Un poète américain (Montana) traduit “2. Ca ne dure qu’une nuit” de Dâh en anglais, et ça donne :

2. All the livelong night
The idea of a song, a song of before, telling of
A mysterious woman
A woman with a breast of whispered breath
Twenty leagues
River? Gold? Or
Unpossessed of herself
Oh god it was good (so they said) that you remain nameless
Cradled by the leaves
After years of fruitless wandering
Varman-Rosée the fuck
The horrible Varman-Rosée
An exiled princess
No she didn’t flee
The little hapless one
I’m a walking disaster wandering
Ode to slowness
Ode to darkness
Hatred of power
All forms of it
Neither suffer nor exert it never
Lie listless and headless
With the beastly one-timer
With the beastly rain
Holed up with the foundlings
With the signless ones
With the borderless impenetrables
With the infant hoards who dream of giants
With their forceful prayers of impotence
With the circle of fertile oblivion
Far from cameras, from major narratives
From those who hide behind the castle gates
The immortals
Are consumed
Their tongues swallowed
Become real
All the livelong night.
Avine takes the old mule road
The hill is steep
The sun bakes his goddamn brains
He would like to mount the peak
He knows that there above, there, are the condors.
Archibald and the rectilinear unconscious
Two hundred amongst
Fold the shades
The incineration the jaws without territory
Laughed its rust
The same-old-free same (twixt two extraneous hugs)
There we go, the gin is going
Analgesic and Byzantium
I lay there a long time with the stupefied essential dog.
Thank you for the dawn
Forgive us our insufficiency.
I enter this glass.
One day, ha you’d almost think the voice saw: in the time of the dying people…
Mob riot improvised in the Snow quarter, early March, the slippery guy who fell just centimeters from the ankles of Varman-Rosée, in his thoughts, open face, closed face, face that closes, in that beautiful carelessness of his stilted march.
He goes to the gate (Varman-Rosée)
He climbs abord a paquebot bound for Argentina.

Traduction de © Samuel Reichert

Texte original de © Christophe Macquet

Dâh, Dans la nuit khmère, continue son voyage

Photo Bruno Lecat

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
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.