Untitled (Fruits on the branches...) by Ivan de Monbrison
Fruits on the branches
Like eyes
Removed from our bodies
I chopped off your hand
With an ax
And I gave it to you
So that you keep it in a box
In memory of me
Like eyes
Removed from our bodies
I chopped off your hand
With an ax
And I gave it to you
So that you keep it in a box
In memory of me
Untitled (Fruits on the branches...) by Ivan de Monbrison (Russian Translation)
Плоды на ветках
Как наши глаза
Изъятые из тел
Я отрубил твою руку
Топором
И отдал тебе
Храни ее в картонке
На память обо мне
Как наши глаза
Изъятые из тел
Я отрубил твою руку
Топором
И отдал тебе
Храни ее в картонке
На память обо мне
Ivan de Monbrison was born in Paris one century after the birth of the painter Matisse and just before some bald apes set their feet on the moon, and put a flag there.
Himself is just a poor fellow plagued by psychotic disorders.
He has found in poetry a medium to conjure his delirium into, if possible,
meaningful words. He writes in many languages because none of them is really his own, probably as a consequence to his autistic tendencies. Back in school, most teachers thought he was a total idiot, maybe they were right, but even an idiot has the right to write poetry, I guess.
Himself is just a poor fellow plagued by psychotic disorders.
He has found in poetry a medium to conjure his delirium into, if possible,
meaningful words. He writes in many languages because none of them is really his own, probably as a consequence to his autistic tendencies. Back in school, most teachers thought he was a total idiot, maybe they were right, but even an idiot has the right to write poetry, I guess.
