Morning of light on Sitaudis by Carole Darricarrère

Article published on July 15, 2020 on Sitaudis, written by the poet (high priestess?) Carole Darricarrère, thanks to the kind intervention of Pierre le Pillouër.

“Our parents are rich, powerful and developed countries. (…)

Our parents dream of a happy poem by Paul Celan. They would really like that from our parents: Paul Celan happy, refusing suicide, accepting his fate, Paul Celan aging and admitting that water has flowed under the bridges and that joy remains.

Tomorrow is an automaton satisfied with being itself. »


Holding a river in both hands and watching it carry away, in great gallops of loops and so many self-generating sentences, knowledge and knowledge, shadow and light, “the great hustle and bustle” of the world - “the abradacabra” - and the volume of loose veins of a long, potentially anxiety-provoking, undisturbed poem, the fresco of blood covered with the interior landscapes that we cross and those that we invent for ourselves, the manna that the we glean and spit out astride two dreams, sometimes a wild drop and sometimes an imprisoned ice cube, scales of duality and staccatos of stops, pathogenic regurgitations, swirls of words and backlashes at the wrong time, with this desire to fly away at everything end of field of rivers, this need of waters to dance freely to the bone, this lyrical absolute of liquid impulses, this passion fixes densities for the movement, dizzy at each turn and thirst for direction,

But drink the cup,

Drinking the slap against all expectations is undoubtedly the driving force of a forty-year reconstruction in search of unity, a crisis of meaning of a sovereign "outside me" at the end of all questions "anxiety is the mother tongue », “Daddy is here / He is always standing up straight in my shoes”.


If I join,

“Today we’re playing falling man
To the fallen man lying slumped lying curled up »

“I give a name to the man who fell into the flight, the hunt, the chase and the escape (…)”

“I hesitate to flatten it

I cover it with dance steps »


“(…) Today I do not pass my turn I do not change the I I do not give up my place I kill I finish off a being
One after the other I aim at moving spots (…) I reach faces”

“I am another I // A dangerous I”

“I confront myself with the fault”

: I get "G-d", that is to say a negative digital solitude, a deleterious equation, the summary of reality TV symptomatic of an atheist generation that can be robotized at will and which by dint of playing good and bad through interposed screens confuses the limits and condemns itself to an infinitely deadly implosion of values.

“Someone turned off the machine and said: / I don’t know a prayer / I would so like to know one.”


Jasmin Limans signs the “verses of life” of verve for the young Exopotamie editions, ignoring conciseness; he returns to this "old child who now plays with words and their echoes", this kid adrift in search of universal salvation against a backdrop of mutations who remembers having said thumbs up to the other children, "I don't can not " ; he is the spokesperson in response to a digital baby boom, an awakening conscience, a whistleblower; he takes us after him in a life-size video epic as if on a drunken boat sobering up in some verbal apocalypse mirroring a horde of roped people against the backdrop of a double-edged "litany", at the junction where virtuality and reality touch and merge; he breaks the waters as he breaks the host, goes upstream against the current in search of his self and brings back in his nets the mirages of a concept of turnkey happiness and the unfulfilled corpses of a self-satisfied generation of puppets consenting, plunging high and low from exaltations into little deaths its I-me its lily and its rose, in the liquid crystals of the injunction of life in the death drive, with an instinct of repressed love which flows for the living and true fraternity with equal opportunity; he writes at the crossroads of reason and feeling the thaw of emotions and the nostalgia which accompanies as one plays with one's idealism and one's disillusionments, shatters the spectacle over hill and valley with an indifferent chaos that never exhausts heavy incontinence.

There is something in this book of quagmires of the order of a fabricated and flouted innocence, something like the vestiges of the eternal sunshine of a spotless mind* , which assumes the desire to walk in one go on sadness, angel wings winding over the hair of the barbed wire, calls for help and volatile clays attached behind the glass outside, something which never exhausts hope: the nostalgia of a regal humanity, a memory which serves as a horizon, swallows up apparitions and disgorges current affairs scenes like so many threats which divide some and force others into a headlong rush strewn with pitfalls and contradictions.

From repetitions to variations spun with variable geometry around a bipolarized I of massacre, by an effect of sliding of declinations in espaliers in gradations of consciousness, you will have understood that the author does not give in to the fractures of 'white + white = poem' - constraint being a driving force par excellence - nor to the impasses of modernity .


If I add up,

“(…) we can't stop progress – all these machines – these codes and these figures – it's fantastic – all these disciplined energies – it seems that the machine to which we gave orders is also giving orders now – that the machine has penetrated man – »

& all the “spontaneous combinations of language” around for a long time ,

“Pen_d_a_n_t_ _l_o_n_g_t_e_m_p_s_ I do not contest dominance I even let it exercise I civilize in my own way I ask the question (…) I do not question it (…) I say that’s good as it is, that’s fine enough I would just like a little more I am not quite satisfied (…) »

: I obtain an uncompromising political text which oscillates between submission and revolt, feeling of dereliction and resistance, takes the circuitous paths of poetry to denounce the perverse effects of the contemporary nebula and proceeds by saturation of overflow to better overflow the side of nausea.

From the child to the person, from the “me-I” augmented by the we “from the shadows cast by the dust” to the “reconciled figure”, from “the failure of the fathers” to the no future of a golden age who refuses, Jasmin Limans paints the portrait of the watered sprinkler of "European civilization" and retraces the stages of what resembles the obstacle course paved with illusions of a fool's game from which it emerges that H. as is only an ego sublimation of himself.


"Today and every day", masks and lies would they be resolved into a 'today East every day' pacified in the continuity of a calm morning, a sort of country where we only ever arrive at the end of very intimate reversals like so many initiations,

From “G-d” to God and from Man to Man in a world of alienations, holding a river in harmony and anchoring itself to alliterations until the poetic quiver of a morning of chords in an opening of consciousness on the path of detachment - of overcoming - of matrix silence.

“I am a stream now” says the river “A tiny torrent / Barely a river / A celestial shell where you can hear the sea”,

In “the knot of the tongue”, “in this old blue place”, a rainbow, a shower, a rainbow.

Carole Darricarrère

* “Eternal sunshine of a spotless mind”, cult film by Michel Gondry (2004) whose title is inspired by a poem by Alexander Pope (1688-1744) author of a “Essay on Man” in verse

 “How happy is the blameless Vestal’s lot!”
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd..."

Buy the book online: Morning of Light – Éditions Exopotamie