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D’Après Tout: Poems by Jean Follain
English translation of D’Après Tout By Jean Follain
- GenresPoetry
186 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1981
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Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews
December 1, 2025
“Inside the fortified city
whole blocks are falling into ruin
a man comes to a stop astonished
by a voice breaking one by one in the asylum
the madwomen have to be washed
one still beautiful consents to it
though she weeps quietly.
Dogs are snarling over
scraps of flesh on bones
in vain somebody cries: enough.”
—
“At the window a rose has the colors
of a blonde girl's nipple
an animal burrows underground.
Peace, someone says to the dog
whose life is short.
The air stays sunny.
Young men
are learning to make war
to redeem a whole world they are told
but the book of theory
remains illegible to them.”
—
“The day-laborer stoops over his hoe
until nightfall
he says a long time ago
the door of the cellar closed
with a bolt like a pig's tail
now used to death it groans, he hears it.
What a future is in store for us
he says.
At his feet
the chained dogs fall asleep.”
—
“The iron turns gray-white
the wheelwright thinks
if the wheel disappears
I shall know true silence
I'll study the shadows of tables
won't walk crooked
from drinking too much
I'll feel the forces of the earth
the words hub and rim will be forgotten
I shall discover the ocean wind
also the subtlest of light.”
—
“It's not always easy
to face the animal
even if it looks at you
without fear or hate
it does so fixedly
and seems to disdain
the subtle secret it carries
it seems better to feel
the obviousness of the world
that noisily day and night
drills and damages
the silence of the soul.”
—
“On the black stone
says an Arab proverb
God sees the black insect move
which even going its way on white
is lost to the eye
of the man with a bleeding heart
who contemplates
the lines in his hands
but when his eyes
settle on the road
he no longer recognizes
the woman who loved him
as she walks by.”
—
“In an Asian country
one day a year the dogs are honored
they wear garlands of flowers
their faces are marked with red powder
they sniff the air
look at the clouds in the sky
as they did yesterday
one decked out like the others
trembles and goes off to die
none the wiser.”
—
“The man freed from all ties
leaves the premises
with a gnarled walking stick
utterly sick of smells
at first he keeps silent
walking past the faces of rock
maybe he'd rather move
to a less beautiful place.
Let no one laugh
he cries at the foot of the mountains.
An echo repeats
and multiplies the odd command.”
—
“People are kept in suspense
by these commotions about a woman
who remains beautiful
as she bends her body
her hair sweeping the red ground
in the last light of festivities.
All those who watch
have memories
but they no longer see
night approaching.”
—
“In a charcoal-gray town
the canopy of a bed falls on sleeping bodies
who wake up laughing about it.
Soon the glimmers of sunrise appear
voices call back and forth
from one garden-house to another.
You can hear the ceaseless
baying of a dog
the world falls apart no less
for those men with stubborn brows
who wait without speaking
and stare into space.
They played games when they were children.”
—
“From the slightly chipped
white plate
you eat a piece of rare meat
you no longer see
the woman you thirst for.
On the blue road
which then becomes red
large dogs go by
as if they had
a way of surviving
to the end of time
by wearing collars with brass tags
in the name of their master
and not being afraid of the dark.”
—
“Articles of clothing fall one by one
in complete peace a body gets undressed
outside the houses
lights are coming on in the stables
the nightworkers
are still sleeping
a woman will have a dream with no outcome
a man with a child's face
will be pushing a handcart
full of uniforms
their gold trim removed.”
—
“At the edge of the table
the man who is toying with
the magnet and filings
no longer hears the ocean
beating the rocks.
From the ceiling
beans are hung to dry
the whitewashed walls
let insects come and go
people passing each other by
would like to get back
in the habit of loving.”
—
“To your health cholera
shouts the exhausted drunk
at the tavern door.
In all the alleyways
they call for the cart
that carries away the dead.
Some seek faith
some seek love in the face of terror
a white rabbit
abandoned to the elements
gnaws at its decaying cage.”
—
“In the room with the dirt floor
a fly climbs the length
of a worn drape.
Women are confidently singing
late in the day they still have
fresh laughter
their bodies which once were beautiful
keep pumping blood and endure.
Stopping all the noise
looking at each other
they think
that's life.”
whole blocks are falling into ruin
a man comes to a stop astonished
by a voice breaking one by one in the asylum
the madwomen have to be washed
one still beautiful consents to it
though she weeps quietly.
Dogs are snarling over
scraps of flesh on bones
in vain somebody cries: enough.”
—
“At the window a rose has the colors
of a blonde girl's nipple
an animal burrows underground.
Peace, someone says to the dog
whose life is short.
The air stays sunny.
Young men
are learning to make war
to redeem a whole world they are told
but the book of theory
remains illegible to them.”
—
“The day-laborer stoops over his hoe
until nightfall
he says a long time ago
the door of the cellar closed
with a bolt like a pig's tail
now used to death it groans, he hears it.
What a future is in store for us
he says.
At his feet
the chained dogs fall asleep.”
—
“The iron turns gray-white
the wheelwright thinks
if the wheel disappears
I shall know true silence
I'll study the shadows of tables
won't walk crooked
from drinking too much
I'll feel the forces of the earth
the words hub and rim will be forgotten
I shall discover the ocean wind
also the subtlest of light.”
—
“It's not always easy
to face the animal
even if it looks at you
without fear or hate
it does so fixedly
and seems to disdain
the subtle secret it carries
it seems better to feel
the obviousness of the world
that noisily day and night
drills and damages
the silence of the soul.”
—
“On the black stone
says an Arab proverb
God sees the black insect move
which even going its way on white
is lost to the eye
of the man with a bleeding heart
who contemplates
the lines in his hands
but when his eyes
settle on the road
he no longer recognizes
the woman who loved him
as she walks by.”
—
“In an Asian country
one day a year the dogs are honored
they wear garlands of flowers
their faces are marked with red powder
they sniff the air
look at the clouds in the sky
as they did yesterday
one decked out like the others
trembles and goes off to die
none the wiser.”
—
“The man freed from all ties
leaves the premises
with a gnarled walking stick
utterly sick of smells
at first he keeps silent
walking past the faces of rock
maybe he'd rather move
to a less beautiful place.
Let no one laugh
he cries at the foot of the mountains.
An echo repeats
and multiplies the odd command.”
—
“People are kept in suspense
by these commotions about a woman
who remains beautiful
as she bends her body
her hair sweeping the red ground
in the last light of festivities.
All those who watch
have memories
but they no longer see
night approaching.”
—
“In a charcoal-gray town
the canopy of a bed falls on sleeping bodies
who wake up laughing about it.
Soon the glimmers of sunrise appear
voices call back and forth
from one garden-house to another.
You can hear the ceaseless
baying of a dog
the world falls apart no less
for those men with stubborn brows
who wait without speaking
and stare into space.
They played games when they were children.”
—
“From the slightly chipped
white plate
you eat a piece of rare meat
you no longer see
the woman you thirst for.
On the blue road
which then becomes red
large dogs go by
as if they had
a way of surviving
to the end of time
by wearing collars with brass tags
in the name of their master
and not being afraid of the dark.”
—
“Articles of clothing fall one by one
in complete peace a body gets undressed
outside the houses
lights are coming on in the stables
the nightworkers
are still sleeping
a woman will have a dream with no outcome
a man with a child's face
will be pushing a handcart
full of uniforms
their gold trim removed.”
—
“At the edge of the table
the man who is toying with
the magnet and filings
no longer hears the ocean
beating the rocks.
From the ceiling
beans are hung to dry
the whitewashed walls
let insects come and go
people passing each other by
would like to get back
in the habit of loving.”
—
“To your health cholera
shouts the exhausted drunk
at the tavern door.
In all the alleyways
they call for the cart
that carries away the dead.
Some seek faith
some seek love in the face of terror
a white rabbit
abandoned to the elements
gnaws at its decaying cage.”
—
“In the room with the dirt floor
a fly climbs the length
of a worn drape.
Women are confidently singing
late in the day they still have
fresh laughter
their bodies which once were beautiful
keep pumping blood and endure.
Stopping all the noise
looking at each other
they think
that's life.”
September 8, 2007
Heather McHugh, in her introduction to her translation of D’Après Tout makes much of Follian’s origins. The intimacy of his upbringing, she suggests, contributes to the size of his poems and their use of the commonplace to illuminate “the monumental.” Because of his early, circumscribed conditions, his poems are “miniatures.”
Calling them miniatures misses their expansiveness though. They are miniatures in the sense that Sherwood Anderson’s stories in Winesburg, Ohio are incomplete or in the sense that James Joyce’s stories in Dubliners are inconclusive. They are whole, just not in a way readers immediately and consciously recognize. The little details subsume so much. To describe Follain, McHugh evokes what William Gass said of Faulkner, “Nothing was too mean for his imagination because he did not believe there was any insignificance on earth.” Follain turns a reader’s attention to the rites of life. Minute ceremonies become tuning forks for the wider world.
My full review: [http://joefelso.wordpress.com/2007/09...]
Calling them miniatures misses their expansiveness though. They are miniatures in the sense that Sherwood Anderson’s stories in Winesburg, Ohio are incomplete or in the sense that James Joyce’s stories in Dubliners are inconclusive. They are whole, just not in a way readers immediately and consciously recognize. The little details subsume so much. To describe Follain, McHugh evokes what William Gass said of Faulkner, “Nothing was too mean for his imagination because he did not believe there was any insignificance on earth.” Follain turns a reader’s attention to the rites of life. Minute ceremonies become tuning forks for the wider world.
My full review: [http://joefelso.wordpress.com/2007/09...]
January 24, 2022
This man who hopes
the day will end
before he dies
sets a heavy foot
on the first of the front steps
surrounded by plants that must die
the shouts of the furious mob
fall silent before the stones of the house
at last you hear
the sound of yellow water
a pebble rolling
the voice of a bewildered child.
* * *
Rust eats
right into a spearhead
as a lone man
pursued
goes running through labyrinths
and ruins
because he has never been able
to get used to his time.
* * *
Those who tirelessly watch
on thresholds
without doing anything else
see the pasture tremble
they are used to waiting
seeing how others get ahead
without knowing where to go
they do not miss
the rule of kings
they aren't seeking to better themselves
nor to kill
even the quiet insect
climbing their hand.
* * *
When the orator speaks
of the wonders of the circle
the span of time
appears to enlarge
listeners grow animated
a woman with an assumed name
is trying to understand
with great dark eyes
deep wrinkles in her brow.
Soon for everyone the colours change.
* * *
Full of strange notions
he feeds an invincible rat in his house
to keep it from eating his books.
In his neighbourhood they declare
it's not reasonable
he's short on everything.
As for him, he listens to the rain
loud or light
protected by blackened walls
the barrens, the bushes
on a space-time curve
where a past is moving.
* * *
Work goes on in the dim light:
the work of the weaver
and of the woman who embroiders.
A brown bowl sits
on the table whose long edge
a red insect is climbing.
The beauty slowly being sculpted
is kept alive by cold
in a giant workshop
atop a cliff of everlasting plants.
* * *
Everything is an event
for those who know how to tremble
the droplet that falls
carrying reflections
of barn and stables
the sound of a pin
falling on marble
milk boiling
at day's end
the moments that drag
in colourless rooms
when the woman falls asleep.
the day will end
before he dies
sets a heavy foot
on the first of the front steps
surrounded by plants that must die
the shouts of the furious mob
fall silent before the stones of the house
at last you hear
the sound of yellow water
a pebble rolling
the voice of a bewildered child.
- Before the Stones, pg. 5
* * *
Rust eats
right into a spearhead
as a lone man
pursued
goes running through labyrinths
and ruins
because he has never been able
to get used to his time.
- Pursuit, pg. 19
* * *
Those who tirelessly watch
on thresholds
without doing anything else
see the pasture tremble
they are used to waiting
seeing how others get ahead
without knowing where to go
they do not miss
the rule of kings
they aren't seeking to better themselves
nor to kill
even the quiet insect
climbing their hand.
- On Thresholds, pg. 29
* * *
When the orator speaks
of the wonders of the circle
the span of time
appears to enlarge
listeners grow animated
a woman with an assumed name
is trying to understand
with great dark eyes
deep wrinkles in her brow.
Soon for everyone the colours change.
- Wonders of the Circle, pg. 37
* * *
Full of strange notions
he feeds an invincible rat in his house
to keep it from eating his books.
In his neighbourhood they declare
it's not reasonable
he's short on everything.
As for him, he listens to the rain
loud or light
protected by blackened walls
the barrens, the bushes
on a space-time curve
where a past is moving.
- Protected, pg. 57
* * *
Work goes on in the dim light:
the work of the weaver
and of the woman who embroiders.
A brown bowl sits
on the table whose long edge
a red insect is climbing.
The beauty slowly being sculpted
is kept alive by cold
in a giant workshop
atop a cliff of everlasting plants.
- Work, pg. 77
* * *
Everything is an event
for those who know how to tremble
the droplet that falls
carrying reflections
of barn and stables
the sound of a pin
falling on marble
milk boiling
at day's end
the moments that drag
in colourless rooms
when the woman falls asleep.
- Event, pg. 93
June 6, 2022
These are exquisite poems, each about a specific moment, with fine and careful observations. The French is on the facing page; my French doesn't lend itself to anything but restaurant menus, but I can tell that translation is generally a problem (these are very carefully translated). I think if I were a translator, though, I might be too literal, and I wouldn't be comfortable taking liberties or changing a French image to an English one. The translator speaks of the difficulty, herself, with regard to the title, which she decided to maintain in the original, unsure how best to convey the meaning in English. I read it as "After All" but that's not quite right, it seems.
If I were a poet, I'd study these pieces and others by Follain. I found reading one after the other of these short, specific and yet a bit oblique poems a little ... tiresome after the first few. I don't think that's the fault of the poet. I'm wondering, unless a work is long, like Wordsworth's Preludes, if having a book of poems all by one poet is terribly enjoyable to read all the way through. I think I prefer anthologies. On the other hand, I never felt that way about reading Borges' poems.
I'm going to take a break from Breakfast Poetry and read a couple of "Idler" books by Tom Hodgkinson. I need to get better at being idle (not).
If I were a poet, I'd study these pieces and others by Follain. I found reading one after the other of these short, specific and yet a bit oblique poems a little ... tiresome after the first few. I don't think that's the fault of the poet. I'm wondering, unless a work is long, like Wordsworth's Preludes, if having a book of poems all by one poet is terribly enjoyable to read all the way through. I think I prefer anthologies. On the other hand, I never felt that way about reading Borges' poems.
I'm going to take a break from Breakfast Poetry and read a couple of "Idler" books by Tom Hodgkinson. I need to get better at being idle (not).
February 9, 2013
A very good poet with limited range. The poems are small snapshots which hold powerful meanings behind their spare language and minimalist punctuation. McHugh's translation is satisfactory.
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May 14, 2015I was Heather's editor for this collection while working at Princeton University Press.
Displaying 1 - 6 of 6 reviews