“Every day I have a clearer idea of what is lost along the way.” The words that appear on the back cover of the present impossible, the first collection of Dominique A, immediately tint his poetry with the colors of loss and lucidity. Like an echo of René Char, for whom “lucidity is the wound closest to the sun”. Considered one of the founders of the new French scene, Dominique A is known for the finesse of the texts of his various stories and songs, which can be heard in his fifteen albums. In this collection, the music of his words is self-sufficient.
The singer-songwriter shows more than he signifies, attempts to read the passage of existence. He “draws a light”without affectation, aware that “what passes through us escapes us”. Not naive, but empathetic with the contemporary world which he immerses himself in. His poetry is descriptive, he “record on a notebook / the undulations of the decor”, depicts the sadness of the cities, which “prints on people whose sadness prints on cities”. Nostalgic, he tears himself away from his memories as best he can “to yesterday’s language / barrier too high / for today’s words”.
His writing also carries with it the constant search for the capacity of speech to adjust to the truth of being and of the moment. Dreaming of a poem that “would marry the movement”, what “writing would not isolate”, he slips into a fragile and wobbly wandering, but never resigned. It’s not so much about celebrating life as honoring it, for what it is, “a few breaking points / so few detours / nothing that really deviates”. If its mystery sometimes seems inaccessible, Dominique A’s language is not minimalist. “Nothing that bars the horizon / nothing that cuts short and sows death / on the infinite bank of words.” As a tightrope walker who is not afraid of vertigo, he simply cradles infinity in the arms of his poetry. He expects nothing, he embraces everything: “Movement is the best response / gestures take care of themselves.”
Beyond the years
I see the same season
make the same colors
to the same buildings
I see the city changing
and not change
faces change
and not change
Winter spells her name
boredom is immeasurable
The music does not move
and for nothing in the world
we would not like to add to it
nor take it away
a single note