Cors de chasse_Apollinaire

Cors de chasse

 

Notre histoire est noble et tragique

Comme le masque d’un tyran

Nul drame hasardeux ou magique

Aucun détail indifférent

Ne rend notre amour pathétique

 

Et Thomas de Quincey buvant

L’opium poison doux et chaste

À sa pauvre Anne allait rêvant

Passons passons puisque tout passe

Je me retournerai souvent

 

Les souvenirs sont cors de chasse

Dont meurt le bruit parmi le vent

Question préalable_Aimé Césaire

Question préalable (Soleil cou coupé 1948)

 

Pour moi qu’on me serre la jambe

je rends une forêt de lianes

Qu’on me pende par les ongles

Je pisse un chameau portant

un pape et je m’évanouis en une rangée de ficus qui

très proprement enserrent l’intrus et l’étranglent dans

un beau balancement tropical

La faiblesse de beaucoup d’hommes est qu’ils ne

savent devenir ni une pierre ni un arbre

Pour moi je m’installe parfois des mèches soufrées

Entre mes doigts de boa pour l’unique plaisir de m’en-

flammer en feuilles neuves de poinsettias tout le soir

rouges et verts tremblant au vent

comme dans ma gorge notre aurore

Le Poids de l’ombre_Eugénio de Andrade

Cette femme, la douce mélancolie

de ses épaules, chante.

La rumeur

de sa voix me pénètre en plein sommeil,

elle est très ancienne.

Et m’aporte l’odeur acidulée

de mon enfance s’ébrouant au soleil.

Le corps léger presque de verre

 

Essa mulher, a doce melancolia

dos seus ombros, canta.

O rumer

da sua voz entra – me pelo sono,

é muito antigo.

Traz o cheiro acidulado

da minha infância chapinhada ao sol.

O corpo leve quase de vidro

 

Éditions de la Différence

La Chanson du Mort-Vivant_Casey

J’ai du mal à aimer, à trouver mes mots
Et le sommeil sans prendre de comprimés
Je suis inanimé, énormément abîmé
Probablement mort-né et déjà embaumé
Je n’ai le goût de rien, mais je sais le mimer
Et mon entrain n’est qu’un écran de fumée
J’ai toujours su très bien jouer à l’humain
Manier les banalités et les lieux communs
Mon prénom a été gommé du roman
J’ignore tout simplement où, quand et comment
Et pourquoi je me suis sur moi-même renfermé
Endormi apparemment pour un moment
Je ne suis ni exigeant, ni borné
Ni sournois, ni attachant, ni acharné
Ni content, ni méchant, ni charmant
Seulement peu concerné et désincarné
Comme à pas grand chose d’être interné
Ou l’invité d’honneur de mon propre enterrement
Détourné du monde, seul et épargné
Par ces petits bonheurs ou ces grands tourments
J’ai beau prendre le problème et le retourner
J’ai effectué un très gros travail sur moi
J’ai occupé la longueur de mes journées
Je ne ressens ni l’envie, ni l’émoi
Ni la peur, ni l’ennui, ni l’effroi
Ni la lenteur des heures, ni le compteur des mois
Pas une seule fois le poids des années
Même une bonne déprime m’aurait bien dépanné
Mais il n’y a que mon crane noyé dans le néant
Et mon corps broyé par un trou béant
Alors dites-moi comment être foudroyé
Sortir souriant, hilare et puis débraillé
Bâtir un foyer, y être choyé
Pouvoir bavarder sans bafouiller
Être le bon voisin ou le bon employé
Le bon mari, le bon ami à côtoyer
Ou ébloui par la nuit et ses néons
Le vent, la pluie, le soleil et ses rayons
Et j’ai essayé de crier mon tourbillon
Mais ma voix n’a pas pu ôter son bâillon
J’ai un bataillon d’histoires à vous détailler
De petits soirs sans festins ni cotillons
De gosses que je ne verrai jamais brailler
En se réclamant être de mon sillon
Donc si vous me voyez qui que vous soyez
Pitié, ne tentez pas de me réveiller
D’être bienveillant, de vous apitoyer
Car les morts-vivants ne savent pas s’émerveiller

 

(Sorry to have to put this piece under the category “read” because it has to be recited or listened… but I just needed to put it somewhere..!:)

Portrait du poète en soufi_Abdelwahab Meddeb

Abdelwahab Meddeb

 

Portrait du poète en soufi – Berlin 2014

 

1.

ô souffle ô voix

ô saveur ô parfum

l’eau que la bouche donne et reçoit

la fleur qui dans l’oreille bruit

le jardin où les mains sont fleurs

le nombril que l’oeil boit

 

2.

deux corps qui dansent

comme deux ailes

qui propulsent une mouette

au-dessus du port de Tanger

l’oiseau se pose sur une borne de fer

avant de s’envoler

les ailes claquent

laissant derrière

une plume gris perle

qui vrille et voltige

 

3.

et des heures à frotter la chair dans la chair

et les idées soufflent sur les braises d’une parole

prise sans fard dans une langue sans grammaire

la richesse des sons donne raison aux corps

qui courent à la recherche du cri ils halètent

pour parvenir peut-être à l’aiguade au salut

chaque fois qu’il se retrouve dans cette chambre

il l’emporte sur ses épaules en la quittant

 

 

54.

décembre en Martinique

avec Édouard Glissant

& Patrick Chamoiseau

le corps sismograph

se parant diamantaire :

 

fantômes nuées qui traînent

à l’aurore

 

puissant mer

force sûre

que le roc mesure

vert noir diamant

merles et autres ventrus d’or

au plus près de la main

 

l’heure est sainte

s’y insinue le chat chasseur

 

au-dessus de ses pas

l’oiseu se lève

de juste distance

hors la portée du bond

 

…..

 

55.

tombeau d’Aimé Césaire (1913-2008)

cimetière La Joyaux à Chateauboeuf

Fort-de-France

 

verticale…

 

62.

j’abandonne mon corps à l’eau de pluie

béni par le ciel qui me lave

et m’approche de celle dont je n’ai touché

que la main et le coude ah la touche

qui consume d’ardent désir

perle déjà percée que je pénètre

la nuit ébloui par l’éclat de ses lueurs

 

87.

le sublime atteint au Yosukgung

vieille maison (à Gyeongju)

des maisons sur cour bâties en bois papier et paille

quel périple pour le goût

panoplie de bouchées

peut-être une vingtaine

enchaînant poissons fruits de mer

viandes rouges et blanches

feuilles fleurs champignons

racines légumes herbes

variant le croquant le moelleux

le glaireux l’élastique le filandereux

entre le cru le semi cuit et l’archi cuit

(comme ce bœuf en pot-au-feu ramené à une pelote de fils)

le tout agrémenté de soupe et de consommé

entre choux radis navet tofu

c’est un itinéraire ponctué de haltes

une pour chaque bouchée

qui affine le lien entre l’aigre le doux le piquant

le lisse le rugueux l’astringent

l’amer le mielleux l’âpre

le passage de l’un à l’autre

tantôt modéré tantôt radial

parfois l’un fond sur l’autre

d’autres fois le contraste retentit

entre l’attaque et la défense le tissu réagit

gencives palais langue s’exposent

l’organe du goût inscrit en sa mémoire

une musique qui aménage ses crescendos

comme avec le poisson séché fumé salé

traversant la frontière du pourri

épreuve de l’étranger

(ce goût agressif dure hégémonique

il contraste avec la diversité des nuances

qui offrent sur d’autres points du parcours

leurs délicatesses

  • mais ces nuances ne sont pas abolies

par cette intrusion elles se réservent

et prennent le temps de réapparaître

en s’adaptant au nouveau climat

qu’instaure le pourri une fois admis)

 

88.

Tongdosa Cheonwangmum

D’une pagode à l’autre de l’un à l’autre degré

 

……………….. to be read

 

 

논 이야기_채만식

결국 그러고 보니 나라라고 하는 것은 내 나라였건 남의 나라였건 있었댔자 백성에게 고통이나 주자는 것이지, 유익하고 고마울 것은 조금도 없는 물건이었다. 따라서 앞으로도 새 나라는 말고 더한 것이라도, 있어서 요긴할 것도 없어서 아쉬울 일도 없을 것 이었다. – 논 이야기 중에서 – 채만식

The Mask of Anarchy_Percy B. Shelley

As I lay asleep in Italy

There came a voice from over the Sea,

And with great power it forth led me

To walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way –

He had a mask like Castlereagh –

Very smooth he looked, yet grim;

Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they might

Be in admirable plight,

For one by one, and two by two,

He tossed the human hearts to chew

Which from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,

Like Eldon, an ermined gown;

His big tears, for he wept well,

Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who

Round his feet played to and fro,

Thinking every tear a gem,

Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,

And the shadows of the night,

Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy

On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played

In this ghastly masquerade,

All disguised, even to the eyes,

Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rode

On a white horse, splashed with blood;

He was pale even to the lips,

Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;

And in his grasp a sceptre shone;

On his brow this mark I saw –

‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’

With a pace stately and fast,

Over English land he passed,

Trampling to a mire of blood

The adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,

With their trampling shook the ground,

Waving each a bloody sword,

For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, they

Rode through England proud and gay,

Drunk as with intoxication

Of the wine of desolation.

O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea,

Passed the Pageant swift and free,

Tearing up, and trampling down;

Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,

Felt his heart with terror sicken

Hearing the tempestuous cry

Of the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,

Clothed in arms like blood and flame,

The hired murderers, who did sing

‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.

‘We have waited, weak and lone

For thy coming, Mighty One!

Our Purses are empty, our swords are cold,

Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,

To the earth their pale brows bowed;

Like a bad prayer not over loud,

Whispering – ‘Thou art Law and God.’ –

Then all cried with one accord,

‘Thou art King, and God and Lord;

Anarchy, to thee we bow,

Be thy name made holy now!’

And Anarchy, the skeleton,

Bowed and grinned to every one,

As well as if his education

Had cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the Palaces

Of our Kings were rightly his;

His the sceptre, crown and globe,

And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves before

To seize upon the Bank and Tower,

And was proceeding with intent

To meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,

And her name was Hope, she said:

But she looked more like Despair,

And she cried out in the air:

‘My father Time is weak and gray

With waiting for a better day;

See how idiot-like he stands,

Fumbling with his palsied hands!

He has had child after child,

And the dust of death is piled

Over every one but me –

Misery, oh, Misery!’

Then she lay down in the street,

Right before the horses’ feet,

Expecting, with a patient eye,

Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foes

A mist, a light, an image rose,

Small at first, and weak, and frail

Like the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,

Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,

And glare with lightnings as they fly,

And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew – a Shape arrayed in mail

Brighter than the viper’s scale,

And upborne on wings whose grain

Was as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,

A planet, like the Morning’s, lay;

And those plumes its light rained through

Like a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passed

O’er the heads of men – so fast

That they knew the presence there,

And looked, – but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken,

As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,

As waves arise when loud winds call,

Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitude

Looked – and ankle-deep in blood,

Hope, that maiden most serene,

Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,

Lay dead earth upon the earth;

The Horse of Death tameless as wind

Fled, and with his hoofs did grind

To dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,

A sense awakening and yet tender

Was heard and felt – and at its close

These words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant Earth

Which gave the sons of England birth

Had felt their blood upon her brow,

And shuddering with a mother’s throe

Had turned every drop of blood

By which her face had been bedewed

To an accent unwithstood, –

As if her heart had cried aloud:

‘Men of England, heirs of Glory,

Heroes of unwritten story,

Nurslings of one mighty Mother,

Hopes of her, and one another;

‘Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number,

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you –

Ye are many – they are few.

‘What is Freedom? – ye can tell

That which slavery is, too well –

For its very name has grown

To an echo of your own.

‘Tis to work and have such pay

As just keeps life from day to day

In your limbs, as in a cell

For the tyrants’ use to dwell,

‘So that ye for them are made

Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,

With or without your own will bent

To their defence and nourishment.

‘Tis to see your children weak

With their mothers pine and peak,

When the winter winds are bleak, –

They are dying whilst I speak.

‘Tis to hunger for such diet

As the rich man in his riot

Casts to the fat dogs that lie

Surfeiting beneath his eye;

‘Tis to let the Ghost of Gold

Take from Toil a thousandfold

More that e’er its substance could

In the tyrannies of old.

‘Paper coin – that forgery

Of the title-deeds, which ye

Hold to something of the worth

Of the inheritance of Earth.

‘Tis to be a slave in soul

And to hold no strong control

Over your own wills, but be

All that others make of ye.

‘And at length when ye complain

With a murmur weak and vain

‘Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew

Ride over your wives and you –

Blood is on the grass like dew.

‘Then it is to feel revenge

Fiercely thirsting to exchange

Blood for blood – and wrong for wrong –

Do not thus when ye are strong.

‘Birds find rest, in narrow nest

When weary of their wingèd quest

Beasts find fare, in woody lair

When storm and snow are in the air.

‘Asses, swine, have litter spread

And with fitting food are fed;

All things have a home but one –

Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

‘This is slavery – savage men

Or wild beasts within a den

Would endure not as ye do –

But such ills they never knew.

‘What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves

Answer from their living graves

This demand – tyrants would flee

Like a dream’s dim imagery:

‘Thou art not, as impostors say,

A shadow soon to pass away,

A superstition, and a name

Echoing from the cave of Fame.

‘For the labourer thou art bread,

And a comely table spread

From his daily labour come

In a neat and happy home.

‘Thou art clothes, and fire, and food

For the trampled multitude –

No – in countries that are free

Such starvation cannot be

As in England now we see.

‘To the rich thou art a check,

When his foot is on the neck

Of his victim, thou dost make

That he treads upon a snake.

‘Thou art Justice – ne’er for gold

May thy righteous laws be sold

As laws are in England – thou

Shield’st alike the high and low.

‘Thou art Wisdom – Freemen never

Dream that God will damn for ever

All who think those things untrue

Of which Priests make such ado.

‘Thou art Peace – never by thee

Would blood and treasure wasted be

As tyrants wasted them, when all

Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

‘What if English toil and blood

Was poured forth, even as a flood?

It availed, Oh, Liberty,

To dim, but not extinguish thee.

‘Thou art Love – the rich have kissed

Thy feet, and like him following Christ,

Give their substance to the free

And through the rough world follow thee,

‘Or turn their wealth to arms, and make

War for thy belovèd sake

On wealth, and war, and fraud – whence they

Drew the power which is their prey.

‘Science, Poetry, and Thought

Are thy lamps; they make the lot

Of the dwellers in a cot

So serene, they curse it not.

‘Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,

All that can adorn and bless

Art thou – let deeds, not words, express

Thine exceeding loveliness.

‘Let a great Assembly be

Of the fearless and the free

On some spot of English ground

Where the plains stretch wide around.

‘Let the blue sky overhead,

The green earth on which ye tread,

All that must eternal be

Witness the solemnity.

‘From the corners uttermost

Of the bounds of English coast;

From every hut, village, and town

Where those who live and suffer moan,

‘From the workhouse and the prison

Where pale as corpses newly risen,

Women, children, young and old

Groan for pain, and weep for cold –

‘From the haunts of daily life

Where is waged the daily strife

With common wants and common cares

Which sows the human heart with tares –

‘Lastly from the palaces

Where the murmur of distress

Echoes, like the distant sound

Of a wind alive around

‘Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,

Where some few feel such compassion

For those who groan, and toil, and wail

As must make their brethren pale –

‘Ye who suffer woes untold,

Or to feel, or to behold

Your lost country bought and sold

With a price of blood and gold –

‘Let a vast assembly be,

And with great solemnity

Declare with measured words that ye

Are, as God has made ye, free –

‘Be your strong and simple words

Keen to wound as sharpened swords,

And wide as targes let them be,

With their shade to cover ye.

‘Let the tyrants pour around

With a quick and startling sound,

Like the loosening of a sea,

Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive

Till the dead air seems alive

With the clash of clanging wheels,

And the tramp of horses’ heels.

‘Let the fixèd bayonet

Gleam with sharp desire to wet

Its bright point in English blood

Looking keen as one for food.

‘Let the horsemen’s scimitars

Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars

Thirsting to eclipse their burning

In a sea of death and mourning.

‘Stand ye calm and resolute,

Like a forest close and mute,

With folded arms and looks which are

Weapons of unvanquished war,

‘And let Panic, who outspeeds

The career of armèd steeds

Pass, a disregarded shade

Through your phalanx undismayed.

‘Let the laws of your own land,

Good or ill, between ye stand

Hand to hand, and foot to foot,

Arbiters of the dispute,

‘The old laws of England – they

Whose reverend heads with age are gray,

Children of a wiser day;

And whose solemn voice must be

Thine own echo – Liberty!

‘On those who first should violate

Such sacred heralds in their state

Rest the blood that must ensue,

And it will not rest on you.

‘And if then the tyrants dare

Let them ride among you there,

Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, –

What they like, that let them do.

‘With folded arms and steady eyes,

And little fear, and less surprise,

Look upon them as they slay

Till their rage has died away.

‘Then they will return with shame

To the place from which they came,

And the blood thus shed will speak

In hot blushes on their cheek.

‘Every woman in the land

Will point at them as they stand –

They will hardly dare to greet

Their acquaintance in the street.

‘And the bold, true warriors

Who have hugged Danger in wars

Will turn to those who would be free,

Ashamed of such base company.

‘And that slaughter to the Nation

Shall steam up like inspiration,

Eloquent, oracular;

A volcano heard afar.

‘And these words shall then become

Like Oppression’s thundered doom

Ringing through each heart and brain,

Heard again – again – again –

‘Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number –

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you –

Ye are many – they are few.’

Lovesong_Rainer Maria Rilke

Lovesong

How shall I withhold my soul so that

it does not touch on yours? How shall I

uplift it over you to other things?

Ah willingly would I by some

lost thing in the dark give it harbor

in an unfamiliar silent place

that does not vibrate on when your depths vibrate.

Yet everything that touches us, you and me,

takes us together as a bow’s stroke does,

that out of two strings draws a single voice.

Upon what instrument are we two spanned?

And what player has us in his hand?

O sweet song.

 

 

Liebeslied

Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, dass

sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie

hingeben über dich zu andern Dingen?

Ach gerne möchte ich sei bei irgendetwas

Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen

an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die

nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.

Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,

nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,

der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.

Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?

Und welcher Spieler hat uns in der Hand?

O süsses Lied.