dimanche 28 mai 2006
James His Flat Land
L'autre soir en mangeant du fromage, j'écoutais du Anne Clarck. Je me suis demandé, là: et si Jacques avait été anglophone? Comment ça quel Jacques? Mais, si, vous savez! Jacques, celui qui a attendu en vain Madeleine, célébré vainement le retour de Mathilde, et s'est fait rouler par Germaine (sa vie sentimentale à des airs de la mienne)! Celui qui a tenté, sans force et sans armure, d'atteindre l'innaccessible étoile, avant de reposer sur les Îles Marquises! Oui, lui. Hé bien j'ai pris ma plus belle plume, et mon encre sang-de-pigeon, et j'ai traduit -du mieux que j'ai pu.
With the North Sea as the last waste ground
And waves of dunes to stop the breaker waves
And inform the rocks above which waves rise
And which have the heart forever in a low tide
With infinitely of coming thick fogs
With the eastern wind, hearken how it holds on
The flat land, which is mine.
With cathedrals as only mountains,
And dark steeples as Cocagne’s pole
Where stone-made devils can unhook the clouds
With as when the days go by as only journey
And rainy paths as only ‘goodnight’
With the western wind, hearken how it strongly claims
The flat land, which is mine
With so low as sky, that it made a canal hang itself
With so low a sky, that it makes humility
With so grey a sky, that thou must forgive it
With the northern wind that comes to tear himself apart
With the northern wind, hearken how it crackles
The flat land, which is mine
With a bit of Italy, having swum down the Escaut
With the Blond Frida when she becomes Margot
When the sons of November come back to us in May
When the plain is steaming and quivers under July’s domination
When the wind is laughing, when the wind blows the wheat
When the wind comes from the South, hearken how it sings
The flat land, which is mine
Hé bien vous savez, Jacques, il est toujours aussi beau en anglais. Et il est même un peu gothique.
Alors, j'ai coupé Anne Clarck dans ses élans, et j'ai écouté le grand Jacques...
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