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 Palms Slaughtered 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 Leave 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.
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.
