Stalker
Is there a place where
The sky stops stalking
for thenSilence rests in peace
Sunday, March 16, 2014
La beauté by Yves Bonnefoy translated
Yves Bonnefoy Poèmes
nrf Poésie / Gallimard © Mercure de France, 1978. © Éditions Gallimard, 1982
La beauté [from Hier
régnant désert; page 136]
Celle qui ruine
l’être, la beauté,
Sera suppliciée, mise
à la roue,
Déshonorée, dite
coupable, faite sang
Et cri, et nuit, de
toute joie dépossédée
– O déchirée sur
toutes grilles d’avant l’aube,
O piétinée sur toute
route et traversée,
Notre haut désespoir
sera que tu vives,
Notre cœur que tu
souffres, notre voix
De t’humilier parmi
tes larmes, de te dire
La menteuse, la
pourvoyeuse du ciel noir,
Notre désir pourtant
étant ton corps infirme,
Notre pitié ce cœur
menant à toute boue.
English
translation by Supratik Sen
Beauty
The one that depraves
the being, beauty,
Tormented, confined to the wheel,
Disgraced, defined guilty, seeps
And hollers, and night, dispossessed of all ecstasy
- O ruptured on all grilles before sunup,
O stomped on all road and cruised,
Our towering despair that you may live,
Our heart that you droop, our voice
To denigrate you in your weeps, to tell you
Liar, director of the ebony sky,
Our longing withal your tottering carcass,
Our pity this heart shepherds through the sludge.
Tormented, confined to the wheel,
Disgraced, defined guilty, seeps
And hollers, and night, dispossessed of all ecstasy
- O ruptured on all grilles before sunup,
O stomped on all road and cruised,
Our towering despair that you may live,
Our heart that you droop, our voice
To denigrate you in your weeps, to tell you
Liar, director of the ebony sky,
Our longing withal your tottering carcass,
Our pity this heart shepherds through the sludge.
Note:
While doing my research in France, I was exposed to many wonderful poets, and authors.
Yves Bonnefoy was certainly one of them. But I must also quickly add that I could penetrate into his world (if I dare to think so), thanks to my professor Madame Renée Ventresque.
Friday, March 14, 2014
The unstoppable
Growth
speed style pelf work
All kept
in the dustbin yetFruits flowers plants bloom
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Realm of a poem
Realm of a poem
A poem is born through poets, not from them;
Emotions nursed in propriety, in the worlds
Now lie in the hearse of words;
Totally cut without possession…ugh…c’est complètement parti mes amis!
C’est fini, alors c’est fini,
This mayhem!
The poet drops the pride and the vow,
Joins as a reader in the ugly pretty fight!
Whatever be the choice we have nothing to lose,
Threw up everything on the page toute à l’heure in delight!
Let’s love the poets, who think otherwise,
For they, like us are also right,
We transgress as readers, wise, unwise,
Without prosecuting visitors;
For us – as part of them,
There aren’t any trespassers,
In the realm of a poem!
A poem is born through poets, not from them;
Emotions nursed in propriety, in the worlds
Now lie in the hearse of words;
Totally cut without possession…ugh…c’est complètement parti mes amis!
C’est fini, alors c’est fini,
This mayhem!
Readers take over now,
Criticize; analyze,
love, slaughter left and right,The poet drops the pride and the vow,
Joins as a reader in the ugly pretty fight!
Wrong is heavy and loose
Let’s delve in the
write so high and light,Whatever be the choice we have nothing to lose,
Threw up everything on the page toute à l’heure in delight!
Let’s love the poets, who think otherwise,
For they, like us are also right,
We transgress as readers, wise, unwise,
Without prosecuting visitors;
For us – as part of them,
There aren’t any trespassers,
In the realm of a poem!
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