Louis Armand

Louis Armand was born in Sydney (1972). Since 1994 he has lived and worked in Prague, in the Czech Republic, where he currently lectures on literary theory & art history in the Philosophy Faculty of Charles University and at the University of New York, Prague. He is the editor of a literary broadsheet, PLASTIC (SEMTEXT), a member of the editorial board of Rhizomes: Cultural Studies in Emerging Knowledge and Strange Attractions, and poetry editor of The Prague Revue.  His poetry, essays, and short prose have appeared in numerous journals including Sulfur, Meanjin, HEAT, Antipodes, Poetry Ireland Review, Poetry Review and Stand.  He was awarded the Penola Festival's Max Harris Prize for Poetry (Adelaide 1997), and the Nassau Review Prize for Best Poem (New York 2000).

 

Publications

Seances                                               Twisted Spoon Press 1998

The Viconian Paramour                     x-poezie 1998

Synopticon (with John Kinsella)            Mudlark 2000

La Synopticon (with John Kinsella)      Mudlark 2000

Inexorable Weather                            Arc Publications, forthcoming

The Garden                                         forthcoming

(a volume of experimental prose)

Anthologies

Infernal Cinders                                  Kangaroo 1993

The Zone                                             UNEASA 1994)

Catalyst                                               Folio 2000

Calyx: 30 Australian Poets                 Paper Bark Press/Craftsman House 2000

eds. Michael Brennan and Peter Minter

 

Contact Louis: lazarus@ff.cuni.cz

Visit Louis’ Homepage http://www.louis-armand.com

 

Poetics

in regards to writing, it is only in a figurative
manner that we keep hold of an "original receipt"--a
form of accounting that is both abstract &
denotative, in that it comprises textual fields that
overlap & unsettle one another, & yet which remain
"organised" along a signifying trajectory ... there is
a sense in which writing demands a rethinking of the
aesthetic concepts, of integritas & consonantia.  the
french choreographer and dramatist patrick bonte has
put it thus: "in order to avoid dispersal or
cacophony, all elements, at certain moments, must come
together in a signifying confrontation."  not simply a
truism, this question of confrontation still remains
in need of experimental re-assertion, & is perhaps the
most pressing of all the questions facing the
avant-garde of today

 

 

 

POEMS

 

 

MONUMENT TO V. TATLIN

 

to calculate the amount of air in a given space—how it could be

situated, attached, positioned, dis-

played—the lifecycle of such a personal appliance, something

awkward, like a carelessly discarded shoe waiting

to be tripped over—the inauspicious movement through air,

flung side-ways, hinged between collapse

& flight—a succession of animated right-angles

imitating a procedure: how could it be born of anything but

precedent? some private recourse to first principles—a downfall

of the last phrase, as "inner necessity": something resembling

a noun & modifier, pitched in rapid

succession (but what is measure when no one part is discrete

from another?) the ever more removable "&"

not what it spoken but de-noted, thrusting them into it—sans

gages / of the nearest next ground "c’est à vous de le trouver"

(to dispel the illusion of itself, on such & such a day, when x

comes to take the place of y—not without warning—or a

parenthesis is opened & through it passes "the

disposable body"—a cause for / belief? &c—to write it

down & then commemorate: here, if for no other reason than

to relish its non sequitur—or it went un-

noticed (as they tried to tell the skein from the face?) i’ll

come back, there’s someone at the door—but who were you?

a window is lighting up in the sleep of the trained

mind—in the "prone" position, & however slight their

evidence; a gallery of ordinary things: street numbers, names (in

& out of sight, at any time eg. october, of that

particular year—the hollows cut into frost, is a question

of which birth full to its shores does not answer—counting back-

wards from the articles that belong to it—& carried them off

from that easy plunder site, archæology? or the

nonlight at the edge of the sea, stripped down

in place of the urgency (as before reversions)—& insular, as the

one flesh: but without nature’s aid

the "coup" itself could not have been accomplished

 

 

 

 

FROM THE LIFE OF INVERTIBRATES

(each type may thus be said to represent the environment in which it lives)

 

moving images on a strip of emulsion, or tape—this, too, we seem

to understand:

in ein anderes gebracht—not to experience

but transmit (medium bulk material), an "amalgam"

of different places: satellite dish

streetlight, a body spinning in

mid-air / in a sky that is narrow & jaundiced &

ugly (oh sensibility!)—the talk is of

climate control, sustain-

ability, ranging

into barely tonal regions: a glass tunnel that echoes with its own

immaculate noise, as here

looking through a periscope at the current

"state of affairs," what

is there to see? one single fish-

like type preserved in the living memory, with its

shrewd evolutionary habit

of creating stories out of anything—

the weather, or a scene, for example

inside an automat, passing time, as one intention after another falls

short of its mark

 

 

TO PIERRE SIMON, MARQUIS DE LAPLACE

an intelligence which, at a given instant, would know all the forces by which

nature is animated, & the respective situations of all the elements of which it is

composed

 

a door opening & closing & a light going on & off—their

function is not the panacea it seems to be—strange inter-

ludes, other doors not made to be opened, an isolated, un-

shaded electric bulb whose filament is about to expire at

any (given) moment—or a doorstop fixed to a door, to let it

open no more than 45 degrees (what does that mean?)

 

a calendar reminds him that it’s late already, or he’s alone

standing before a gauntlet of unrelenting symbols, one after an-

other—there’s no more room—falling upwards to thought

& keeping the outside close at hand (the scene itself is

constantly repeated, each time arousing an expectation of

more than it contains); that there are figures or were

leaves nothing to be shown, in the too-deliberate afterword:

 

what follows is as unrelated as what went before—a window

facing out over a narrow passageway, with stairs & broken

fire-alarm—the rooks raise an ominous sign: "no extraneous

details" (it’s not the uncertain game it at first appeared),

even if the objective is concealed & secretly watched-over

by some accessory before the fact: right down to the last laugh

 

 

 

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