A powerful continuity persists – and deepens – in MCDem's work, that of a dual movement that brings together the plunge into the mystery of being and the expulsion of the "cry/primal poem" into the moors of Hurle-Lyre*. This dialectical duality shifts our perspective and forces us to see and acknowledge a new lucidity.
Murielle Compère-Demarcy invites us, on the one hand, to test the impetus of reality, which—contrary to what all appearances might suggest—is never at rest. She unfolds it in a movement where "rough sheets turn and turn," where "the redstart gleams/from the warm, secret hearth of dawns/to the reddening hearth of dusk," "where words beckon,/breaths of movement and reactivity/to the wings of desire/fleeting and fugitive," where "Writing runs in the interstices/of the green ray/In the russet madness of the night/your poem spins its lunar web/(…) its words of blood and blue-poetry/in the ocean of the text/a sail/swelled on the palisade of vertigo/pushed towards the open sea"... The reader is thus confronted with the dilemma of detaching themselves from the poem to return to the lazy everydayness of illusion,
On the other hand, and in the same vein, like the poets of transcendence, her writing is brought into contact with what flows through us, thus allowing the experience to emerge in the soul, and from this, the pen that "writes the rupture." In a disorienting mise en abyme, the mirrored poem cries out at its own expulsion, like a burst of light, at the very edge of its own beginning. Every authentic poet has a rhythm and a vision that establish their specificity, their irreducible singularity. Opening Dante, Lautréamont, or Artaud plunges us into a universe that beats to a single heart. The same is true of Murielle Compère-Demarcy. To read her is to offer oneself to a distancing—of gaze, of heart, of mind, of breath. To read her is to live a total poetic experience, constituted by the plunge into the abysses of being.
But this immersion, in its dialectical duality, does not engender a fusion, but an intertwining of being and reality—both uniting, yet each preserving its own soul. Here we are in the purest mystery, even a mysticism, where this new dawn unfolds, constituted by "the insurrection at last of love and dawn/which join the shores." A lucid unveiling illuminates the movement by which interiority and exteriority nourish each other: "Poem-Cry/primal that expels itself/Unique Cosmos/Poem-World/into the world."
The act of writing thus highlights an enigma, vital yet perhaps truly insoluble: the very source of the Word that nourishes the poem. Poetry illustrates its scope—in all the senses that this term can evoke—in magnificent verses such as: “The column of air rises, journeys/drawn into the breath of the universal cosmos/by the vortex of the stars of Language/Poetry gives its soul/to the silt of the word.”
This existential—and cosmic—push, akin to Nietzsche's "chaos" that one strives to "make into form," is a constant maieutic of the Word that every poet carries—despite themselves, always without being in any way responsible for what lies potentially within the soul—a "Storm conceived in the belly of the sun/while between lips and fever/remains the quest for the Word/Living is experienced." This "belly of the sun," ever active, constantly allows the vast cosmic energy that nourishes great creators and great mystics to flow through it.