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Tribute to poet Taizé

through two of his best friends:

Jacques Truphémus (The painter)

and Edmond Jeanneret (the poet)

Pierre Etienne or poetry nomadic

"I call the poet a man whose speech breathing to the rhythm of creation and in whose mouth the words each day - as wilted flowers - found their colors and fragrances because of new flows in them a sap which is our blood.

But I see this man live in the secret of stones, stars, springs and trees, plays with sentinel on this edge of the horizon where the sky to land trusts, how is it that it can be inside me and know me better than I know myself? For his speech is not only a key that opens the world: it opens me to myself. Princely word - and the Prince of Belle au Bois - she enters the castle, which is our conscience and it awakens a long dormant memory: our inner self.



Who reads a few lines of Pierre Etienne soon finds that his poetry is endowed with this power. Shall we say that we are facing a great poet? About Leon-Paul Fargue Saint John Perse writes: "Because it is not, poetry, great or less great poets, but only pure or less pure poets, Fargue poet of pure birth can not be treated as "minor poet": it retains its prerogative to the best located of his elders, teachers labor performed or accounting proud of the spirit. "


No, there can be no question here of magnitude. He does not "large" poets (their major organs!) we tired and we let the desire for more sweetness and intimacy? It seems there is something even more precious, more necessary that a great poet: a poet is just, fair and humble, whose voice never takes the magnitude of a river as it retains its freshness and its whisper of spring.

This is the poetry of the poet of Taizé. Christian poetry? If this means that poetry follows the faith - certainly. Between one and another, not smooth, no drama in the work of Pierre Etienne. His books are the children of the happy couple.


However, his first collection, SEASON AHEAD (now exhausted), denounces the irremediable weakness, the falsity of any human language. But what a poet is not always on the lookout for a miracle?

"In small packets
into small herds
words

in dark clumps
in sticky lumps
words

tired of your fake
wait finally isolated
a word. "

book which, as will its puisne, nourished by silence and contemplation: each word vibrates at the heart of his silence. And already the voice itself here is a very personal stamp, it never forgotten.

THE RAMPART ISLANDS (also sold out) and two books that follow, we show the poet moving in the sands of silence research, to meet this saying that the world is the poem, and which always veils revealing himself. The poet is the son of Abraham, as he walking in the darkness of faith to the new Promised Land:

"The aquiline nose as Semitic
Bald serious lean arched
All you want a stick
For your walking rhythm nomad. "

Word who is silent, yet Word still crucified, but who knows how to remind us and bring us back to it when we think we have lost:

"I always lose your face
And you always come back to me
At the moment the least predictable
As in a long journey
Prints on a sky blood
The portrait of a vanished
Above a calm sea
Near the fog line
Separating the two kingdoms. "

Ah! I like, on pages of TRAILS IN THE WORLD, follow the poet spurred by the Promise and sensing near the Kingdom, and increasingly attentive to the enigmas of the universe through which the unseen challenges us and makes us wonder:

"When the day sumptuous blinds
In so many fires multiplied
You leave it to hope
A ray of true light. "

Indeed, it is not a poem by the poet of Taizé is worked by the leaven of hope:

"If was the hope
From next United
If the Pretender
Was appeared
the fold of the history

Should we force
To sing life
frail and threatened
Among the tumult
And rumors of war

If the announcement was
Issued softly
If was hope. "

Poetry elusive as Beauty, and we seized: in which the risen Christ is still pending to be born, not Mary, but the creation "in travail" (Romans VIII, 22) - as in March of the Magi of the West:

Sky very low, snow patches
Search the hope anyway.
Hangin 'in the wild wind
dreams in vain parade.

forward in the promise
Under the hail of denials,
Provide cold steppe
Awakening closes the mind.

Here Christmas without arpeggios
On the sky so low brow,
The horizon is Greek fire:
Christ is born of the snow. "

Let this last verse (Chagallian?) We impose silence, as a finger on our lips. "

Edmond Jeanneret / extracted Afterword: Poetry Unplugged ... p. 97-102

Truphémus, painter of intimacy in the museum of Bourgoin

(Painting: The terrace in the Cevennes: Jacques Truphémus)