56, 103 “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 134–6; “La
“La Cravate et le montre,” 107 Jolie Rousse,” 192; “La Mandoline
“L’adieu du cavalier,” 132–7, 196 l’oeillet et le bambou, 114, 117; “La
“La figue l’oeillet et la pipe à opium,” 114, Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124, 128, 129,
116 130; “La Victoire,” 176, 178, 179,
Laforgue, Jules, 195 180, 184, 185; “Le Chant d’amour,”
“La Jolie Rousse,” 114, 187–192 160, 161–2; “Le Musicien de Saint-
“La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” Merry,” 62; “Les Fenêtres,” 13, 14,
107–18 16, 17, 19, 22; “Lettre-Océan,”
Index 259
105, 107; “Liens,” 11; “Lundi rue Panado, M., 53

Christine,” 32; “Océan de terre,” Panard, Charles-François, 107–8
142, 146, 147; “Tristesse d’une Papini, Giovanni, 33
étoile,” 168, 169, 170; “Un Fantôme “Paysage,” 107
de nuées,” 83, 85, 87 “Paysage animé,” 107
Longré, Georges, 112–13 Paz, Octavio, 61
love, 1, 129–30, 137, 138, 140–1, 153–4 Peleas, 161
“Lul de Faltenin,” 175–6 Pentheus, 75
“Lundi rue Christine,” 14, 19, 29–36, 37, Petrarch, 160
38, 96, 103, 134–5, 163, 178, 196 Picasso, Pablo, 9–10, 30, 50, 62, 83, 84–5,
87, 93, 98
“Madeleine,” 110 Pied Piper of Hamelin, 72–3, 75, 77
Madsen, Peter, 35 Playden, Annie, 47, 71, 130
Maera, 56 “Poème lu au mariage d’André Salmon,”
Magritte, René, 20 78, 138
Mallarmé, Stéphane, 14, 32, 99, 118 poems about artists, 11–23, 50–6
Marinetti, Filippo Tomaso, 14, 96, 107, Pope Pius X, 103
179 Por, Peter, 186
Martineau, Henri, 61, 142 Poupon, Marc, 8, 39, 48, 64, 69, 71, 73, 77
Mary Magdalene, 73, 78 Priapus, 160
Mathews, Timothy, 8, 13, 36, 49, 63, 105, Prince Mychkin, 45
155 Psalms, 163, 166
Maupassant, Guy de, 43
Mauron, Charles, 106 Rabanus Maurus, 38
Memnon, 161 Rabelais, François, 107–8
Millet, Jean-François, 72 Raphael, 98
“1909,” 18 Read, Peter, 79, 133, 146, 173, 175–6, 184,
“1915,” 110 186
Minerva, 168–9, 177–8, 191 Rees, Garnet, 7
Minotaur, 45, 75 Reid, Thomas Mayne, 21
Mollet, Jean, 64–5 Renaud, Philippe, 11, 90n24 and “Arbre,”
Mondor, Henri, 80 37–8, 40–1, 46, 49–50; “Chevaux
Moore, Catherine, 26n54, 22, 23 de Frise,” 163, 165, 167; “Dans
Moulin, Jeanine, 188 l’abricaverne,” 143; “La Jolie
Mounette-Diaz, 109, 115 Rousse,” 187–8, 191, 192; “La
Müller, Max, 191 Victoire,” 174, 179, 182, 184; “Le
Musset, Alfred de, 128 Musicien de Saint-Merry,” 66, 70,
74; “Lettre-Océan,” 96, 105; “Lundi
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 75 rue Christine,” 30, 31, 35; “Océan
Noah, 10 de terre,” 143; “Un Fantôme des
nuées,” 85–6
“Océan de terre,” 141–8, 196 Reverdy, Pierre, 173
“Ondes,” 6 Richepin, Jean, 29
Orpheus, 74, 186 Richter, Mario, 7, 8, 10, 86, 127, 176
Rimbaud, Arthur, 24n11, 153, 195
Pagès, Madeleine, 6, 13, 137–41, 144, 153, Rinsler, Norma, 123
155–6, 157, 159, 162–7, 170 “Rotsoge,” 50, 51
Pan, 74–5 Rouault, Georges, 14
260 Index
Rowland, Michael L., 16 Tournadre, Claude, see Debon, Claude

Roy, Pierre, 103 Toussaint-Luca, Ange, 104
“Tristesse d’une étoile,” 167–71, 177, 191
Sacks-Galey, Penelope, 105, 113, 114, Tzara, Tristan, 179
117
Saint-Léger Lucas, Anna, 22, 23, 26n54, Ulysses, 131, 132
Sartre, Jean-Paul, 75 “Un Fantôme de nuées,” 61, 79–88, 196
Savinio, Alberto, 75
Schmits, Georges, 98, 100, 103 Valéry, Paul, 4
Schwartz, Paul Waldo, 191 “Venu de Dieuze,” 110, 163
Shattuck, Roger, 162, 164, 167 Venus, 162
Sidra, 189 Verlaine, Paul, 132
Siégler-Pascal, Henri, 198 Vialotte, Alexandre, 53
simultaneous poetry, 11–23, 129–56, Villatte, Césaire, 45
61–79, 93–106, 153–67, 176–92 Villon, François, 41, 64, 65, 71, 160
“Simultanisme-Librettisme,” 37, 98–9, visual poetry, 6, 93–118
102, 103 “Vitam Impendere Amori,” 90n24
Soffici, Ardengo, 33 “Voyage,” 72, 74, 107
Soupault, Philippe, 133
Stravinsky, Igor, 93 Waggaman, Beatrice, 16
Suetonius, 131 war poetry, 6, 123–48, 153–71
Suger, Abbé, 69 Warren, Rosanna, 16
Whitman, Walt, 22, 89n10
The Kalevala, 41 Willy, 50
Theseus, 75
“The Song of Solomon,” 166 Zeus, 79–80, 161, 168
“The Song of Songs,” 166–7 “Zone,” 7, 12, 39, 40, 96, 97
“Tour,” 106 Zurowski, Maciej, 13, 16, 22, 133

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Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

1385 Broadway 50 Bedford Square

First published 2018

© Willard Bohn, 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN: HB: 978-1-5013-3831-1

Cover design: Eleanor Rose

Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd.

1 Revolution and Renewal 5

5 The War Poetry 123

6 More War Poetry 153

“Chevaux de frise” 162

7 Order and Adventure 173

2.1 Augusta Le Baron-desves, Le Marchand de Coco, Paris,

that I do not have a hidden agenda or a special brand of criticism I am trying

Revolution and Renewal

Introducing Calligrammes to the members of the Club du Meilleur Livre

Characterized by ambiguity and a constant oscillation between attachment and

Cordes faites de cris

Sons de clochers à travers l’Europe

Rails qui ligotez les nations

Written in free verse like so many other poems in Calligrammes, “Liens”

on the poet.”12 According to Timothy Mathews, however, “Liens” and “Les

“tied up” or “tied together,” the comparison to prisoners is unavoidable. The

Violente pluie qui peigne les fumées

previous metaphor. Employing an image that occurs elsewhere in Apollinaire’s

J’écris seulement pour vous exalter

Captivated by Robert Delaunay’s prismatic views of airplanes and Parisian

Beauté pâleur insondables violets

As Lockerbie proclaims, “Les Fenêtres” is one of Apollinaire’s most ambitious

in line 5 suggests he could even be talking to someone else. Or perhaps this

valeurs multiples: c’est la fenêtre de la chambre et aussi celle de l’esprit.”62 The

Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes

everything would be experienced at the same time. There is thus no question

1 Michel Décaudin, ed., Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes (Paris: Le Club du

5 Michel Butor, “Préface,” in Calligrammes, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris:

30 Robert Delaunay, Du cubisme à l’art abstrait, ed. Pierre Francastel (Paris:

Calligrammes,” 9). For a rebuttal, see J. G. Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les

During the period 1912–14, a fierce debate erupted in Paris concerning

“Lundi rue Christine”

event that precipitated the poem is also suspect. Drawing on a description by

La mère de la concierge et la concierge laisseront tout passer

Trois becs de gaz allumés

Des piles de soucoupes des fleurs un calendrier

next to a calendar and a vase of flowers. Unlike Debon, who is disgusted by

Moi je n’ai pas de fourrure et je n’ai pas froid

Ces crèpes étaient exquises

Un journaliste que je connais d’ailleurs très vaguement

Ecoute Jacques c’est trés sérieux ce que je vais te dire

Compagnie de navigation mixte

Il me dit monsieur voulez-vous voir ce qu je peux faire d’eaux-fortes

Après déjeuner café du Luxembourg

As Apollinaire leans toward Dyssord to give him some advice, he sees a

which was edited in Lisbon. In 1918, when “Arbre” appeared in Calligrammes,

Boschetti and Margaret Davies propose a romantic explanation.25 Evoking the

At first glance, “Arbre” seems to be a typical collage poem. As in other

Je n’ai pas oublié le son de la clochette d’un marchand de coco d’autrefois

Figure 2.1 Augusta Le Baron-desves, Le Marchand de Coco, Paris, Musée Carnavalet

is clearly speaking from personal experience.47 Coco vendors continued to

Apollinaire of a story in Genesis. Inspired by Adam and Eve’s expulsion from

1 Revolution and Renewal 5

5 The War Poetry 123

6 More War Poetry 153

7 Order and Adventure 173