SONG OF THE SORGUE
River which parts too early, in one go, without a companion,
Give to the children of my countryside the face of your passion,
River where the flash of lightning ends and where my home begins,
Which rolls all the way right up to the footsteps of oblivion, the rocky ground of my reason,
River, in you the earth shudders, there is sun, anxiety,
Would that every poor man in his night make his bread of your harvest,
River often punished, river abandoned to its course,
River of apprentices to a callused condition,
There is no wind that does not weaken at the crests of your furrows,
River of the empty spirit, of rags and suspicion,
Of an old misfortune unravelling itself, of the elm, of compassion,
River of eccentrics, of the feverish, of stone cutters,
Of the sun which lets go of its plow to sink to the level of liers
River of those who are better than oneself, river of blossoming fogs,
Of the lamp which quenches the anxiety around its hat,
River of consideration given to dreams, river which rusts iron,
Where the stars are of that shade that they refuse to the sea,
River of powers transmitted and of a scream that enters the water's mouth
Of the hurricane which bites the vine and announces the new wine
River of a heart never destroyed in this world mad for prison,
Keep us violent and friendly to the horizon's bees.
THE SORGUE (diff. translation)
River gone too soon, in a surge, without friend,
Give your passion's face to the youth of my native land.
River where lightning ends and my home begins,
That rolls my reason’s loose stones to oblivion's brink.
River, earth shudders, sun frets in your depths.
Let each poor man in his night make, of your harvest, his bread.
River often chastised, river disowned.
River of rags and suspicion, of hollowed souls,
Of elm trees, compassion, of old despair that unfolds.
River of those apprenticed to calloused states,
No wind stands up to the crests of your wake.
River of knackers, the fevered, and fools,
The sun dropping its plow to sink to the level of lies.
River of those who best us, river of fogs newly hatched,
Of the lamp quenching dread around its hat.
River that rusts iron, river revering dreams,
Where stars hold that umber they refuse to the sea.
River of transferred powers, of mouthed watery cries,
Of hurricanes tearing through vineyards, proclaiming new wines.
River with heart never wrecked in these prison-crazed days,
Keep us raging and friends to the stormed horizon's bees.
THE SHARK AND THE SEA GULL
At last I discover the sea in its triple accord: sea whose crescent beheads absurd grief's dynasty; sea as naïve as bindweed; great preserve of birds in the wild.
When I say: I've revoked the law, overcome morality, armored my heart, it's not to refute this scale of the void, whose rumbling, beyond my persuasion, extends its palm. But nothing of all that has seen me live and act bears witness now. My youth is free to come running, my shoulder to sleep. From that alone, effective and instant wealth must be drawn. Thus comes one pure day in the year, a day that mines its arcade of marvels in sea foam, a day that rises in eyes to crown noon. Yesterday, branch and buds stood apart and nobility withered. Shark and sea gull could not communicate.
O You, rainbow from this polishing shore, bring hope close to the ship. Make every assumed ending a new innocence—feverish push ahead—for those who stumble under morning's weight.
River which parts too early, in one go, without a companion,
Give to the children of my countryside the face of your passion,
River where the flash of lightning ends and where my home begins,
Which rolls all the way right up to the footsteps of oblivion, the rocky ground of my reason,
River, in you the earth shudders, there is sun, anxiety,
Would that every poor man in his night make his bread of your harvest,
River often punished, river abandoned to its course,
River of apprentices to a callused condition,
There is no wind that does not weaken at the crests of your furrows,
River of the empty spirit, of rags and suspicion,
Of an old misfortune unravelling itself, of the elm, of compassion,
River of eccentrics, of the feverish, of stone cutters,
Of the sun which lets go of its plow to sink to the level of liers
River of those who are better than oneself, river of blossoming fogs,
Of the lamp which quenches the anxiety around its hat,
River of consideration given to dreams, river which rusts iron,
Where the stars are of that shade that they refuse to the sea,
River of powers transmitted and of a scream that enters the water's mouth
Of the hurricane which bites the vine and announces the new wine
River of a heart never destroyed in this world mad for prison,
Keep us violent and friendly to the horizon's bees.
THE SORGUE (diff. translation)
River gone too soon, in a surge, without friend,
Give your passion's face to the youth of my native land.
River where lightning ends and my home begins,
That rolls my reason’s loose stones to oblivion's brink.
River, earth shudders, sun frets in your depths.
Let each poor man in his night make, of your harvest, his bread.
River often chastised, river disowned.
River of rags and suspicion, of hollowed souls,
Of elm trees, compassion, of old despair that unfolds.
River of those apprenticed to calloused states,
No wind stands up to the crests of your wake.
River of knackers, the fevered, and fools,
The sun dropping its plow to sink to the level of lies.
River of those who best us, river of fogs newly hatched,
Of the lamp quenching dread around its hat.
River that rusts iron, river revering dreams,
Where stars hold that umber they refuse to the sea.
River of transferred powers, of mouthed watery cries,
Of hurricanes tearing through vineyards, proclaiming new wines.
River with heart never wrecked in these prison-crazed days,
Keep us raging and friends to the stormed horizon's bees.
THE SHARK AND THE SEA GULL
At last I discover the sea in its triple accord: sea whose crescent beheads absurd grief's dynasty; sea as naïve as bindweed; great preserve of birds in the wild.
When I say: I've revoked the law, overcome morality, armored my heart, it's not to refute this scale of the void, whose rumbling, beyond my persuasion, extends its palm. But nothing of all that has seen me live and act bears witness now. My youth is free to come running, my shoulder to sleep. From that alone, effective and instant wealth must be drawn. Thus comes one pure day in the year, a day that mines its arcade of marvels in sea foam, a day that rises in eyes to crown noon. Yesterday, branch and buds stood apart and nobility withered. Shark and sea gull could not communicate.
O You, rainbow from this polishing shore, bring hope close to the ship. Make every assumed ending a new innocence—feverish push ahead—for those who stumble under morning's weight.
THE LIGHT OF THE PENITENTIARY
I wanted only the briefest night with you, so your silent stepmother would grow old in the background unable to marshal her powers.
My dream was to be beside you, a harmonious fugitive that few ever noticed, as we chanced along this sad but angelic route. Nothing would dare slow us down.
The daylight suddenly closes in. Losing all the dead I loved so much, I am casting off that dog rose, the last living thing left, a distracted summer.
I’m emptied out, yet full. Finish me, you melancholy beauty, your eyelids fluttering in drunken rapture. Every wound from you awakens the phoenixes whose eyes appear in my window. Something sings and sighs its satisfaction at being complete out there inside the wall’s gold.
This wind that is driving my yoke along.
Put On Guard
On our temperate side we have a series of songs in us, guarding us, wings of communication between our calm breath and our highest fevers. Rather trite pieces, mild in style and backward in form, yet wearing a small scar on their surface. Everyone has a right to establish a beginning and an end to this contestable glow.
At a time when death, docile to treacherous enchanters, defiles the loftiest chances, we don't hesitate to set free every moment at our command. Or better still, let us turn toward the morning-glory, that bindweed which night's final hour refines and opens but which noon condemns to be closed. It would be unusual if the quietude, on the other side of which it welcomes us precariously, were not what we had desired for a siesta.
On our temperate side we have a series of songs in us, guarding us, wings of communication between our calm breath and our highest fevers. Rather trite pieces, mild in style and backward in form, yet wearing a small scar on their surface. Everyone has a right to establish a beginning and an end to this contestable glow.
At a time when death, docile to treacherous enchanters, defiles the loftiest chances, we don't hesitate to set free every moment at our command. Or better still, let us turn toward the morning-glory, that bindweed which night's final hour refines and opens but which noon condemns to be closed. It would be unusual if the quietude, on the other side of which it welcomes us precariously, were not what we had desired for a siesta.
THE SWIFT
Swift spreading wings too wide as he wheels in the air, circling round the house, crying out for joy. Just like the heart.
He dries up thunder. He sows seeds in calm skies. Touching ground tears him apart.
The swallow is his response. The familiar that he detests. What is the use of lacing round towers?
His silence’s reach into the most somber depths. No one can inhabit a smaller space.
Through the lengths of summer’s brightness, he will weave amidst shadows, through midnight’s shutters.
There are no eyes to hold him. His whole being is his voice. A rifle is going to shoot him down. Just like the heart.
The Lords of Maussane
One after the other, they wished to predict a happy future for us,
With an eclipse in their image and all the anguish befitting us!
We disdained this equality,
Answered no to their assiduous words.
We followed the stony way the heart traced for us
Up to the plains of the air and the unique silence.
We made our demanding love bleed,
Our happiness wrestle each pebble.
They say at this moment that, beyond their vision,
The hail terrifies them, more than the snow of the dead!
With an eclipse in their image and all the anguish befitting us!
We disdained this equality,
Answered no to their assiduous words.
We followed the stony way the heart traced for us
Up to the plains of the air and the unique silence.
We made our demanding love bleed,
Our happiness wrestle each pebble.
They say at this moment that, beyond their vision,
The hail terrifies them, more than the snow of the dead!
The Slapped Adolescent
He was hurled to the ground by the same unjust blows that hurtled him far ahead in his life, toward future years when one person alone could no longer make him bleed. Like the small shrub that draws succor from roots, clasping bruised branches against its resolute core, he backed away mute into what he knew and into his innocence. Finally freed and filled with sovereign joy, he fled to the meadow and reached the trembling wall of dry reeds. He cajoled the mud to rise up. What was noblest and most enduring on earth seemed to adopt him, as if to make amends.
And so it would start again. He knew one day he would hold his ground, attentive and standing tall among men—more at risk, more resistant.
And so it would start again. He knew one day he would hold his ground, attentive and standing tall among men—more at risk, more resistant.
Mute Game
With my teeth
I have seized life
Upon the knife of my youth.
With my lips today,
With my lips alone…
I have seized life
Upon the knife of my youth.
With my lips today,
With my lips alone…
Briefly come,
Bloom of the slopes,
Orion’s spear
Has reappeared.
Bloom of the slopes,
Orion’s spear
Has reappeared.
BLACK STAGS
The waters spoke into the ear of the sky.
You stags have leapt across millennia
From darkness in the rocks to the air’s caresses.
The hunter driving you, the spirit watching you,
How I love their passion, viewed from my wide shore!
And what if, in a moment of hope, I had their eyes ?
You stags have leapt across millennia
From darkness in the rocks to the air’s caresses.
The hunter driving you, the spirit watching you,
How I love their passion, viewed from my wide shore!
And what if, in a moment of hope, I had their eyes ?
MAKE IT SO!
This land is a wish of the spirit, a counter-sepulchre.
In my land, the tender evidence of spring and meagrely clothed birds are preferred to far off goal.
Truth awaits the dawn by the candle.
The windowpane is ignored. To the watcher what does it matter.
In my land we don’t question someone who has been touched deeply.
Truth awaits the dawn by the candle.
The windowpane is ignored. To the watcher what does it matter.
In my land we don’t question someone who has been touched deeply.
There is no malign shadow over capsized boats.
A half-hearted greeting is unheard of in my land.
We only borrow what we can return with interest.
There are leaves, many leaves on the trees in my land.
The branches free not to bear fruit.
Nobody trusts the good faith of a conqueror.
In my land, we say thank you.
WATERSHED
Let’s yield to blessings of happy oblivion
Unperturbed
Let’s flee with the dust from those things we clung to
Let’s abandon those watery facades we call our fate
With the dignity of leaves
At the moment they shed all precedent
For whatever window appears through our tears
What are you waiting for
You partisan hearts?
Unperturbed
Let’s flee with the dust from those things we clung to
Let’s abandon those watery facades we call our fate
With the dignity of leaves
At the moment they shed all precedent
For whatever window appears through our tears
What are you waiting for
You partisan hearts?
Threshhold
When the barriers to people have been moved away, sucked up by that giant flaw, the abandonment of the divine, words in the distance, words which did not want to be lost, tried to resist the exorbitant pressure, there they decided upon the dynasty of their senses.
I ran up to where that diluvienne night issues forth, planted in the shaking dawn, my belt full of seasons, I wait for you, O my friends who are about to arrive. Already I can make you out in the darkness of the horizon. What I wish for your houses is not dried up by my hearth. And my staff of cypress laughs with all its heart for you.
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