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This poem is taken from PN Review 45, Volume 12 Number 1, September - October 1985.

Barbizon Brian Jones

Barbizon, qu'est-ce que c'est?
Enfin, où est-ce, ce Barbizon?

C'est dans la forêt de Fontainebleau, à l'endroit le plus admirable. On fume des pipes sous les grands chênes, et on peint les rochers de toutes les couleurs. Tu verras comme c'est beau.

1. Prelude

Marguerites in a green glass, the hand that picked
and trophied them still visible in the involved
slow release happening through water.
How did we come not to trust these mundane plenitudes,

expecting always instead the drunkard's
gritty-scalped morning-after poverty,
when the exuberantly joyful is dew to the commonplace
sun, and the full and brimming cup shrinks to a stain

stickily evaporating on a table that must be laid,
Our one true and indiscreet friend is the dream. It reaches
its hand towards us through night's broken window
promising infinite moors and air to breathe, and we

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