I'm very glad you like Char.
Here's another Frenchman's view (in translation):
A poem must be a holiday of Mind. It can be nothing else.
Holiday: it is a game, but solemn, ordered and significant; image of what one ordinarily is not, partaking of a state where efforts are rhythms--are redeemed.
One celebrates something in accomplishing it, or representing it in its purest and fairest state.
Here we have the power of language and its inverse phenomenon, understanding, identity of the things it separates. One discards its poverty, its weaknesses, its everydayness. One organizes all the possibilities of language.
The holiday , nothing must remain. Ashes, trampled garlands.
- Valery
[a link, page down]