Blackbox Manifold

Issue 12: Zoë Skoulding

From Teint

Not black ribbon but white

                                               silences deserted

streets a bleached dust under

                                                August moon cool ermine

traced with silver thread

                                         shivers under scraped skins

say snow of leather or

                                       city drowned in feathers


you can't get far enough away

                                                  to see the glacial picturesque

without the ripped hide

                                      stench and bloodstains

seeping into utterance

                                    between the river and itself





Not a thread but a gut

                                    strung along arondissements

where the feeling is

                                   microbial love that passes

understanding in our

                                    blue gentian candida

streptococcus waterlily

                                         phage from everywhere at once


why this is Paris in the

                                      weather repeating itself

nor are we out of it

                                  nor am I out of you

from secret to secretion

                                         as water undoes us






Not a vein but the lateral

                                         piercing of boulevard

Auguste Blanqui driven

                                          underground it has become

its own double the universe

                                             yammering on while

far away the brother

                                 stars look back at us


tangling and untangling

                                         the endless alternatives

of self by side by self

                                     where revolution runs

into hidden patterns

                                  a cracked face a future






La nature ne connaît ni ne pratique la morale en action. Ce qu'elle fait, elle ne le fait pas exprès. Elle travaille à colinmaillard, détruit, crée, transforme. Le reste ne la regarde pas. Les yeux fermés, elle applique le calcul des probabilités mieux que tous les mathématiciens ne l'expliquent, les yeux très ouverts. Pas une variante ne l'esquive, pas une chance ne demeure au fond de l'urne. Elle tire tous les numéros.


Nature neither knows nor practises morality in action. What she does, she does accidentally. She plays at blind man's bluff, destroys, creates, transforms. The rest don't notice her. With eyes shut, she applies the calculation of probabilities better than all the mathematicians can explain with their eyes wide open. Not a variant escapes her, not a chance is left at the bottom of the ballot-box. She draws all the numbers.


Auguste Blanqui, L'éternité par les astres (1872) - translation by Zoë Skoulding

Zoë Skoulding's fourth and most recent collection of poetry is The Museum of Disappearing Sounds (Seren, 2013). She is also the author of the monograph Contemporary Women's Poetry and Urban Space: Experimental Cities (Palgrave Macmillan, 2013) and the translator of In Reality: Selected Poems by the francophone poet Jean Portante (Seren, 2013). Based on research into the Bièvre, a lost river in Paris, the poems published here are part of a sequence written during a 2014 residency at Les Récollets hosted jointly by the Institut Français and the Mairie de Paris.