Poetry, a powerless remedy against despondence
Translated from the French
Orchard, block of crystal and of bees, whereon waves
Of ravens break. Apple on the lawn noiselessly
Rolling. Scents of Autumn. Winter closing the day
Ecstasy bare of fear of tomorrow.
My thumb
Shall shape you, so firmly, that moss never grow on
Your tense and thick hillside as time, stealthy, goes by.
You shall
not tell of weal or woe.
You shall hang high
The shelter of your beat on this sky haunting me.
Force my drones to resound with your slow melody,
So that no love or hope may ooze in! On my turn,
I may be the clay in the kiln that your flames burn.
Neither hope, nor the night!
Let this heavy rumble,
This worm-eaten fruit, this rose shrub ringed with ember,
These perfumes of hairs, these passing girls, these voices
Be subject to your law, be tamed their challenges.
Blue sky shall overcome.
Yet, my song, you subside.
Look, It's my haunting fears that on your remains thrive,
In the towns of the living, people wander, eerie
With Orpheus' standards, shreds of flesh, streaming rarely.
*********************
Chanson, je fermerai ta paix à mes hantises.
Verger, bloc de cristal, d'abeilles où se brisent
Les lames de corbeaux. La pomme au gazon sourd
Roule. L'automne embaume. Oh l'hiver clôt le jour
L'extase, ni la peur des demains.
Sous mon pouce
Je te modèlerai, si ferme que la mousse
A ton flanc ferme et dru n'accrochera du temps
Furtif.
Tu ne diras joie ou tristesse .
Tends
Ton rythme comme un dais sur ce ciel qui me hante.
Impose à mes bourdon ta cantilène lente.
Que l'amour ni l'espoir ne s'infiltre! A mon tour
Que je sois sous ton feu l'argile au creu du four.
Ni l'espoir, ni la nuit!
Ce bruit qui ronge et pèse,
Ce fruit d'un ver enté, ce rosier ceint de braises,
Ces parfums de cheveux, ces passantes, ces voix,
Apaise leurs défis, impose leur tes lois,
L'azur veut triompher.
Ma chanson, tu te brises.
Regarde. Sur tes bris se dressent mes hantises.
Aux cités des vivants vont les passants hagards.
D' Orphée en blocs de chairs flottent les étendards.
Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 1442 times
Written on 2007-12-19 at 17:00
Tags Galiana Sadness Poetry
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Translated from the French
Half-closed song
Song, I shall to your peace shut the door of my dreads.Orchard, block of crystal and of bees, whereon waves
Of ravens break. Apple on the lawn noiselessly
Rolling. Scents of Autumn. Winter closing the day
Ecstasy bare of fear of tomorrow.
My thumb
Shall shape you, so firmly, that moss never grow on
Your tense and thick hillside as time, stealthy, goes by.
You shall
not tell of weal or woe.
You shall hang high
The shelter of your beat on this sky haunting me.
Force my drones to resound with your slow melody,
So that no love or hope may ooze in! On my turn,
I may be the clay in the kiln that your flames burn.
Neither hope, nor the night!
Let this heavy rumble,
This worm-eaten fruit, this rose shrub ringed with ember,
These perfumes of hairs, these passing girls, these voices
Be subject to your law, be tamed their challenges.
Blue sky shall overcome.
Yet, my song, you subside.
Look, It's my haunting fears that on your remains thrive,
In the towns of the living, people wander, eerie
With Orpheus' standards, shreds of flesh, streaming rarely.
*********************
Chanson, je fermerai ta paix à mes hantises.
Verger, bloc de cristal, d'abeilles où se brisent
Les lames de corbeaux. La pomme au gazon sourd
Roule. L'automne embaume. Oh l'hiver clôt le jour
L'extase, ni la peur des demains.
Sous mon pouce
Je te modèlerai, si ferme que la mousse
A ton flanc ferme et dru n'accrochera du temps
Furtif.
Tu ne diras joie ou tristesse .
Tends
Ton rythme comme un dais sur ce ciel qui me hante.
Impose à mes bourdon ta cantilène lente.
Que l'amour ni l'espoir ne s'infiltre! A mon tour
Que je sois sous ton feu l'argile au creu du four.
Ni l'espoir, ni la nuit!
Ce bruit qui ronge et pèse,
Ce fruit d'un ver enté, ce rosier ceint de braises,
Ces parfums de cheveux, ces passantes, ces voix,
Apaise leurs défis, impose leur tes lois,
L'azur veut triompher.
Ma chanson, tu te brises.
Regarde. Sur tes bris se dressent mes hantises.
Aux cités des vivants vont les passants hagards.
D' Orphée en blocs de chairs flottent les étendards.
Poetry by Michel Galiana
Read 1442 times
Written on 2007-12-19 at 17:00
Tags Galiana Sadness Poetry
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text| Texts |
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