On the inside of the factory

  Årets "Bloom-säsong" vill sig inte riktigt. Ekopoesin har inte blivit som jag tänkt mig, och detsamma kan sägas om söndagsrubriken "Paris-Quebec". Idag tvingas jag till en nödlösning. Jag lägger in tre dikter av Leslie Kaplan, istället för det som var planerat.

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  Leslie Kaplan är född 1943 i New York, men uppväxt och bosatt i Paris och skriver på franska. Som många andra franska intellektuella började hon arbeta på fabrik 1968. 
  1982 debuterade hon med diktsamlingen L'excès l'usine (Överflödet fabriken). Förutom poesi har hon skrivit romaner, dramatik och en mängd essäer om litteratur, film, psykoanalys och filosofi. Källa: Modernista.se

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(From Six contemporary French women poets : theory, practice, and pleasures / selection, introduction, and translations by Serge Gavronsky. [L'Excès-L'usine, 11 / Leslie Kaplan]. Carbondale, IL : Southern Illinois University Press, cop. 1997.)

The factory, the factory universe, the one
breathing for you. There's no other air but the one it
pumps, rejects.

One is on the inside.

All spaces are occupied: everything has become
garbage. Skin, teeth, eyes.

One moves around in between shapeless partitions. One
comes across people, sandwiches, coke bottles,
instruments, paper, crates, screws. One moves in a
vague manner, outside time. Neither beginning nor end.
Things exist together, simultaneously.

Inside the factory, things are being made all the time.

One is inside, in the great factory universe, the one
breathing for you.

***

(From Six contemporary French women poets : theory, practice, and pleasures / selection, introduction, and translations by Serge Gavronsky. ["Règne", 100 / Leslie Kaplan]. Carbondale, IL : Southern Illinois University Press, cop. 1997.)

Fairs, with fireworks. A mix of people.

One eats enormously. Soup, meat, dessert.
The wine is good. Some don't eat anything at all.

For sleeping, there're rooms.
One see trees, from everywhere one sees them.

One gets there by train. Then a little further by car.
One is driven.

Details, very important little things.
One thinks of them.

The fact of getting there by train already creates,
without a doubt, a sense of detachment, of excitement.
Nothing is possible in a state of euphoria.

***

[The housing estate], by Leslie Kaplan
(From L’excès-l’usine. Translated by Brian McCabe. Paris: P.O.L., 1994.)

The housing estate. A space, a dead space.
You stand at the bus stop. You wait for the bus.
The sky. Telegraph poles. The sky full of wires.

The sky is vast. Full of wires. You wait for the bus.
There is the route to think about.

The buildings are built in the middle of nowhere.
The bus stops in front of some, not others.

In the pub, music. It’s nothing.

You stand at the bus stop. You see
the buildings over the road.

You think about the paths between them.

You can walk down those paths.