A fundamental element in Jon Leon and Jean-Marie Gleize‘s poems is a sort of process of quick fusion and aggregation of materials putting together in strict relatedness words and phrases belonging to different contexts and driven to diffraction.
Leon’s poems consist of broken sentences and of a firmly held syntax-line, as a paradoxical hidden and glowing stream of meaning. The ripped frames of syntax cohere. You may build up and lose a story in images. A concrete flux of meaning remains unexpressed, yet urging. The reader can only argue there’s a flood of links between ruins of sentences but the whole is hidden by doubled and redoubling interruptions, fractal borders. The poem is compact and pulverized at the same time.
Leon often puts numbers as displacing codes inside the poem too. They provide further obstacles in making the lines and statements stop and go — rapidly, in a mad darkening continuum. This strategy causes a constant and almost physical rearrangement of the reading process, in order to catch the real bridge-shaped wandering of our act of reading.
On the other hand, Gleize’s verse is made by single-noun sentences. He organizes a sort of uncommon flashing journal, in which the glances, the flickering of sense and the daily journey notes serve as each others’ allegories. They arrange a mechanism of broken but reassured links. (Broken thus reassured themselves).
In Gleize and Leon’s texts words lie really close to each other. The closeness stands for [possible / imagined] relation. (If things are far from the Self, and far from each other, yet the poem whirls like a black hole sticking things together).
The peculiar disposition of words on the surface of the page creates a kind of ‘optical’ art that throws extraordinary different things in an extraordinary narrow space — in strict closeness. This fact mimes and creates the appearence of a clearly greater relatedness among constellations of nouns, images, and sounds. The reader is a radar who perceives that vibration.
Does the reader think of things and objects of ordinary life as if they were linked and not wholly meaningless? Nobody knows if they really are. But who reads feels the presence of an arrow pointing to possibility itself.
[ editing: Alessia Folcio ]
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