And ask ye why these sad tears stream?

Lord Alfred Tennyson

‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’
OVID.

And ask ye why these sad tears stream?
Why these wan eyes are dim with weeping?
I had a dream-a lovely dream,
Of her that in the grave is sleeping.

I saw her as ’twas yesterday,
The bloom upon her cheek still glowing;
And round her play’d a golden ray,
And on her brows were gay flowers blowing.

With angel-hand she swept a lyre,
A garland red with roses bound it;
Its strings were wreath’d with lambent fire
And amaranth was woven round it.

I saw her mid the realms of light,
In everlasting radiance gleaming;
Co-equal with the seraphs bright,
Mid thousand thousand angels beaming.

I strove to reach her, when, behold,
Those fairy forms of bliss Elysian,
And all that rich scene wrapt in gold,
Faded in air-a lovely vision!

And I awoke, but oh! to me
That waking hour was doubly weary;
And yet I could not envy thee,
Although so blest, and I so dreary.

SINGER ™

Joumana-Jo Haddad

Could it be that the old sewing machine
my mother gave me
would finally come in handy?

You see, my love,
You need to be careful.
I am a seamstress’s daughter,
and every time we kiss
I yearn to stitch our lips together:
It is in my genes.

… But then I remember
the thrill of feeling your breath getting closer,
the warmth of your tongue as it reaches out from a distance,
and I let your mouth go
unattached like a nonchalant piece of fabric
which fate is still unknown in a tailor’s mind,
so that the miracle keeps creating itself
under my starving needle,
with no thread needed
but the imaginary line
that magically fuses
your heart with mine.

Atterrissage

Cyril Wong

Traduction et adaptation par Jean-Marie Flémal

Ce que la mort peut être : une lente descente,
quasi sans pesanteur, un fœtus bourgeonnant
se lovant doucement au sein de la matrice.
Et le moteur entame un grondement profond,
qu’on dirait stomacal – c’est celui de l’avion
qui a faim d’atterrir, de dévorer l’espace
entre son corps qui tombe et le sol -, et que suit
le furtif lèchement de ses roues sur le corps
de la piste : appuyé, puis glissant vers l’avant,
décélérant en un ralenti sensuel,
et l’avion enfin laisse aller un long son
tel l’ultime soupir de son soulagement.
Le signal ceintures s’éteint, et c’est la phase
finale. Nous quittons nos sièges tels nos âmes
nos corps, et nous laissons nos bagages à main
les plus volumineux dans les compartiments
au-dessus des sièges, puis nous formons, serrée,
la file au bas de l’aile, sourires angoissés
allant de l’un à l’autre, nous sommes quelque temps
la proie bien éveillée de nos ambivalences
diverses, à moins que ne soyons soulagés
d’être enfin arrivés, dans la zone hors du temps
d’une contrée sans nom, sauf celui qu’on lui donne,
sanglotant et riant, le tout en même temps.

Cyril Wong (Copyright 2004)

Lauréat du Prix de Littérature de Singapour (2006)

« Les poèmes évocateurs et sensuels de Cyril Wong démêlent les déceptions et les promesses de l’enfance dans une langue qui est un pur ravissement, dénuée qu’elle est de toute amertume. Ces poèmes continuent à se mouvoir en nous longtemps après que les lumières se sont éteintes. Ils me rappellent surtout les films de Wong Kar-Wai, le cinéaste confirmé de l’amour et du désir perdus. » (Lewis Warsh.)

***

LANDING

What death may be : a slow, close-to-weightless
tilt, like a burgeoning foetus turning
slightly in the womb. The engine starts a low
growl like a stomach, the aircraft hungry to
land, to devour the space between its
falling body and the ground, followed by
the slow lick of its wheels against the runway’s
belly : pressing down, then skating forward,
only to decelerate, a sensual slow-mo,
and the plane makes a sound
like the hugest sigh of relief.
The seatbelt sign blinks off for the final time.
We rise up from our seats like souls
from bodies, leaving bulky hand luggage
in the overhead compartments, then
begin a tense line down the aisle, awkwardly
smiling at each other, remaining few minutes
alive with all kinds of ambivalences,
or simply relief at having arrived, at long last,
in that no-time zone of a country
without a name except the ones we give it ;
weeping, laughing, both at once.

Cyril Wong (Copyright 2004)

Winner of Singapore Literature Prize (2006)

Avec l aimable autorisation de l’auteur et de traducteur

"Disappearing Bridge" ©2006 John Ye Ko

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you wake in the morning hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die!

Present

Charles Oulmont

Je voudrais ramasser toutes les fleurs des champs,
Je voudrais receuillir tous les parfums des bois
Je voudrais rassembler tous les rêves d’amour,
Et puis fleurs, parfums, rêves, tout, te le donner,
Tout cela que n’ont pas les autres bien-aimées,
Je te t’aurais donné, fleurs, parfums, tout
Ce qui ne peut s’acheter à prix d’or, mais bien
Avec l’amour qu’on a dans son coeur pour sa mie…

Et lorsque tu les aurais assez savourés,
Tu jetterais au loin en les éparpillant,
Déesse bienfaisante et chère aux amoureux,
Tous les parfums, les fleurs, et les rêves aussi,
Afin que se penchant sur ces trésors d’un jour,
Le monde soit heureux grâce à toi, grâce à moi,
Grâce à nous deux et grâce à notre amour,
Fleur la plus parfumée, rêve immatériel…
Et blotti contre toi sans plus penser à rien,
D’un sommeil rajeuni je dormirais heureux.

Extrait du livre “Message personel – Traduit de moi-même ”
(Nouvelle edition)
ISTRA- Strasbourg

© Poesiedumonde

Les séparés (N’écris pas…)

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE (1786-1859)

N’écris pas. Je suis triste, et je voudrais m’éteindre.
Les beaux étés sans toi, c’est la nuit sans flambeau.
J’ai refermé mes bras qui ne peuvent t’atteindre,
Et frapper à mon coeur, c’est frapper au tombeau.
N’écris pas !

N’écris pas. N’apprenons qu’à mourir à nous-mêmes.
Ne demande qu’à Dieu… qu’à toi, si je t’aimais !
Au fond de ton absence écouter que tu m’aimes,
C’est entendre le ciel sans y monter jamais.
N’écris pas !

N’écris pas. Je te crains ; j’ai peur de ma mémoire ;
Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent.
Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire.
Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant.
N’écris pas !

N’écris pas ces doux mots que je n’ose plus lire :
Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon coeur ;
Que je les vois brûler à travers ton sourire ;
Il semble qu’un baiser les empreint sur mon coeur.
N’écris pas !

The Bed By The Window

Robinson Jeffers

I chose the bed downstairs by the sea-window for a good death-bed
When we built the house, it is ready waiting,
Unused unless by some guest in a twelvemonth, who hardly suspects
Its latter purpose. I often regard it,
With neither dislike nor desire; rather with both, so equalled
That they kill each other and a crystalline interest
Remains alone. We are safe to finish what we have to finish;
And then it will sound rather like music
When the patient daemon behind the screen of sea-rock and sky
Thumps with his staff, and calls thrice: “Come, Jeffers.”

Liberté

Paul Eluard
in Poésies et vérités , 1942

Sur mes cahiers d’écolier
Sur mon pupitre et les arbres
Sur le sable sur la neige
J’écris ton nom

Sur toutes les pages lues
Sur toutes les pages blanches
Pierre sang papier ou cendre
J’écris ton nom

Sur les images dorées
Sur les armes des guerriers
Sur la couronne des rois
J’écris ton nom

Sur la jungle et le désert
Sur les nids sur les genêts
Sur l’écho de mon enfance
J’écris ton nom

Sur les merveilles des nuits
Sur le pain blanc des journées
Sur les saisons fiancées
J’écris ton nom

Sur tous mes chiffons d’azur
Sur l’étang soleil moisi
Sur le lac lune vivante
J’écris ton nom

Sur les champs sur l’horizon
Sur les ailes des oiseaux
Et sur le moulin des ombres
J’écris ton nom

Sur chaque bouffée d’aurore
Sur la mer sur les bateaux
Sur la montagne démente
J’écris ton nom

Sur la mousse des nuages
Sur les sueurs de l’orage
Sur la pluie épaisse et fade
J’écris ton nom

Sur la vitre des surprises
Sur les lèvres attentives
Bien au-dessus du silence
J’écris ton nom

Sur mes refuges détruits
Sur mes phares écroulés
Sur les murs de mon ennui
J’écris ton nom

Sur l’absence sans désirs
Sur la solitude nue
Sur les marches de la mort
J’écris ton nom

Sur la santé revenue
Sur le risque disparu
Sur l’espoir sans souvenir
J’écris ton nom

Et par le pouvoir d’un mot
Je recommence ma vie
Je suis né pour te connaître
Pour te nommer

Liberté.

Yearning

Joe Sharp

Summertime has been the blossom over
Autumn chill has seen off meadow clover
A circling flock of starlings I can see
Come roosting on the rowan berry tree
I do so yearn for days of early spring

I contemplate the cold October sky
A starlit night with frost descending
I shiver at the moon so bright on high
While deep within a sigh ascending
I do so yearn for days of early spring

Considering the snowy winter scene
The furry squirrel darting on the green
A flurrying of snowflakes in the wake
The icing on my frosted Christmas cake
I do so yearn for days of early spring

Aware of the advancing march of time
Awakening I stretch my limbs and yawn
A serenade of melodies sublime
Blackbirds sing in chorus at the dawn
I do so yearn for days of early spring

With disregard of frequent April showers
I fond regard a feathered friend I made
Flitting to and fro among the bowers
Now perching on the handle of my spade
A fine return for days of early spring

Renascence

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The room is full of you! — As I came in
And closed the door behind me, all at once
A something in the air, intangible,
Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick! –

Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed
Each other room’s dear personality.
The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers, –
The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death –
Has strangled that habitual breath of home
Whose expiration leaves all houses dead;
And wheresoe’er I look is hideous change.
Save here.  Here ’twas as if a weed-choked gate
Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped
Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange,
Sweet garden of a thousand years ago
And suddenly thought, “I have been here before!”

You are not here.  I know that you are gone,
And will not ever enter here again.
And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,
Your silent step must wake across the hall;
If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes
Would kiss me from the door. — So short a time
To teach my life its transposition to
This difficult and unaccustomed key! –
The room is as you left it; your last touch –
A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself
As saintly — hallows now each simple thing;
Hallows and glorifies, and glows between
The dust’s grey fingers like a shielded light.

There is your book, just as you laid it down,
Face to the table, — I cannot believe
That you are gone! — Just then it seemed to me
You must be here.  I almost laughed to think
How like reality the dream had been;
Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.
That book, outspread, just as you laid it down!
Perhaps you thought, “I wonder what comes next,
And whether this or this will be the end”;
So rose, and left it, thinking to return.

Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed
Out of the room, rocked silently a while
Ere it again was still. When you were gone
Forever from the room, perhaps that chair,
Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while,
Silently, to and fro. . .

And here are the last words your fingers wrote,
Scrawled in broad characters across a page
In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand,
Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down.
Here with a looping knot you crossed a “t”,
And here another like it, just beyond
These two eccentric “e’s”.  You were so small,
And wrote so brave a hand!
How strange it seems
That of all words these are the words you chose!
And yet a simple choice; you did not know
You would not write again.  If you had known –
But then, it does not matter, — and indeed
If you had known there was so little time
You would have dropped your pen and come to me
And this page would be empty, and some phrase
Other than this would hold my wonder now.
Yet, since you could not know, and it befell
That these are the last words your fingers wrote,
There is a dignity some might not see
In this, “I picked the first sweet-pea to-day.”
To-day!  Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until to-morrow? — O my love,
The things that withered, — and you came not back!
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty.  (O my empty life!)
That day — that day you picked the first sweet-pea, –
And brought it in to show me!  I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face; and when behind my look
You saw such unmistakable intent
You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips.
(You were the fairest thing God ever made,
I think.)  And then your hands above my heart
Drew down its stem into a fastening,
And while your head was bent I kissed your hair.
I wonder if you knew.  (Beloved hands!
Somehow I cannot seem to see them still.
Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust
In your bright hair.)  What is the need of Heaven
When earth can be so sweet? — If only God
Had let us love, — and show the world the way!
Strange cancellings must ink th’ eternal books
When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right!
That first sweet-pea!  I wonder where it is.
It seems to me I laid it down somewhere,
And yet, — I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
‘Twas much like any other flower to me,
Save that it was the first.  I did not know,
Then, that it was the last.  If I had known –
But then, it does not matter.  Strange how few,
After all’s said and done, the things that are
Of moment.
Few indeed!  When I can make
Of ten small words a rope to hang the world!
“I had you and I have you now no more.”
There, there it dangles, — where’s the little truth
That can for long keep footing under that
When its slack syllables tighten to a thought?
Here, let me write it down!  I wish to see
Just how a thing like that will look on paper!

“*I had you and I have you now no more*.”

O little words, how can you run so straight
Across the page, beneath the weight you bear?
How can you fall apart, whom such a theme
Has bound together, and hereafter aid
In trivial expression, that have been
So hideously dignified? — Would God
That tearing you apart would tear the thread
I strung you on!  Would God — O God, my mind
Stretches asunder on this merciless rack
Of imagery!  O, let me sleep a while!
Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back
In that sweet summer afternoon with you.
Summer?  ‘Tis summer still by the calendar!
How easily could God, if He so willed,
Set back the world a little turn or two!
Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again!

We were so wholly one I had not thought
That we could die apart.  I had not thought
That I could move, — and you be stiff and still!
That I could speak, — and you perforce be dumb!
I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof
In some firm fabric, woven in and out;
Your golden filaments in fair design
Across my duller fibre.  And to-day
The shining strip is rent; the exquisite
Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart
Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled
In the damp earth with you.  I have been torn
In two, and suffer for the rest of me.
What is my life to me?  And what am I
To life, — a ship whose star has guttered out?
A Fear that in the deep night starts awake
Perpetually, to find its senses strained
Against the taut strings of the quivering air,
Awaiting the return of some dread chord?

Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast, — save that contrast’s wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
Into a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms.  What now — what now to me
Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers
That clutter up the world?  You were my song!
Now, let discord scream!  You were my flower!
Now let the world grow weeds!  For I shall not
Plant things above your grave — (the common balm
Of the conventional woe for its own wound!)
Amid sensations rendered negative
By your elimination stands to-day,
Certain, unmixed, the element of grief;
I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth
With travesties of suffering, nor seek
To effigy its incorporeal bulk
In little wry-faced images of woe.

I cannot call you back; and I desire
No utterance of my immaterial voice.
I cannot even turn my face this way
Or that, and say, “My face is turned to you”;
I know not where you are, I do not know
If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute,
Body and soul, you into earth again;
But this I know: — not for one second’s space
Shall I insult my sight with visionings
Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed
Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air.
Let the world wail!  Let drip its easy tears!
My sorrow shall be dumb!

– What do I say?
God! God! — God pity me!  Am I gone mad
That I should spit upon a rosary?
Am I become so shrunken?  Would to God
I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch
Makes temporal the most enduring grief;
Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,
With wild lamenting!  Would I too might weep
Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths
For its new dead!  Not Truth, but Faith, it is
That keeps the world alive.  If all at once
Faith were to slacken, — that unconscious faith
Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone
Of all believing, — birds now flying fearless
Across would drop in terror to the earth;
Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins
Would tangle in the frantic hands of God
And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction!

O God, I see it now, and my sick brain
Staggers and swoons!  How often over me
Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight
In which I see the universe unrolled
Before me like a scroll and read thereon
Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl
Dizzily round and round and round and round,
Like tops across a table, gathering speed
With every spin, to waver on the edge
One instant — looking over — and the next
To shudder and lurch forward out of sight –

*    *    *    *    *

Ah, I am worn out — I am wearied out –
It is too much — I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep.  Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep.

Idéal

Arnaud Somveille

Je voudrais vivre ainsi
Manger parce que j’ai faim
Boire parce que j’ai soif
Rire quand je suis joyeux
Pleurer quand j’ai de la peine
Marcher parce que la route est belle
Calme droite et sans fin
Parler quand les mots sont nécessaires
Me taire quand ils ne suffisent plus
Vivre parce que la vie est douce
Et un beau jour
Mourir parce que la vie s’achève
Mourir calmement comme si je
M’endormais pour rêver de toi.

(in Errances, éditions Saint-Germain-des-près, Paris 1985)

Twas such a little—little boat

Emily Dickinson

‘Twas such a little—little boat
That toddled down the bay!
‘Twas such a gallant—gallant sea
That beckoned it away!

‘Twas such a greedy, greedy wave
That licked it from the Coast—
Nor ever guessed the stately sails
My little craft was lost!

Lotus

J’ai passé beaucoup de nuits calmes et sans espoir
Croisant mes pieds pour prier
J’aspire et expire comme tout le monde
Oh le monde ? Il existe à peine

Mais l’autre monde existe
L’autre vent, les autres agneaux sacrifiés
Et les autres visages pas sûrement vivants
En un mot ils appartiennent à l’autre monde

Mes mains ouvertes sont le seul lotus que je possède
Vous dites qu’elles poussent mais dans quelle direction ?
Vous dites qu’elles suivent leur chemin mais pour quelle Destination ?

Ce que je fais c’est apprendre à oublier
Sur quel chemin l’immense univers cesserait
D’être perçu par des yeux humains

Shu Cai

Version française Henri Deluy, Liliane Giraudon,
Audrey Jenkinson, Jean-Jacques Viton

Avec l aimable autorisation de l’auteur Shu Cai

Né en 1965 à Zhejiang. Diplomé de l’Université des Langues Etrangères de Beijing (langue et littérature française). Il a été diplomate de 1990 à 1994 à l’Ambassade de Chine au Sénégal. Vit et travaille actuellement à Beijing. Traducteur de Pierre Reverdy, Réné Char, Arthur Rimbaud, Saint-John Perse et Yves Bonnefoy. Recueil de poèmes : ‘’Le Seul’’ (Editions de Hua Xia, 1997). Essais :’’Guetter’’(Editions de Bei Yue, 2000).

© Patrick Dancel

Rückblick

János Arany

Hab gelebt… kann man das sagen?
Seit dem Tag, da es begann,
mußte ich mich ewig plagen,
daß ich Lebenslust gewann.
Ach, seit mich die Amme setzte
in mein schwankes Lebensboot
und aufs Meer, das sturmzerfetzte
schickte -, kenne ich nur Not!

Als der Himmel mich erblickte,
hing er grau und regenschwer.
Ehe mir ein Lächeln glückte,
konnt’ ich weinen umsomehr.
Freuden schmeckten mir meist bitter,
ließ manch einen Becher stehn,
um dann wieder wie durch Gitter
nach erträumtem Glück zu spähn.

Manchmal langte ich hinüber,
pflückte eine Rose scheu.
Freute ich mich kaum darüber,
fiel die Blüte ab dabei.
Suchte dann auf allen Wegen,
bis ich eine andre fand.
Sah sie freundlich mir entgegen,
hab ich stumm mich abgewandt.

Freiheit nur war mein Begehren
trotz der Fesseln, die ich trug,
wollt’ den Kampf mir nicht erschweren,
war mein Los doch hart genug.
Glich dem Wild, das seine Schlingen
will zerreißen, dem nicht glückt,
aus dem Fangnetz zu entspringen,
und nur tiefer sich verstrickt.

Träume, die mich einst verbanden
mit der Welt, wie Nebel sind
sie zerstoben und entschwanden ach,
so bald verweht vom Wind.
Meiner Jugend hohe Ziele:
Rauch, der in die Ferne floh!
Hoffnung, Inbrunst der Gefühle,
meine Welt, wo ist sie, wo?…

Sterben! Doch dies selbst zu wagen,
fehlte mir der Mut bis heut.
Bin nicht stark genug, zu tragen
dieses Lebens Last und Leid.
Wer, wer nimmt sie mir vom Rücken?…
Doch halt aus, mein Herz! Ich kann
noch ein letztes Licht erblicken,
und das leuchtet mir voran.

Ja, du bist es, Himmelsleuchte,
du, der Liebe holder Schein,
der mir oft zum Trost gereichte,
du, du läßt mich nicht allein,
guter Mond, wirst mich begleiten,
bis zum Grab ist’s nicht mehr weit,
wirst den Schleier drüber breiten,
läßt mich ruhn dort, frei von Leid.

MARTIN REMANÉ

János Arany – Gedichte – Im Hundertsten Todesjahr des Dichters, S. 75

Come not when I am dead

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave to where I lie:
Go by, go by.

Fascination

Toujours à la télé, ils adoraient regarder
Le trivial Georges Frêche et “On n’est pas couché”.
Tous deux fascinés, ils cessèrent de travailler,
Très rapidement, ils se trouvèrent dans la dèche :
On ne peut pas vivre de Zemmour et de Frêche.

Michel Tournon

L’Homme et la mer

Charles Baudelaire

Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âme
Dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,
Et ton esprit n’est pas un gouffre moins amer.
Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;
Tu l’embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.
Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
Homme, nul n’a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!
Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!

***

Free man, you’ll always love the sea — for this,
That it’s a mirror, where you see your soul
In its eternal waves that chafe and roll;
Nor is your soul less bitter an abyss.
in your reflected image there to merge,
You love to dive, its eyes and limbs to match.
Sometimes your heart forgets its own, to catch
The rhythm of that wild and tameless dirge.
The two of you are shadowy, deep, and wide.
Man! None has ever plummeted your floor —
Sea! None has ever known what wealth you store —
Both are so jealous of the things you hide!
Yet age on age is ended, or begins,
While you without remorse or pity fight.
So much in death and carnage you delight,
Eternal wrestlers! Unrelenting twins!

Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952

LA GARE

CARLOS FRANCISCO MONGE

Cette nuit j’ai débarqué dans une gare.
Pareille à toutes. Lente, oppressante,
paisible parfois, submergée
au tréfonds des sortilèges de l’horloge.
Et je me suis pris pour une taupe, bestiole fourbue
dans un recoin,
les regardant passer, courir, renoncer,
et comme dévorant les guichets,
demander un billet, des horaires,
puis courir.

Cette nuit j’ai débarqué dans la gare
et je n’ai pas voulu me remémorer cette autre, la miniature,
battue des vents et secouée
comme peuplier transi.
Je me revois en elle, à peine extirpé du train,
rendu à la multitude,
cherchant sur les murs hors d’usage
la nuit de veille, le mitan du tour, une couleur,
un acacia tissant ses énigmes
dans les délires de mon corps. Dès lors
tout était terre ombreuse, une crainte
renversée entre col et ceinture, et la haine
du crieur annonçant la pluie impénitente.

Cette nuit j’ai débarqué
et renoncé à cet air emmuré
à la colère des cloîtres
à la radicelle amère qui cherchait
l’ombre et la vase.
Les trains passent. Comment ne pas épier
en eux une peine fugitive
un vestibule aux ronces, une promesse
du vieux territoire de l’amour.
Moi, je regarde la taupe, vautrée, jetée
à ce zig zag de cris et de figures,
indécise, accusatrice et comme déchiffrant
l’horaire et les vestiges
d’une vielle musique.

Je vois courir la nuit,
et le ciel dans mes souliers, et le profil
de mon corps pèlerin
par cette galerie d’anges se télescopant
pour ne pas manquer le train,
pour être chanceux, pour toucher le fond
de cette carte sans gloire.

(Traduit de l’espagnol par Jean-Claude Duthion)©

THE STATION

Tonight I arrived at a train station.
Same as the rest. Lingering, suffocating,
serene at times, submerged
under the magic spell of the clock.
And I played the mole, tired little beast
crouched in a corner,
watching them go by, running, giving up,
or devouring the teller’s little window
to ask for a ticket, a schedule,
and running again.

Tonight I arrived at the station,
and I refused to remember the other one, the very short one,
blown and shaken
like a freezing poplar.
I remember myself there, torn from the train,
returned to the crowds,
searching the useless walls
for light, noon, some color,
a locust tree spinning its enigmas in the delusions of my body. Then
everything was darkened earth,
a bolt of fear from my neck to my waist,
and hatred for the unrepentant rain’s proclamation.

Tonight I arrived
and renounced this air stifled between the walls,
the cloistered anger,
the bitter little shoot in search of
the shade and the downpour.
Trains go by. I can’t help but see in them
a fleeting sadness, a foreshadowing of the north wind,
a promise to bygone loves.
I look at the mole, being dragged along
thrown into this zigzag of shouts and shapes
looking doubtful, accusing, as if figuring out
the schedule, and the ruins
of an ancient music.

I see the night fly by,

and the sky in my shoes, and the outline
of my body traveling
through this gallery of angels tripping over each other
trying not to miss the train,
trying to be happy, trying to get to the bottom
of this inglorious journey.

(Translated from Spanish by Victor S. Drescher)©

LA ESTACIÓN

Esta noche he llegado a una estación de tren.
Igual a todas. Lenta, sofocante,
serena a veces, sumergida
entre los sortilegios del reloj.
Y me he tenido por topo, cansada bestiecilla
en un rincón,
mirándolos pasar, correr, rendirse,
y como devorando las ventanas
pedir billete, horarios
y correr.

Esta noche he llegado a la estación,
y no he querido rememorar la otra, la cortísima,
soplada y sacudida
como aterido álamo.
Yo me recuerdo en ella, arrancado del tren,
vuelto a las muchedumbres,
buscando en las paredes inservibles
la vela, el mediodía, algún color,
una acacia tejiendo sus enigmas
en los delirios de mi cuerpo. Entonces
todo era tierra umbría, un derramado
miedo entre el cuello y la cintura, y odio
al pregón de la lluvia impenitente.

Esta noche he llegado
y renunciado a este aire entre murallas,
a la ira de los claustros,
a la raicilla amarga que buscaba
la sombra y el turbión.
Pasan los trenes. Cómo no atisbar
en ellos una pena fugitiva,
una antesala al cierzo, una promesa
al viejo territorio del amor.
Yo miro al topo, a rastras, arrojado
a este zigzag de gritos y figuras,
dudoso, acusador, y como descifrando
el horario y las ruinas
de una música antigua.

Veo la noche correr
y el cielo en los zapatos, y el dibujo
de mi cuerpo viajero
por esta galería de ángeles atropellándose
por no perder el tren,
por ser dichosos, por tocar el fondo
de este mapa sin gloria.

(tomado del libro La tinta extinta)

© CFM. 2007

Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur

Nota biográfica

CARLOS FRANCISCO MONGE (1951). Poeta y ensayista costarricense. Es autor, entre otros, de Reino del latido (1978), Los fértiles horarios (1983), La tinta extinta (1990) y Enigmas de la imperfección (2002), todos de poesía. También, como ensayista y crítico literario tiene publicados : La imagen separada (1984), La rama de fresno (1999) y El vanguardismo literario en Costa Rica (2005), y dos antologías : Antología crítica de la poesía de Costa Rica (1993) y Costa Rica : Poesía escogida (1998).
Es profesor de Literaturas Hispánicas en la Universidad Nacional (Heredia, Costa Rica). Es Premio Nacional de Poesía, de su país.

Camomile Tea

Outside the sky is light with stars;
There’s a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,
The tap is dripping peacefully;
The saucepan shadows on the wall
Are black and round and plain to see.

Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)

When you are old

William Butler Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

On fait ce qu’on pleut

Il n’ont pas aimé son pardessus,
ni son imperméable non plus ;
il s’est mis en colère.
Soudain il a ouvert
son parapluie, et là… il a plu.

(Arnaud Somveille)

A Thunderstorm In Town

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)

(A Reminiscence, 1893)

Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.

London Airport

Christopher Logue (b 1926)

Last night in London Airport
I saw a wooden bin
labelled UNWANTED LITERATURE
IS TO BE PLACED HEREIN
So I wrote a poem
and popped it in.

I Have Forsworn You / Ich Habe Dir Entsagt

ANNE RANASINGHE

I Have Forsworn You

I have forsworn you, closed all memory;
I work and eat, listen to music, sleep,
Walk in the garden, watch the changing moon
Pretending that I have no need of you.
But all the while I know it is not true.
Your silence weaves around me such a tight cocoon
Of loneliness and sadness, such a deep
And painful longing that I know it is a fallacy
To feel and say or think that I am free.

***

Ich Habe Dir Entsagt

Ich habe dir abgeschworen, samt allen Gedanken,
Ich arbeite, esse, höre Musik und schlafe,
Im Garten geh ich umher, betrachte den wechselnden Mond,
Ich habe dich nicht nötig, es scheint mir so klar,
Doch immer schon weiß ich, das ist nicht wahr.
Dein Schweigen webt um mich ein dichtes Gespinst bewohnt
Von Einsamkeit und Trauer, es wird zur Strafe
Und schmerzlichem Sehnen. Ich weiß, es ist Täsuchung, zu denken
Zu fühlen, zu sagen: Ich bin frei.

Excerpt from Anna Ranasinghe’s book
“Du Fragst Mich, Warum ich Gedichte Schreibe – You Ask Me Why I Write Poems”
(Pages 44 /45, Maro Verlag)

REGIME ARAGONAIS ?

Quelques Montignaciens, au cours d’une excursion,
s’étant hâtés vers un ibère restaurant,
se virent refuser, pour leur consommation,
des paellas, quand le patron dit, se marrant:
“Allez, le premier, là, l’gros, goûte le safran!”

( le Zappe )

Hello Moon

Les Aieules

François COPPÉ

A madame Judith Mendès

A la fin de juillet les villages sont vides.
Depuis longtemps déjà des nuages livides,
Menaçant d’un prochain orage à l’occident,
Conseillaient la récolte au laboureur prudent.
Donc voici la moisson, et bientôt la vendange ;
On aiguise les faux, on prépare la grange,
Et tous les paysans, dès l’aube rassemblés,
Joyeux vont à la fête opulente des blés.
Or, pendant tout ce temps de travail, les aïeules
Au village, devant les portes, restent seules,
Se chauffant au soleil et branlant le menton,
Calmes et les deux mains jointes sur leur bâton ;
Car les travaux des champs leur ont courbé la taille.
Avec leur long fichu peint de quelque bataille,
Leur jupe de futaine et leur grand bonnet blanc,
Elles restent ainsi tout le jour sur un banc,
Heureuses, sans penser peut-être et sans rien dire,
Adressant un béat et mystique sourire
Au clair soleil qui dore au loin le vieux clocher
Et mûrit les épis que leurs fils vont faucher.

Ah ! c’est la saison douce et chère aux bonnes vieilles!
Les histoires autour du feu, les longues veilles
Ne leur conviennent plus. Leur vieux mari, l’aïeul,
Est mort, et, quand on est très-vieux, on est tout seul :
La fille est au lavoir, le gendre est à sa vigne.
On vous laisse ; et pourtant encore on se résigne,
S’il fait un beau soleil aux rayons réchauffants.
Elles aimaient naguère à bercer les enfants.
Le cœur des vieilles gens, surtout à la campagne,
Bat lentement et très-volontiers s’accompagne
Du mouvement rythmique et calme des berceaux.
Mais les petits sont grands aujourd’hui ; ces oiseaux
Ont pris leur vol ; ils n’ont plus besoin de défense ;
Et voici, que les vieux, dans leur seconde enfance,
N’ont même plus, hélas ! ce suprême jouet.

Elles pourraient encor bien tourner le rouet;
Mais sur leurs yeux pâlis le temps a mis son voile; •
Leurs maigres doigts sont las de filer de la toile ;
Car de ces mêmes mains, que le temps fait pâlir,
Elles ont déjà dû souvent ensevelir
Des chers défunts la froide et lugubre dépouille
Avec ce même lin filé par leur quenouille.

Mais ni la pauvreté constante, ni la mort
Des troupeaux, ni le fils aîné tombant au sort,
Ni la famine après les mauvaises récoltes,
Ni les travaux subis sans cris et sans révoltes,
Ni la fille, servante au loin, qui n’écrit pas,
Ni les mille tourments qui font pleurer tout bas,
En cachette, la nuit, les craintives aïeules,
Ni la foudre du ciel incendiant les meules,
Ni tout ce qui leur parle encore du passé
Dans l’étroit cimetière à l’église adossé
Où vont jouer les blonds enfants après l’école,
Et qui cache, parmi l’herbe et la vigne folle,
Plus d’une croix de bois qu’elles connaissent bien,
Rien n’a troublé leur cœur héroïque et chrétien.
Et maintenant, à l’âge où l’âme se repose,
Elles ne semblent pas désirer autre chose
Que d’aller, en été, s’asseoir, vers le midi,
Sur quelque banc de pierre au soleil attiédi,
Pour regarder d’un œil plein de sereine extase
Les canards bleus et verts caquetant dans la vase,
Entendre la chanson des laveuses et voir
Les chevaux de labour descendre à l’abreuvoir.
Leur sourire d’enfant et leur front blanc qui tremble
Rayonnent de bien-être et de candeur; il semble
Qu’elles ne songent plus à leurs chagrins passés,
Qu’elles pardonnent tout, et que c’est bien assez
Pour elles que d’avoir, dans leurs vieilles années,
Les peines d’autrefois étant bien terminées,
Et pour donner la joie à leurs quatre-vingts ans,
Le grand soleil, ce vieil ami des paysans.

L’homme et la mer

Charles Baudelaire (1821- 1867)

Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
La mer est ton miroir, tu contemples ton âme
Dans le déroulement infini de sa lame
Et ton esprit n’est pas un gouffre moins amer.

Tu te plais a plonger au sein de ton image;
Tu l’embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.

Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets;
Homme, nul n’a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
O mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!

Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
O lutteurs éternels, O frères implacables!

La couronne effeuillée

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE (1786-1859)

J’irai, j’irai porter ma couronne effeuillée
Au jardin de mon père où revit toute fleur ;
J’y répandrai longtemps mon âme agenouillée :
Mon père a des secrets pour vaincre la douleur.

J’irai, j’irai lui dire au moins avec mes larmes :
” Regardez, j’ai souffert… ” Il me regardera,
Et sous mes jours changés, sous mes pâleurs sans charmes,
Parce qu’il est mon père, il me reconnaîtra.

Il dira: ” C’est donc vous, chère âme désolée ;
La terre manque-t-elle à vos pas égarés ?
Chère âme, je suis Dieu : ne soyez plus troublée ;
Voici votre maison, voici mon coeur, entrez ! “

Ô clémence! Ô douceur! Ô saint refuge ! Ô Père !
Votre enfant qui pleurait, vous l’avez entendu !
Je vous obtiens déjà, puisque je vous espère
Et que vous possédez tout ce que j’ai perdu.

Vous ne rejetez pas la fleur qui n’est plus belle ;
Ce crime de la terre au ciel est pardonné.
Vous ne maudirez pas votre enfant infidèle,
Non d’avoir rien vendu, mais d’avoir tout donné.

Bright Star

All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2011

The Lady Marionette

The Lady Marionette

Jojo feels an urging to do something
An itchy twitching in the coiling of a string
A youthful longing to be tapping tippy toes
To the lively music of the piping piccolos

In his dreams he dances to the minuet
With Annabelle the lovely Lady Marionette
Jojo fears his frame of brightly painted lumber
Is deemed not to be awakened from its slumber

Within a cardboard cell he sheds a little a tear
The unhappy prisoner of a lazy puppeteer
Lonesome awaiting the summertime vacation
With circus clowns and joyous celebration

Hoping and longing to dance the minuet
With Annabelle the lovely Lady Marionette
But alas and behold this heap of tinder wood
Is not quite assembled precisely as it should

Is he to be a captive for another lonely year?
This unhappy prisoner of a lazy puppeteer
Suddenly awakened from a year long sleeping
Into the darkness the puppeteer is peeping

Ten skinny fingers are clutching at his strings
Two little puppets are in the air on swings
He holds her hand gently on a fairground carousel
The lovely Lady Marionette, Jojo’s Annabelle

The sun is slowly setting as they dance the minuet
Jojo kisses Annabelle she twirls a pirouette
The carousel is stopping the music slowing down
Lantern lights are dimming in the houses of the town

The puppeteer is yawning as he gathers up his trade
Packing up his puppets for the puppeteers parade
He has trouble disentangling the two he near forgot
The lovely Lady Marionette and Jojo tied the knot.

Sehnsucht/ Désir

Sehnsucht

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Dies wird die letzte Trän’ nicht sein,
Die glühend Herz aufquillet,
Das mit unsäglich neuer Pein
Sich schmerzvermehrend stillet.

O laß doch immer hier und dort
Mich ewig Liebe fühlen,
Und möcht’ der Schmerz auch also fort
Durch Nerv und Adern wühlen.

Könnt’ ich doch ausgefüllt einmal
Von dir, o Ew’ger, werden !
Ach, diese lange tiefe Qual,
Wie dauert sie auf Erden !

(1770)

***

Désir

Ceci ne sera pas la dernière larme
Jaillissant brûlante de ce cœur
Qui dans une nouvelle indicible torture
S’apaise en accroissant sa douleur.

O fais moi donc partout éternellement
Eprouver l’amour,
Même si la douleur dans mes nerfs et mes veines
Sans fin doit faire rage.

Puissé-je un jour enfin, ô Eternel,
Etre rempli de toi !
Ah ! ce long, ce profond tourment,
Comme il dure sur cette terre !

Mary Queen of Scots: A series of poems

Mary Queen of Scots (1542-1587)

(In a nutshell)

Joe Sharp

Le Dauphin, François and Mary Queen of Scots.

The Prophecy

“It cam’ wi’ ane lass, an’ it’ll pass wi’ ane lass”

These were the prophetic words o’ her faither King James
On hearin’ the news o’ the birth at the Palace
He laid doon an’ deid, haundin’ Mary o’er the reigns

At nine months o’ age, oor Mary is Queen
Securely strapped in tae her wee baby seat
Wi’ rings on her fingers, a sight tae be seen
Suckin’ awa’ merrily on her Royal dummy teat

There were battles a’ ragin’ a’ roon’ aboot
In Kelso, an’ Jedburgh, King Henry did loot
When the wee Queen was four, there was an enquiry
An’ for safety took Mary tae Inchmahome Priory

Wi’ lots o’ disorder, at Dunbar on the border
The English were gein’ us a whole lot o’ hassle
King Henri o’ France, then geid oot an order
“We’ll be there, send Mary doon tae Dumbarton Castle”

The Rough Wooing

Henry V111, ye know, him wi’ a’ the wummin
He didnae seem tae me tae have bother wi’ his plumbin’
He had Mary betrothed tae his wee son, Prince Eddie
The betrothal was annulled, because the wee Queen wasnae ready

The English King was fumin’, up tae high doh an’ diddle
He louped up an’ doon, like a hare upon a griddle
Up doon, turn aroon’, his face against the wa’
Henry, he was ragin’, an’ so he went tae war

The cavalrymen, astride their magnificent hoarses
Set oot to seek the sturdy Scottish forces
Their numbers were few, in the early mornin’ dew
Victory was theirs, at the battle o’ Pinkie Cleugh

There was, o’ course, that thankfu’ savin’ grace
The union o’ the crowns, didnae then take place
Mary had led the King a merry dance
Sailin’ awa’, on a clipper ship tae France

Marie, la petite fille

She was such a bonnie lassie wi’ a twinkle in her een
When Mary sailed awa’ wi’ the Fleet o’ the French Marine
Frae Dumbarton Rock, in her prettiest frock, she had feenished potty trainin’
She was only wee, she’d had her tea, it was dull an’ dreich an’ it was rainin’

There was naewhere else tae go, for Mary an’ her freen’s
She didnae even know that they had taken her tae France
‘Till she was in her teens, eatin’ up a’ yon French runner beans
An’ learnin’ frae the ither lassies, how tae dae the can-can dance

She grew up tae be beautiful, fu’ o’ grace an’ inteligence
Merriein’ the Dauphin, her Prince, he was elegant
He sat on the throne as Francois the second
Daein’ everythin’ for Mary, whenever she beckoned

Their merriege lasted for only a year
Wi’ Mary cryin’ mony a tear
For Francis her lover, her Prince an’ her Dauphin
Had lain doon an’ deid in a wee fit o’ coughin’

Mary wasnae happy tae be leavin’ France
Wonderin’ what future would be waitin’ her at hame
An’ so she decided tae lose hersel’ in dance
Tae forget a’ her worries, an’ a’ her claims tae fame
She would merry a wee Lord wi’ a mansion hoose in Ayr
As long as he had the room, for a big dance flerr

Mary departing from France

The Dancing Queen

It was Shuggie the smuggler brought Mary hame frae France
Where she’d learned how tae talk an’ tae act like a lady
She had merried her Prince an’ he’d taught her tae dance
Just like Ginger Rogers in “Sweet Rosie O’Grady”

When up on the flerr she could dae the Fandango
An’ the Tally, David Rizzio, had taught her how tae Tango
She picked up her twirls, an’ the yin, twa, chasse
Frae a big French dancer, called Monsieur L’ Apache

She’d brought a’ her court wi’ her aboard the clipper
There was Mary her manicurist, wi’ her hair sae red
An’ Mary her hairdresser, she was called the snipper
An’ Mary o’ her chamber, would tuck her intae bed
An’ Mary in the kitchen would wash up a’ the mugs
An’ Shuggie o’ course, tae walk a’ Mary’s dugs

‘Twas a gloomy gloomy day, when they sailed intae Leith
A total eclipse o’ the sun, no’ wi’ the moon tae the Earth
But the usual big black clouds, stretchin’ a’ the way tae Perth
So the weather’d make ye sick, right uptae yer wisdom teeth

Pierre de Chatelard

The Potty Poet

Pierre de Chatelard, a young French poet
Was headin’ for trouble, but he wasnae tae know it
He’d been found by Mary’s chambermaid, all sweaty an’ hot
In Mary’s chamber, ‘neath her bed, next tae Mary’s chamber pot

He was banished frae her court, but he didnae take nae heed
An’ he followed as she went tae Rossend Castle
Fu’ o’ passion an’ fu’ o’ port, an’ intent tae plant his seed
The pickled poet was hopin’ Mary widnae gie him hassle

It was well efter hauf past nine, an’ Mary’d had a gless o’ wine
An’ the ither Mary thingumyjig, was helpin’ wi’ her disrobin’
In barged Pierre, an’ his airms roon’ Mary’s middle did entwine
‘It’s the poet, hurry.’ It took the Earl o’ Moray, tae stop the poet’s probin’

They dragged the drunken poet away
Tae a dungeon on St Andrews Bay
Where his famous last words still cause a row
They think it’s all over, it is now

Darn ye Darnley

He was a tall, peely-wally link o’ a man, wi’ a mind as mean as a weasel’s
He came tae Mary in Edinburgh, an’ she helped him get o’er the measles
A right big nancy, but he took her fancy, so she made him Earl o’ Ross
He was a fairy, she agreed tae merry, but said it didnae mean he was boss

Mary set oot tae find a Priest, tae ask for a Papal dispensation
Darnley an’ her were blood related, but they both kicked wi’ the same foot
She chapped on the door o’ the chapel hoose, but the Priest was on vacation
It was like if ye were lookin’ for a Glasgow polis, ye never see yin aboot

They got merried, wi’ plenty o’ food, there in the Palace o’ Hollyrood
On honeymoon, a’ dressed in plaid, they rode oot on the Chaseaboot Raid
Moray an’ his rebels, ran o’er the border tae safety, as fast as they could
That night in Dunbar, Bothwell was paid, tae join up, in Mary’s Parade

Mary an’ Darnley were growin’ apart
An’ Mary fair fancied the man frae Dunbar
He had hair on his airms, an’ chest for a start
Wi’ him by her side, they were sure tae go far

David Rizzio

Mary was dancin’, happy in the supper room
Wi’ a’ o’ her ladies, the four Marys, in attendance
David was pluckin’, at his mandolin tae tune
Getting ready for a two-by-two-by-two step dance

Mary said, ‘David, David, can ye play the minuet?’
So he bent doon tae the lute, so that he’d be nearer
‘David, David, have ye no’ got that thing ready yet?’
He said, ‘I havenae got the music so I’m playin’ it by ear’

Poor David Rizzio, wi’ his ear so sorely occupied
He didnae hear the rumpus on the stair
The thugs rushed in an’ Mary’s favourite music died
Wi’ Darnley’s dagger in his back, an’ him lyin’ on the flerr

O’ a’ ye Scottish noblemen, hing doon yer heids in shame
For takin’ Mary’s melodies away
An’ the wee Italian troubadour, so far away frae hame
Will haunt ye a’, until ye’re auld an’ grey

James V1.

Darnley gave the nation a shock, a bump appearin’ behind Mary’s frock
Ye cannae judge a book by it’s cover, he must have been a pretty guid lover
Him braggin’ he was hard as a rock, ye took it that he was just guid wi’ the talk
Don Juan, Valentino, move over, Lord Henry Darnley’s rollin’ in the clover

Mary lies in Edinburgh in considerable pain, screaming
‘I’m never gonnae let this bloody thing happen again’
She sends for her midwife, Margaret Aestane, screaming
‘Will ye bloody hurry up an’ deliver this bloody wean’

Two months later, an’ still wi’ battles goin’ on
Mary goes tae Traquair Hoose, tae try tae convalesce
Eatin’ raw eggs an’ marmalade, on a tasty soda scone
Returnin’ hame tae find she takes a size fourteen in dress

Wee James is safe in Stirlin’, preparin’ tae be baptized
Darnley’s back in Glasgow, havin’ just been ostracized
Bothwell’s in his coontin’ hoose, coontin’ oot his money
Mary’s in the parlour, eatin’ breid an’ honey

Mary, aged thirteen, at French Court

The Arden Oak

‘Och! Mary, Mary, what is it noo?
Ye’re due in Dunbar on the morrow at two.’
‘Och! Darnley, Darnley, ye havenae a clue
Can ye no’ see my hoarse has a stane in it’s shoe?’

They had ridden a’ day, frae yon Ballantrae
Where Shuggie the smuggler an’ his donkey abide
Ye’ll find them there, durin’ Glasgow Fair
Givin’ a’ the Gleswegian weans a donkey ride

‘Noo listen Darnley, when we get tae Stra’ven Castle
I dinnae want ye givin’ me ony mair o’ yer hassle
I want a room wi’ a view, an’ an en suite loo, right?
I’m no’ gonnae sleep rough, like I had tae dae last night’

‘Under yon big oak tree, at Arden
An’ wi’ a’ yon big burly Busby men
An’ wi’ a’ yon big acorns stickin’ in my ribs
An’ wi’ yon big Clydesdale lickin’ at my…’

‘Och! Mary, Mary, will ye no’ give me peace
An’ anyway, that wasnae the hoarse’

Lies, Spies, an’ pies in the Skies.

‘Och! Mary, Mary, Mary my Queen
What were ye daein’ in the common green
Wi’ yon big laddie wi’ the hair sae red
An’ me here waitin’ ye tae come back tae bed?’

‘Och! Darnley, Darnley, ye’ve always got a moan
I wish that ye’d leave a poor body alone
The laddie, he was just helpin’ me choose
A couple o’ mince pies, tae bring back tae youse’

‘Och! Mary, Mary, nae mair o’ yer lies
Aboot Ginger an’ you an’ a couple o’ pies
Fair weel I ken yon Ginger McAskill
He’s naethin’ but a dirty big rascal’

Mary then decided that she’d had aboot enough
Although she agreed that she liked a bit o’ rough
She arranged wi’ big Ginger an’ anither big tough
Tae waylay Darnley on his way tae Edinburgh

In Kirk o’ Field hoose, efter dinner an’ stuff
A large jug o’ ale an’ a wee pinch o’ snuff
A barrel o’ gunpooder went up wi’ a puff
Goodbye Darnley, tough, tough, tough

The Turncoat

Preachin’ frae the pulpit, wi’ his big grey beard
Hell fire an’ damnation, had congregations scared
Runnin’ tae their hooses, tae burn the graven images
Drappin’ tae their knees, an’ offerin’ up their homages

A’ the knees were knockin’, when John Knox started talkin’
The pee was dribblin’ doon a’ body’s leg
When he screamed oot ‘Jezebel‘, some wimmin ran like hell
An’ Jock McGee’s jaiket was on a shaky peg

Then he started oot on Mary
For behavin’ quite contrary
He said, ‘Ye’re a whore, an idolatress’, right tae her face.
‘Ye’re a bloody abhorration on the whole human race’

Mary’s reply was swift an’ somewhat comical
Her two index fingers pointin’ tae places anatomical
She chanted, ‘Milk, lemonade an’ chocolate
Milk, lemonade an’ chocolate’

Bothwell the Borderer

Mary met him in Dunbar at a dance
An’ he showed her his sturdy big Castle
She was a’ taken on wi’ his knowledge o’ France
So she didnae give him much hassle
Wi’ his persuasive technique, an’ his manly physique
He wormed his way intae her favour
His dancin’ was fine if he stayed aff the wine
But he just couldnae stop this behaviour
He was a bandit, a robber, a right bob-a-jobber
An’ he danced wi’ an axe in his belt
She merried the chancer, ‘cause he was a guid dancer
Or was it the shaft o’ the chopper she’d felt?
Mary had only yin question tae raise
As soon as their heids hit the pillow
‘Why dae ye dance wi’ an axe roon’ yer waist?’
He said, ‘It’s handy for strippin’ the willow’
His comeuppance came at Carberry Hill
When he showed her his dashin’ white sergeant
Beatin’ a retreat, tae a lively quadrille
Wi’ a yellow leather streak, on his red leather garment

Mary’s bedroom

The Abdication

Mary’s forced tae abdicate in favour o’ her son just yin year old
In a dungeon on Loch Leven where it was damp an’ it was cold
Wi’ the help o’ yon young Douglas she escaped to fight again
At Langside just outside Glasgow she amassed six thousan’ men

The battle was a gory one, an’ the bloody Earl o’ Moray won
Chasin’ Mary’s men right doon to Solway Bay
No’ afraid o’ anyone an’ against the advice o’ everyone
She who turns an’ runs away lives to fight another day

Dressed discretely as a wee fishwife
Sailin’ o’er the bay to a bright new life
Wrapped up snuggly in a tartan shawl
Spendin’ the night at Workington Hall

Mary was hopin’ that her big cousin Lizzy
Would help her get o’er this bit o’ a tizzy
Instead skinny Lizzy rang a loud death knell
An’ condemned oor Mary to nineteen years o’ hell

A tisket, a tasket
Letters in a casket.

Lizzy was reluctant tae have Mary in her court
Unless she was cleared, o’ the ‘Darnley’ blunder
She imprisoned oor Queen, in the creepy Carlisle Fort
Sayin’ ‘I’m no gonnae have her here, stealin’ my bloody thunder’

They had never ever met, exchanging letters by the dozens
Both respected yin another, an’ their status o’ regality
Never face tae face, they were hardly kissin’ cousins
An’ Mary’s health was failin’, due tae lack o’ hospitality

On the move again, doon tae Tutbury Castle prison
In tae the haun’s o’ her jailers, the Earl o’ Shrewsbury an’ his wife
Further intae England, ‘cause rebellion had arisen
An’ Lizzy’s paranoia made her fearful for her life

Then Walsin’ham an’ Paulet, a couple o’ schemin’ plotters
Wi’ their spyin’ an’ their lyin’, like a couple o’ stinkin’ rotters
Concoctin’ the fraudulent, ‘Letters in a casket case’
Nearly turnin’ oor Mary, intae a bloody basket case

The supper room

The Babington Plot

An’ so it continued wi’ the Babin’ton plottin’
Wi’ yin bad apple turnin’ the whole lot rottin’
A big burly brewer, wi’ a beer barrel belly
Made a special bung, an’ stuck it in wi’ jelly

Mary was now able tae send her letters in the plug hole
Hopin’ none o’ Lizzy’s men, were thirsty for yin or twa swallows
An incriminatin’ letter, reached Walsin’ham’s lughole
He took his quill, an’ drew an image, an image o’ the gallows

Mary Queen o’ Scots is taken awa’ tae Tixall
Preparin’ for her trial, an’ what fate was tae befall

“Oh my Lord and my God, I have trusted in Thee
Oh my dear Jesus, now liberate me
In shackle and chain, in torture and pain, I long for Thee
In weakness and sighing, in kneeling and crying
I adore and implore Thee, to liberate me”

The Parting

After nineteen long years o’ trials an’ degradation
Sae fu’ o’ spyin’ an’ lyin’, an’ negotiations tae
Mary, Queen o’ Scots, the pride o’ a’ the nation
Is sentenced tae death, in the hall o’ Fotheringhay

There are some ither names tae be written down in shame
The bloody Earl o’ Moray, an’ others share the blame
Walsin’ham, Paulet, Phelippes an’ Paget. Jist a few o’ the names
I hope they said their prayers, afore they burned up in the flames

Yin question remains Liz, how did ye stay a virgin
How did ye ever manage tae avoid the great temptation?
It cannae be the case that ye never had the urgin’
Wi’ sic a parcel o’ rogues in yer nation

* * * *

Then came the partin’, the deed they’d a’ been dreadin’
Between the hoors o’ nine an’ ten, came oor Mary’s awful beheadin’

* * *

“In my End is my Beginning”

* * *

Alas! The Prophecy had come true
“It had begun wi’ ane lass, an’ it had passed wi’ ane lass”

Mary Queen o’ Scots.

The End.

Il n’avait rien construit

Il n’avait rien construit
Il n’avait rien laissé
A la postérité
Quand la mort le faucha
En pleine fleur de l’âge
Quand la mort l’appela
Loin de cette terre

Pourtant
Pourtant il avait
Dans sa vie de bohême
Simple vie de mortel
De quoi donner l’occasion
A n’importe quel historien
N’importe quel romancier
D’emplir une bibliothèque tout entière

Il aurait mérité
Que son nom fût inscrit
Sur le marbre éclatant
D’un monument célèbre
Mais son nom ne figure
Que sur le bois pourri
D’une croix silencieuse
Au fond d’un cimetière.

Arnaud Somveille

1982

(in Errances, éditions Saint-Germain-des-Près, Paris 1985)

Painting a Room / Peindre une pièce

Katia Kapovich

La Mort et la Vie

Louise-Angélique Berti

A la maison…(Limerick)

A la maison, la vie de couple c’est l’enfer !
Et la tourmente, il n’en a que faire,
Alors il s’y complet, elle n’a qu’à se taire.
Et la vaisselle se lance dans une valse embrouillée
Il ne faut pas mettre la dispute avant l’oreiller !

( Françoise )

Grace O’Malley – The Pirate Queen

Grace O’Malley.The Pirate Queen. 1530-1603.

Black Oak

“Och, would ye look at that man, sure he’s built like a tree.”
A description describing a remarkable bloke
A seafaring wayfaring man of the sea
Captain Owen O’Malley, the sturdy ‘Black Oak’

In 1530 he fathered a lass
To be cosseted nurtured and dressed in fine lace
From a barrel of whiskey he raised up his glass
And toasted the health of his new-born girl, Grace

At nine years of age Grace became bolder
Taking more and more interest in her father’s affair
Never too far from the buccaneer’s shoulder
She dressed as a lad and shorned her auburn hair

Ignoring the taunts of ‘a baldy disgrace’
She secretly hid in the cargo of a galley-boat
Captained by her father, she didn’t meet him face-to-face
‘Till well out to sea, where she surfaced in her petticoat

The Petticoat Pirate

Sailing home from trade with Spain
An English vessel in the rain
Attacked and boarded their single-masted ship
Could this be the end to their Spanish trading trip

Grace was then just twelve years old
But she was brave and she was bold
Leaping from the rigging and joining in the fray
The petticoat pirate chased the Englishmen away

With full sail billowing with satisfied pleasure
A cargo of silk and silver Spanish treasures
With the sun going down at the end of the day
The little ship anchored in lovely Clew Bay

Donal O’Flaherty

“Twas a proud and stately castle in the years of long ago
When the dauntless Grace O’Malley ruled a queen in fair Mayo.
From Bernham’s lofty summit to the waves of Galway Bay
From Castlebar to Ballintra her unconquered flag held sway”

Grace had followed in her father’s wake
Learning the ropes the knots and the tackle
The battles the storms and the risks she could take
With her flag flying high after every debacle

With her small fleet of swift caravelles
Slicing through the wild Atlantic swells
Trading and raiding with two hundred men
Scudding home safe to Clare Island again

Donal O’Flaherty, the son of the clan
Was arranged to marry the petticoat queen
Emotion was never a part of the plan
Political power was plain to be seen

Together they formed a formidable force
With Donal’s small fleet of galleys of course
Plundering the Spanish off the English port of Galway
Then homeward heavy-laden to their castle in the bay

‘Donal The Cock’

A description he earned when he captured Joyce’s tower
Storming up the ramparts like a man possesed with power
Battling like a fighting-cock his hackles all arising
Hacking with his cutlass and completely terrorising

Grace had three children to Donal ‘The Cock’
Owen, Margaret and Murrough, so they say
There was always a bulging behind Grace’s frock
One wonders what they were indulging in all day

The English at Galway turned Donal away
Saying, ‘Your trading has come to the end of the day’
A rival clan then conjured some pushing
He never survived the Joyces’ ambushing

Hugh de Lacy

She had found him lying and dying on the rocks
A ship-wrecked matelot whose life was nearly over
With tender loving care and combing through his locks
He was soon back to health and she took him as her lover

‘Twas the first time ever emotion played a part
Tugging so gently at Grace O’Malley’s heart
The affair was soon to end for Grace and her sailor-boy
He was cruelly killed by a rival clan from Ballycroy

With the MacMahons’ on pilgrimage to the island of Cahir
The Pirate Queen set sails and sped at break-neck speed
Sinking all their ships in the harbour off the pier
Killing the chieftain and perpetrators of the deed

Iron Dick Burke

Grace was in control of the sea around the bay
Piloting, pirating and plundering at leisure
Much to the annoyance of Sir Henry Sidney
And Elizabeth 1,who was showing her displeasure

Rockfleet Castle was high on Grace’s plan
So she arranged to marry the chieftain of the clan
After just one year of subliminal married bliss
She dismissed Richard Burke by the blowing of a kiss

Sailing along on a trading trip to Spain
Grace found herself in considerable pain
Theobold, the unborn son within her womb
Decided it was time that he had a bit more room

Some time later when she was a little more relaxed
A Turkish raiding ship approached and then attacked
A wild pirateer had her captain by the neck
When Grace appeared like a banshee on the deck

“May you be seven times worse this day twelve months, who cannot do without me for one day!”
Waving her blunderbuss she yelled, “Take this from unconsecrated hands!”

Grace O’Malley’s crew captured their ship, cast the crew adrift, and added the galley to their burgeoning fleet

The Pardon

‘There came to me also a most feminine sea-captain called Grany Imallye
With three galleys and 200 fighting men. She brought with her her
husband for she was as well by sea as by land well more than Mrs. Mate
with him … This was a notorious woman in all the coasts of Ireland.’
Sir Henry Sidney (1577)

Grace was arrested and dispatched to Dublin jail
Where countless souls before her had perished on the floor
For some unknown reason she was allowed to set her sail
To plunder Spanish vessels, but English ships no more

She continued with her privateering until 1587
When standing on the gallows with a rope around her throat
A reprieve arrived from Lizzie as the hour approached eleven
Saying, ‘Grace O’Malley, I pardon you, now go and put on you coat.’

Howth Castle

After sailing for a week the ship dropped anchor in a little creek
Grace had heard by word of mouth the hospitality of Castle Howth
The door of the fort was locked from inner
The inhospitable Lord was at his dinner

She abducted the son of the Lord that day
And sailed with him back to her home in the bay
The ransom demanded and always to be payable
An extra place must ever be set at the table

So if ever you’re passing the Castle of Howth
And you’re looking for something delicious to chew
Remember you heard it by word of mouth
Just say the lovely Grace O’Malley sent you

The Meeting of Queens
( 1593 )

“The Queen, surrounded by her ladies, received her in great state.
Grana was introduced in the dress of her country: a long mantle
covered her head and body; her hair was gathered on her crown
and fastened with a bodkin; her breast was bare, and she had a
yellow bodice and petticoat. The court stared at her with surprise
at so strange a figure, when one of the ladies perceived that Grace
wanted a pocket handkerchief, which was instantly handed to her.
After she had used it she threw it into the fire. Another was given
her, and she was told by an interpreter that it was to be put in her
pocket. Grace felt indignant at this intimation and applying it to her
nose threw it into the fire, declaring that in her country they
were much cleanlier than to pocket what came from their nostrils.”

Grace had sailed boldly up the Thames to Greenwich, and obtained a pardon, providing that she…
“…invade with sword and fire all (Her) Highnesses enemies wheresoever they are or shall be without any interruption of any person or person whatsoever.”

©Joe Sharp

Grace O’Malley died 1603.

Autun en emporte le Morvan

Elle était très jolie et posait parfois nue.
Cette jeune actrice, pas vraiment très connue,
Pour devenir vedette un jour s’était rendue
Dans le milieu équestre que vite elle infiltra :
C’est donc ainsi qu’elle devint starlette au haras.

Michel Tournon

Alphabet

A is for Alexandra.

Queen of the Jews you were

Alexandra

But that was long time ago.

long,long before The Shoah

Mother of All Russia also

Alexandra

the last tsarina indeed

Rasputin’s lover

whom Russia did not love

and slaughtered.

Queen of the Brits you were

Alexandra

and Lloyd George your minister

watched stiff upper lip

Muslim women crucified

by The Greek

Armenian girls impaled

by the Kurds

The Ottoman becoming a Turk

and turning savage

against long time friends and neighbours

Armenian Jew or Greek

A is for Alexandra

B for beating bashing burning

in Alexandra

township of Egoli

city of gold they also call

Ndongazi ya Duma.

B is for butchering

those they call kwere kwere

the heimatlos

those they can’t understand

or won’t

those who have nowhere to go

those children of Africa

they should call brothers!

B is for History The Bitch

the greatest bitch of all

which can not stop to

repeat itself.

So then

A is for Alexandra

Atrocities

Amen says The Politician

B for History

The Great Bitch and Butcher

C for Cato Manor

second time around you bitch

C for corruption

in the City of gold

D for …

Dammit!

Dammit, can’t we stop

reciting an alphabet of Hate

when there is one of Harmony?

An alphabet of Harmony, yes,

where

A is for Amour, je t’aime, amigos, amore

B for beauty, birth and brothers

C for charity, children laughing in the sun

and charity

and all the colours from flowers

and the skirts of dancing girls

D for daring to love

….

Can’t we

can’t we asks the poet

can’t we recite

an

alphabet of Harmony?

But, you know, he is just a poet

isn’t it

but he is

JUST A DREAMER

Hell

you wont’ stop me dreaming

Alexandra

African sister of mine

With the kind permission of the author Jean Cornet aka J.M. Spitaels

from the book:

Dust on the Road / POUSSIERES SUR LA ROUTE
Poems in English and French, drawings by Jean Cornet
Poets Printery South Africa July 2011 ISBN -978-0-620-50582-6
Jean Cornet aka J.M. Spitaels, born 1939, hails from DRC.

Has written 3 books in French. First poem published, when a teenager, in l’Essor du Congo , daily for which his mother was a chronicler.
As a medical doctor, practiced in Congo (1964-1969) then lectured at Durban ’s medical school S. A. (1969-1995).
His poetry, now in English and French, throws a disillusioned glance at today’s world without ignoring its fragile beauty.

Bronze ?

Sur le sable chaud,

elles prennent le soleil,

les belles potiches.

Arnaud Somveille – Haïkus illustrés

The Geranium

When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine–
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she’d lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!–
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing booze at her,
She leaning out of her pot toward the window.

Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me–
And that was scary–
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.

But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.

Theodore Roethke (1908 – 1963)

L’hôpital Cecilia Makiwane à Mdantsane

An Alteration in the Way I Breathe

we crossed the mountains
with the rising of the sun
the dawn racing ahead of us
like a mad horse

on the other side
the valley
the river
the trees
a whole landscape
bathed
in early sunlight
still shivering
with the breathing of night

I wondered
why the weights
had gone from my shoulders
why the guns and knives
had rusted in my belt

our eyes were laughing
our mouths were singing

and as we descended
the withered grass
became green and full
crowning in stalks
with a multitude of flowers

Peter Finch from  ”Selected Poems” Page 13, Poetry Wales Press 1987

With the kind permission of the author

Peter Finch is a full time poet and psychogeographer who lives in Cardiff.
He was until recently Chief Executive of the development agency, Literature Wales.
His most recent books are Real Cardiff Three and Zen Cymru. Both are published by Seren Books.

Toujours des mots d’amour

Amour, toujours, deux mots qui sonnent bien ensemble,
Ainsi armée, la flèche de Cupidon tremble
Et rate encor la cible de l’éternité.
Pourtant les amoureux ne sont pas dépités
Ils remettent cent fois l’archer sur le métier
En chantant: “tire et vise juste par pitié!”.

A vous qui insistez et faites tant d’efforts
Je vous souhaite bien sûr d’arriver à bon port,
Pour cela je vous envoie fleurs et mots d’amours
Qui soyez en sûr riment bien avec toujours.

A force d’indigestions, les pommes d’amours
N’ont plus d’attraits pour moi, non tous ces petits fours
M’ont refroidi, et je traîne mon mal de vivre,
Mais au fond de moi je rêve de bateaux ivres. . .
Alors seul dans mon pieu je dors comme un sourd
Espérant que ce ne sera pas pour. . . toujours.

©Rolland Pauzin. 28-11-2001

Bitterer Vorschlag

Von nun an bitte ich:

mich zu vergessen.

Ich bin nicht nötiger

als Salz und Wind.

Stört dich das Salz,

so zuckere dein Essen.

Stört dich der Wind -

bleib nicht, wo Winde sind.

Heinz Kahlau “DU – Liebesgedichte” Aufbau-Verlag 1982 – S. 79

L’Equilibriste

Il s’avança seul sur la Piste,
Leva son bras pour saluer ;
Monsieur Loyal, pour l’annoncer,
Cria : Voici l’équilibriste !

Sur un ballon posé à terre,
Il disposa en porte-à-faux,
Une planchette et, sans un mot,
A chaque bout y mit un verre ;

Sur un second morceau de bois
Calé sur cet ensemble instable,
Il empila chaises et tables
Et un tabouret de guingois ;

Il ajouta sur l’assemblage
Un cube avec une autre planche,
Et fit, d’un puissant coup de hanches,
Le poirier sur l’échafaudage ;

Il y resta quelques secondes,
Puis il ôta tous les objets
Un par un, d’un coup de poignet,
Sous les bravos de tout le monde ;

Il inclina sa tête nue
Comme le font tous les artistes ;
En pas chassés quitta la Piste…
Et nul ne la jamais revu.

©Arnaud Somveille ( 16 août 2002 )

The Ceaseless Falling

Carnival Nights

A un vieil arbre

Tu réveilles en moi des souvenirs confus.
Je t’ai vu, n’est-ce pas ? moins triste et moins modeste.
Ta tête sous l’orage avait un noble geste,
Et l’amour se cachait dans tes rameaux touffus.

D’autres, autour de toi, comme de riches fûts,
Poussaient leurs troncs noueux vers la voûte céleste.
Ils sont tombés, et rien de leur beauté ne reste ;
Et toi-même, aujourd’hui, sait-on ce que tu fus ?

O viel arbre tremblant dans ton écorce grise !
Sens-tu couler encore une sève qui grise ?
Les oiseaux chantent-ils sur tes rameaux gercés ?

Moi, je suis un vieil arbre oublié dans la plaine,
Et, pour tromper l’ennui dont ma pauvre âme est pleine,
J’aime à me souvenir des nids que j’ai bercés.

Léon-Pamphile LE MAY   (1837-1918)

Die Liebe besiegt alles…I love you

Die Liebe besiegt alles…I love you
Je ne sais écrire autre chose.
Pour inventer des mots plus doux
Il faudrait que je me repose.

Le sens même de ces mots-là,
Je le sais à peine moi-même,
Je peux te dire que je t’aime
Mais sans comprendre bien cela.

Trop longtemps, je suis sans nouvelles,
Et je ne sais plus rien de toi,
Et trop d’épreuves, trop de froid,
De mon coeur ont fermé les ailes.

Dans cet uniforme rayé,
Des entrailles que la faim mine,
Un corps sanglant, plein de vermine,
Et meurtri par les coups de pied,

Voilà sur la terre ennemie,
Et dans un écrin composé
De barbelés électrisés,
Ce qui reste de ton amie.

La nuit, lorsque j’aurai le temps
De te forger des mots plus tendres..
Les mots s’éparpillent en cendres,
Et je pleure comme un enfant…

Dieu, que je voudrais tant prier,
Doit deviner dans mon silence,
Tous les voeux que mon âme pense,
Et te comprendre, et te garder.

Reviens, c’est mon cri de détresse,
Reviens me sauver, mon soleil,
Alors tu verras mon éveil
Et reconnaîtras ma tendresse.

Reviens, le feu brûle pourtant,
Si les cendres couvrent mon âme,
Tu la feras jaillir en flammes,
O reviens, reviens, je t’attends.

( Fevrier 1944)

Micheline Maurel 1916 – 2009  (La Passion selon Ravensbruck

Les Éditions de Minuit p. 15)

Les Gisants

Une larme

Une
Nuit
Blanche
Sur    une
Page   blanche
Ajoutez  de  la  neige
Bien   froide,   bien  pale
Et   vous  aurez  une  personne
Qui pleure pour un oui, pour un non
Sans    vraiment    savoir    pourquoi.
Allez    donc    dans    sa    chambre
Vous  pensez  n’y   rien  trouver
Mais   soulevez  l’oreiller
Vous  y  trouverez
Une larme
.

©Rolland Pauzin – 2-12-2001

To a child dancing in the wind

Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
for wind or water’s roar?
and tumble out your air
that the salt drops have wet;
being young you have not known
the fool’s triumph, not yet
love lost has soon as won,
nor the best labourer dead
and all the sheaves to bind.
what need have you to dread
the monstrous crying of wind?

William Butler Yeats. (1865-1939)

Je ne sais comment . . .

Je ne sais comment je dure,
Car mon dolent cour fond d’ire
Et plaindre n’ose, ni dire
Ma douloureuse aventure.

Ma dolente vie obscure.
Rien, hors la mort ne désire ;
Je ne sais comment je dure.

Et me faut, par couverture,
Chanter que mon cour soupire ;
Et fait semblant de rire ;
Mais Dieu sait ce que j’endure.
Je ne sais comment je dure.

Christine de Pisan (1364 ? – 1431).

Rondeau

Votre beau thé, moins rare que vos yeux,
Votre thé vert, fleuri, délicieux,
Qui vaut quasi dix mille francs la livre,
Moins que la fleur de vos yeux il enivre
Et fait rêver qu’on s’en va dans les cieux.

J’ai bu les deux arômes précieux ;
Et jusqu’au jour dans mon lit soucieux
Il m’a sonné des fanfares de cuivre,
Votre beau thé.

Je vous voyais passer parmi les Dieux,
Dans un grand char aux flamboyants essieux ;
Et sous la roue en or, n’osant vous suivre,
J’ai mis mon front, et j’ai cessé de vivre
En bénissant, écrasé mais joyeux,
Votre beauté.

Jean RICHEPIN (1849-1926) – Les caresses

Johannes Batsanyi: À ma Gabrielle

“Sur mon destin sois plus tranquille;
Mon nom passera jusqu’à toi:
Quelques soit mon nouvel asyle,
Le tien parviendra jusqu’à moi.
Trop heureux, si tu vis heureuse,
A cette absence douleureuse
Mon coeur pourra s’accoutumer;
Mais ton image va me suivre;
Et si je sesse de t’aimer,
Crois que j’aurai cessé de vivre.”

Source: Du Livre “Batsányiné Baumberg Gabriella versei”

Cours particuliers

Traduction et adaptation par Jean-Marie Flémal

Mon CV serait incomplet sans mentionner
cet enfant atteint du syndrome de Down
et à qui j’ai enseigné l’anglais. Arrivée aux États-Unis
de fraîche date, j’avais placé une annonce dans le bulletin russe,
et il était venu. Il avait débarqué avec sa mère,
qui avait également un défaut de prononciation et des yeux de grenouille.
Tous deux étaient très doux, ils m’avaient apporté une boîte de chocolats
qu’ils avaient eux-mêmes finis en un rien de temps,
tout en sirotant bruyamment du thé dans leurs soucoupes, à la russe.
Là-bas, à Rostov, le gosse avait suivi jusque 17 ans
une école pour adolescents attardés mentaux.
Il ne connaissait pas un mot d’anglais et son russe
n’était pas sans problèmes non plus. Sans égard pour
la syntaxe, l’orthographe et la ponctuation, il écrivait
dans un style télégraphique. Maintenant, il se lançait dans l’étude de l’anglais :
« The sky is blue. The grass is green. The paper is white. »
Parfois il entrait dans une sorte de transe
et regardait fixement les pigeons qui forniquaient sur un toit,
dans de longs roucoulements voluptueux. Alors, son visage devenait
tout simplement élégant, ses joues blanches bouffies se teintaient d’un peu de rose
et, à voir le reflet un peu rêveur dans ses yeux délavés et sans cils,
je sus qu’il pensait à l’amour. Il avait dix-huit ans, après tout
et il était toute chevalerie, même avec du chocolat en permanence sur les lèvres.
J’étais mal à l’aise que nos études n’aient jamais progressé beaucoup au-delà
de ces phrases simplistes. Heureusement doté, par ailleurs,
d’une oreille parfaite, il apprit à les prononcer
sans une trace d’accent russe, bien mieux que je ne pus jamais le faire.
La prochaine chose que je sus, c’est qu’il sortait avec une jeune Américaine.
« Anton, bonté divine, comment est-ce arrivé ? »
Il me regarda avec sérieux. « Je lui ai dit : ‘Regarde ! Le ciel est bleu !
L’herbe est verte ! Le papier est blanc ! Tu t’appelles comment ?’ »

Tutor

My CV would be incomplete without mention
of this Russian kid with Down’s syndrome
whom I taught English. Having come to the States
just recently, I had placed an ad in the Russian bulletin,
and there he was. He arrived with his mother,
who also had a speech impediment and frog eyes.
They were both very sweet, brought me a box of chocolates,
which they themselves finished together in no time
while slurping tea Russian style from their saucers.
Back in Rostov the kid had attended till age 17
a school for mentally retarded adolescents.
He had zero English, and his Russian
was not without problems either. Never mind
syntax, spelling, and punctuation, he wrote
in a telegraphic style. Now he set about learning English:
The sky is blue. The grass is green. The paper is white.
Sometimes he would go into a kind of trance
and stare at pigeons fornicating on a roof
with long voluptuous cooing. Then his face would become
almost handsome, his white puffy cheeks gained a bit of pink,
and by the dreamlike glint in his colorless eyes without eyelashes
I knew that he thought of love. He was eighteen after all
and all chivalry, even with perpetual chocolate on his lips.
I felt bad that our studies never advanced much beyond
those simplistic statements. Blessed, on the other hand,
with a perfect ear, he learned to pronounce them
without a trace of Russian accent, much better that I ever could.
The next thing I knew, he was dating an American girl.
“Anton, my goodness, how did that happen?”
He looked at me seriously. “I told her, ‘Look! The sky is blue!
The grass is green! The paper is white! What is your name?’”

©Katia Kapowich

Avec l’aimable permisson de l’auteur et traducteur