A Comment on Veronique's Poetry

Up to today at noon I have not obtained from
any poet the same drug of artistic delight as is
given me by a Veroniqian poem posted in one
of her rooms in that place called the Feverish V
Hotel.

By such meta-rich language I obtain there,
from the poems a fluid that greases my intel-
lect, such as it is, and a fluid that juices my
loins. Her mosaic of words, in which every one
by sound and position and by meaning diffuses
its force by cancelling in a kind of sous rature--
a fall back the better to leap forward, to the
front, right and left-- a stamping out, in the
sense of cutting a die, every word and re-
placing the whole with such a touch that I
want that touch to run down from my chest
to the base of my compass needle and make it
dance as if it were nearing the North Pole.

The poems illustrate a morality of inertia-- a
writing lure that comes to her neither by her
choice nor by her stir, but by necessity.

Her writing is Roman. It is noble par excel-
lence. Her poems are candle flames seen be-
tween slit lacunas in a basket woven with
river reeds and thrown over.

My poetry contrasts to hers as mere senti-
mental loquacity.

##
p