Renee Magritte`s pencil
« Né de lui-même, tributaire de rien ni d'aucuns, ni de ce dont il parle tout en s'y adaptant mieux
que cholestérol à l'artère, que chevron à la manche, que l'échantignole à la panne, que joug à
l'épaule, badaud sans curiosité, savant pétri d'ignorance, indifférent passionné, voilà bien, il me
Flaubert de la carabine des foires interdites, le carbonaro du confessionnal, le forgeron de la
dentelle, le puceau des nuits chaudes. »
— Louis Scutenaire, Monsieur Paul, préface à Paul Colinet, « Œuvres », Bruxelles, Éditions Lebeer Hossmann, 1980 (p. 7)
Poems
He gently does his angelic work.
The school has four walls and its windows play
dominoes.
Daytime opens its laughing drawers: yellow battles,
slow cards, wise measures, sleeping gloves.
Then, evening glides on the blue and white icing, his
slate scribbled with animals and heads.
Bob's toy-box contains a target, nails from wooden
shoes, gelatin balls, a picture with a hunter in a
derby hat.
At night, Bob sleeps in a little puff-pastry boat.
The chairs? White, of course. With pretty little
trombones. And cabbage-bows, to honor the party behind
the elephants, important gentlemen, courteous, carried
away with pleasure, and quick enough to leap the
railing, the servants before their most obliging eyes,
maids and their children.
The lobster is a bird on stilts, in the species of
nighthawks. He drinks cranially, is well developed, has
been pointed out by LinnÇ under the name of Forge
Roussel. Its body shows 4/5 generally animal. The
hindquarters are composed of a cluster of 17 metal
spools, on divergent axles. The lobster is the only
carnivorous bird that flies backwards.
His characteristic song, which resembles, but is
harsher than, the civet-cat's, is produced by a spur's
vibration in the cranial box, called the sub-machine-
gun. The lobster's calcified eye is used, in
shoemaking, to fasten half-boots
The soup with jonquils that's eaten at the fairies'
house, a dull little spoon gave me the recipe.
One evening it lured me under its raincoat. In the
dark, against its heart, a little light was living. A
weak little reddish flame, surrounded by a blue halo.
It's her -- I've understood it ever since -- she's who
hummed me the recipe.
Alas! My gasp was so strong that she died from it.
I kill the third bird while watching myself in the
glass.
The first I had taken for a chair, one of those folding
chairs which sometimes flutter between the hooks of the
mirrors.
I heard the second's peck through the keyhole.
I found it squashed against the back of the glass, the
mender of faces. It was clear as oblivion.
The third was the breast of the mirror itself.
It was flapping a thousand blinding hands, a thousand
hands of fire.
I was forced to close my eyes. It died because of them.
He places the maid of his works in the sunlight. She is
born, like several others, in Cortil-Noirmont. This
locality must be considered as existing.
In the sunlight, the maid improves. During the
unfolding of the maid's improvement process, the author
of the works visits the grottoes of Cortil-Noirmont. As
opposed to the locality itself, the grottoes of Cortil-
Noirmont must be considered as non-existing.
Completely improved, the maid becomes a mark of honor
reuniting the author with his works. The meeting
doesn't take place in the grottoes of Cortil-Noirmont.
The meeting takes place under the same improving sun.
The dormouse was an ice-floe of the mammoth era.
The wind turned leaves in the washed linen.
They heard the sun approach and withdraw, with a solemn
step, like organ music.
At lunch, the decanter's cork shone under the acetylene
burner, naive as a pear.
After searching a long time, the children found a
hunter, lost, upside-down among branches.
Very far off, in the bends of old roads, some robbers
with a sack and a club cried: "Your money or your
Life!"
Thursday is always pleasant with frost and a naked girl
on the country's palm.
The merchant of clouds counts the precious stones of
the amazing house: an inviting lamp.
The girl in the forest, brief snow-maid dressed in
fire, in a leaving-coat.
The white trees are listless.
The house is a log, the merchant, Stout John, like the
Wind.
What was it a question of? A hair's breath, in all.
A tree was catching fire, a pond was sulking, a dew
sprinkled maid-servant was lulled to sleep by currant
bushes.
What was it a question of? A tiny line. Compact little
figure, naked Merisette.
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