The immediate relevance of our dean of poets’ view of time, so cruel at times, which holds us by the throat, is obvious. Indeed, “nothing presses / neither the ultimate nor the void” (p. 13), she says. “What is / so immodest about the fever / of living” (p. 56), she asks again, as if to apologize for her vitality. Without failing, here she is always in search of “what was engraved in [elle] hot wax in which little beatitudes are embedded”, or “a few flashes / to be tamed. / Immortality for example.” Julie Stanton’s poetic work is often chiselled. She knows how to speak of Bachelardian sensations: “already at birth / your mother-of-pearl bones”, the memory of which emerges in the living body. She also listens to “the ivory silence of bones”. Even, sometimes, when she ventures into the awareness of the decline of the world, a sort of anamorphosis of our own finitude, she has beautiful flights of fancy, as if carried away by the irremediable: “This crazy bet while the oxygen is fleeing everywhere I whisper it with my hands on the globe or in a megaphone through the furious red of the carnage. » A strong collection from this 87-year-old poet, with a very keen sense of poetry.
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