Seven long years after the promising I’m not the one you think, Anne Martine Parent returns to us with a successful collection, handling surprising and kaleidoscopic images.
Over time, the poet has learned to weave tightly, even though she sometimes “touches nothing for fear of breaking secrets.” It is that between the house of dust and the sand of the beach, “we build the horizon by crawling”, but in a movement called chance.
She writes with an obvious pleasure, that of childhood no doubt, which allows her to emerge with her own style. The book uses a starting “we”, which includes anyone who can identify with it, and which returns to itself during too long a summer and too heavy a sun.
“July keeps on descending/into the infinity of my womb”
Inevitably, the laughter of childhood evoked will be betrayed by life which is only metamorphosis. Desires and anger mix, dreams grow thinner. “I” is ultimately a woman who will know scars and regrets.
This personal pronoun also knows how to be voluntary since, after all, it is a question of telling stories before disappearing, of walking to forget disappearances. The body then becomes a sea of ​​tranquillity. There is like a contract made with death. Blow, suffer and be reborn until you are no longer thirsty. Come what may.
The verses of Anne Martine Parent twirl and burst, arise and take flight again. Deep and light at the same time, they know how to drag us into the whirlwind of a lifetime in constant movement. Before the dreams are scattered.
