Dreaming the Miracle: Three French Prose Poets: Max Jacob, Jean Follain, Francis Ponge (Paperback)

~ Dennis Maloney (Editor), William Kulik (Translator), Beth Archer Brombert (Translator) "It is impossible to discuss the American prose poem without focusing on a French tradition beginning with Charles Baudelaire (with a nod to Aloysisius Bertrand)..." (more)
Key Phrases: Francis Ponge, Max Jacob, Jean Follain (more...)

Editorial Reviews

Product Description

A selection of work by four of the fathers of prose poetry, the French writers Max Jacob, Jean Follain, and Francis Ponge. Baudelaire laid the foundations for prose poetry as a genre in the 19th century; these poets expanded the concept in the first half of the 20th century. Jacob (1876-1944) was a writer of surrealist cubist fables, Ponge (1899-1988) was a master of the language of things, and Follain (1903-1971) merged the everyday with the historical to create a world rich in anniversaries.

About the Author

Dennis Maloney is a poet and translator and the founding editor and publisher of White Pine Press. His translations from Japanese and from Spanish include work by Issa, Ryokan, Jimenez, Machado and Neruda. He has published several volumes of his own work, including The Map is Not the Territory.

Product Details

• Paperback: 192 pages
• Publisher: White Pine Press; 1 edition (February 1, 2002)
• Language: English
• ISBN-10: 1893996174
• ISBN-13: 978-1893996175
• Product Dimensions: 9.2 x 6.1 x 0.6 inches
• Shipping Weight: 10.4 ounces (View shipping rates and policies)
• Average Customer Review: 4.0 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (1 customer review)
• Amazon.com Sales Rank: #1,064,378 in Books (See Bestsellers in Books)

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

13 of 13 people found the following review helpful:

4.0 out of 5 stars Modern Masters of the French Prose Poem, November 30, 2004

By	Steven E. Bradbury "stevenedgarbradbury" (Taipei, Taiwan) - See all my reviews (REAL NAME)

The prose poem is something of a French specialty. Edgar Allan Poe may have coined the term, but it was Poe's French translator Charles Baudelaire who first "dreamed of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhyme, supple and muscular," and became the first of many fine French poets to excel in this oxymoronic genre. "Dreaming the Miracle" brings together a sampling of the work of three masterful French prose poets of the 20th Century: the surrealist Max "the Nut" Jacob (1876-1944), the first great poet to apply dream logic to poetic composition; Francis Ponge (1899-1988), the "would-be encyclopedist" of the poetry of the ordinary object; and (one of the great finds of the last century) Jean Follain (1903-1971), an obscure judge who wrote exquisite vignettes that collectively comprise an intimate albeit anonymous autobiography of the last century.

The Jacob and Ponge translations seem a little uneven at times, but the poetry shines through nonetheless. The translations of Follain's prose poems, beautifully rendered by Mary Feeney and the late, great poet William Mathews, are an unadulterated delight. Since the publisher neglected to put any sample pages up on the Amazon website, let me rectify the omission by quoting a representative prose poem from each poet:


Max Jacob: The Beggar Woman of Naples

When I lived in Naples, there was a beggar woman at my palace gate I'd toss a coin to before getting into my carriage. One day, surprised that she never thanked me, I looked at her. As I did, I saw that what I'd mistaken for a beggar woman was a green wooden crate containing some red earth and a few half-rotten bananas.


Francis Ponge: The Pleasures of the Door

Kings do not touch doors.
They know nothing of this pleasure: pushing before one gently or brusquely one of those large familiar panels, then turning back to replace it--holding a door in one's arms.
The pleasure of grabbing the midriff of one of these tall obstacles to a room by its porcelain node; that short clinch during which movement stops, the eye widens, and the whole body adjusts to its new surrounding.
With a friendly hand one still holds on to it, before closing it decisively and shutting oneself in--which the click of the tight but well-oiled spring pleasantly confirms.


Jean Follain: Untitled

Store windows start to light up: displays that banish thoughts of war or hunger, huge dolls with lifelike lashes, eyelids that close. A storefront with shining jewels catches your eye. A white wall takes on a greengage tint. A gutter along the sidewalk seems to be running with a red liqueur instead of dirty water. Absinthe green smoke floats up from muted roofs. There's a passerby who's never written a word except his signature, using a beat-up wooden holder. He senses this bursting beauty. And the man with a terrible temper, seeing his hand turned orange by the sunset, falls silent before his household who fear him, maybe even forgive him his fits.