Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE MOON HAS TURNED AMISS, by TRISTAN TZARA


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE MOON HAS TURNED AMISS, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: Devouring its circle
Last Line: Its name is john
Alternate Author Name(s): Rosenstock, Sami; Rosenfeld, S.
Subject(s): Dadaism


devouring its circle
snatching its sleep from the panoply of glancing
and our glances rest like leeches on things around
suck the grapes of the unknown
auscultate the daily bosoms
bending over the sufferer
while in the naked distance
a squadron of hearts to hire descends the stream
drawing behind it the murmur of tails of smoke

how many tongues does the flower speak?
she talks talks and knows not what she does
she keeps me for dinner
she combs her hair upward
in her breast the savour of cataclysms incomplete with pleasure
believe me the shadow has kept a gossip of filial love

the carcanet around the flower's neck
is made of plunging pillories in the manner of mills
and if I beat the tambourine
it's for all the beasts of the city
why do you stir your special remorse
you know you knew when daddy's away
the mice dance on the table
while the tanager bishop makes his power felt
by historic compliances

my heart swollen with freshets will stay hung before your eyes
an inkwell
you do not desire
nor I nor I
a decoy
a barking dog
that makes more noise than the tragic bites
intercepted by the transquil family

the father the mother seated in the comfort of causality
put on airs of precious stuff
they must often be scrubbed
discolored with caresses
if not they'll treat you with bitter cruelty
when the trees and the crystals
worry about the responsibility of their childbirth
I shall be ready to recognize any hierarchy at all
while awaiting life and death
a pretty American with pointed bills
holding a marriage in her beak

but why tell the pretty Americans
in what fashion you'll do away with the patrimonial sport
it was my fault
the lamp of an insect consumed of insatiate desire
me bruised by the machines for writing lies
and never never will I ever make hypotheses
on the seeming beauty of women
better to snatch the jewels from her bosom
even at the risk
of being collected for in charity bureaus.

the perspective of the buildings
leaves a space clear for the slow breathing of the sky
that's where there resound the blows of the unctuous hours
do you know the sea-mews that take fire as they fly
fall
lie down
cover themselves
sleep
dream
reawaken
and ask no reason nor overture for the summer season?
the mystery is solved
this is a wretched countryside
a bastard abandoned in the foundling-home of twilight
with one note only
only one
its name is John




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