compulsive wish for publicity and acknowledgment with which the
author of speculative poetry may be possessed implies the risk of enslaving his genuine inspiration and talent to transient trends and fashions...

Translated from the French



Watchman's song

If my horn keeps hailing the woods, the brooks, the heights,
Loftier elation my soul illuminates:
I lead, shaking themselves, the horsemen of the wind.
Riding I consider the run of the living.

Begone, chunks of plaster and ancillary mobs!
Come on, crush the living, their towns, ignore their sobs!
No more ivy my brow, no more shackle shall snare
My feet! May endless night engulf my fiery mares!

With ladder and echo the horn extends its range.
Yet whispered words are winged when into nights they plunge.
To bend a studious brow when too great are the odds?
I despise such designs as parody the gods.

Dream, where, of all my jails, I chose to be immured.
The heavier ball and chain, the keener my pleasure.
Who, but you, has lulled me and freed me from the laws
Which, as the blinded days go by, pile up their flaws?

Night, your opacity be to me but a dirge.
I call for the Circe whose soul with my soul merge.
Your bulk engulfs me in a maze of stars, of strains.
I'm intoxicated. Sing guitars! Horn, refrain!

*******************

Mon cor hèle les bois, les sources et les cimes,
Mais mon âme plus haut s'enivre, s'illumine.
Je mène s'ébrouer les cavaliers du vent.
Je chevauche et connais la course des vivants.

Ni la cour de plâtras, ni la troupe servile!
Ecrasez les vivants! Annihilez les villes!
Plus de lierre à mon front! Plus de fer à mes pieds!
La nuit, l'inépuisable, engouffre mes coursiers!

Par l'échelle et l'écho, le bois se renouvelle.
Le verbe sans héraut aux nuits se plonge et s'aile.
Qui pèsera son vol sur un front studieux?
Non! Plus de ces desseins parodiant des dieux.

Rêve, je t'ai choisi parmi toutes mes chaînes,
Car, plus lourd, ton boulet me ravit et m'entraîne.
N'est-ce toi qui me berces et m'allèges des lois
Dont les jours aveuglés accumulent le poids?

Nuit, l'opaque, pour moi ne sois plus rien qu'un thrène.
J'appelle la Circé dont mon âme s'éprenne.
La masse m'engloutit d'étoiles et d'accords.
Je suis ivre. Chantez, guitares! Flambe, cor!




Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 760 times
Written on 2007-12-01 at 10:42

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