en langue anglaise. C’est Samuel Reichert, rencontré à la Cave Poésie de Toulouse, en compagnie de Christophe Macquet, qui s’empare des deux premiers textes de Dâh pour leur faire passer une nouvelle frontière. Samuel Reichert : poète cow-boy né au Montana, spécialiste de Samuel Beckett. Il a consacré sa thèse à la poétique de l’autotraduction et de l’intertextualité dans la trilogie de Beckett. Thèmes chers à Macquet : on comprend que Reichert traduise Macquet.

Alors, je partage. Voici le 1er.

1. Avine comes back—Kampot, june 2016
So along his way alone went Avine.
The narrator listens to (teller hears) the fritting of the evening wind in the palms.
The mud flats
The coast literally
Decomposed…
aided by a venal indicator, Mr. Varman-Rosée, scar-smile smiling violet gums
So along his way alone went Avine, (the teller heard the tale told and said) narratively the narrator narrated, upon which he halted, and thereupon listened with intensest attentiveness to the breath fritting in the palms, then forsake his hammock, packed his bags and got hell out for ten long years, all stiff and trucking his red carcass sithence to the end of the world, the other end, accumulating the silences and miles, stupefied with hulking legs, immobile ambulatory hulking his fever of being, to the without, to the without of years, great big legs, big fever, all utterly anonymous, desperate, all stiff and gamboling his fell darkness within, like Heraclitus of the cliff, in the desert, in the mountains, in the forests, cargo, moto, silo, zero, the dodos, turbines, under the stary sky, in the planes, cargo, sleepy time, under the starry sky, in the planes, in the threshers, just over there, in the insects, in the fleeces, in the sinks, in the unnarrated holes, in the shrimp and pistons who cried out to him: woe is Archibald, you’ll never get back to school !
Meanwhile, poor Avine, abandoned unto himself utterly alone and useless, went his way like a bolt slides among cells.
He dreamt like a read-head and smoked like a red wheel
He thought like a red hole and drank the air like he drank
red like the lice drink glug-glug-glug, in the mangrove.
The bosom of the absolute beaty (in the scales of the tidal zones)
The breast of the meekest absolute, the poorest (in the scales of the tidal zones)
the bosom of sickness
the bosom of death
Oh spirit of wine (coastal matter droning in the surf)
Oh spirit of the breast (coastal matter droning in the surf)
Spirit of nothing
Spirit of the coming back.