État de siège
Garrett List| الترجمة الفرنسية / Traduction française / Traduzione francese / Fren... | |
STATE OF SIEGE Here, where the hills slope before the sunset and the chasm of time near gardens whose shades have been cast aside we do what prisoners do we do what the jobless do we sow hope In a land where the dawn sears we have become more doltish and we stare at the moments of victory there is no starry night in our nights of explosions our enemies stay up late, they switch on the lights in the intense darkness of this tunnel Here after the poems of Job, we wait no more This siege will persist until we teach our enemies models of our finest poetry the sky is leaden during the day and a fiery orange at night… but our hearts are as neutral as the flowery emblems on a shield here, not “I” Here, Adam remembers the clay of which he was born He says, on the verge of death, he says, “I have no more earth to lose” Free am I, close to my ultimate freedom, I hold my fortune in my own hands In a few moments, I will begin my life born free of father and mother I will chose letters of sky blue for my name Under siege, life is the moment between remembrance of the first moment, and forgetfulness of the last here, under the mountains of smoke, on the threshold of my home, time has no measure We do what those who give up the ghost do… we forget our pain Pain is when the housewife forsakes hanging up the clothes to dry and is content that this flag of Palestine should be without stain There is no Homeric echo here Myths come knocking on our door when we need them There is no Homeric echo here… only a general looking through the rubble for the awakening state concealed within the galloping horse from Troy The soldiers measure the space between being and nothingness with field-glasses behind a tank’s armoury We measure the space between our bodies and the coming rockets with our sixth sense alone You there, by the threshold of our door Come in, and sip with us our Arabic coffee [you may even feel that you are human, just as we are] you there, by the threshold of our door take your rockets away from our mornings we may then feel secure [and almost human] We may find time for relaxation and fine art We may play cards, and read our newspapers Catching up on the news of our wounded past and we may look up our star signs in the year two thousand and two, the camera smiles to those born under the sign of the siege Whenever yesterday comes to me, I say to her, Now’s not the right time. Go and come tomorrow! I wrack my head, but uselessly. What can someone like me think of, there, on the tip of the hillside, for the past 3 thousand years, and in this passing moment? My thoughts slay me my memory awakens me When the helicopters disappear the doves fly back white, very white, marking the cheeks of the horizon with liberated wings. They revive their radiance and their ownership of the sky, and of playfulness. Higher and higher they fly, the doves, very white. ‘O that the sky was real’ [a man passing between two bombs cried] A sparkling sky, a vision, lightning! all very similar…. soon I will know if this is indeed a revelation or my close friends will know that the poem has gone, and yoked its poet [to a critic]: Don’t interpret my words as you stir the sugar in your cup, or munch your breast of chicken! Words put me under siege in my sleep… the words I did not utter. They write me, then leave me searching for the remains of my sleep The evergreen Cypresses behind the soldiers are minarets protecting the sky from falling. Behind the barbed wire are soldiers urinating- protected by a tank. The Autumn day completes its golden stroll on the pavements of a street as empty as a church after Sunday prayers Tomorrow we will love life. When tomorrow comes, life will be something to adore just as it is, ordinary, or tricky gray, or colourful…stripped of judgement day and purgatory… and if joy is a necessity let it be light on the heart and the back Once embittered by joy, twice shy A satirical writer said to me: If I knew the end of the story at the very beginning there would be nothing to laugh about! [To a killer:] If you reflected upon the face of the victim you slew, you would have remembered your mother in the room full of gas. You would have freed yourself of the bullet’s wisdom, and changed your mind: ‘I will never find myself thus.’ [To another killer:] If you left the foetus thirty days in its mother’s womb, things would have been different. The occupation would be over and this suckling infant would forget the time of the siege and grow up a healthy child reading at school, with one of your daughters the ancient history of Asia. They might even fall in love and give birth to a daughter [she would be Jewish by birth]. What, then, have you done now? Your daughter is now a widow and your granddaughter an orphan. What have you done with your scattered family? And how have you slain three doves in one story? This verse was not really necessary. Forget about the refrain and forget about being economical with the pain. It’s all superflous like so much dross The mist is darkness- a thick, white darkness peeled by an orange, and a promising woman The siege is lying in wait. It is lying in wait on a tilted stairway in the midst of a storm. We are alone. We are alone to the point of drunkenness with our own aloneness, with the occasional rainbow visiting. We have brothers and sisters overseas.. kind sisters, who love us.. who look our way and weep. And secretly they say “I wish that siege was here, so that I could…” But they cannot finish the sentence. Do not leave us alone. No. Do not leave us alone. Our losses are between two and eight a day. And ten are wounded. Twenty homes are gone. Forty olive groves destroyed, in addition to the structural damage afflicting the veins of the poem, the play, and the unfinished painting. In the alleyway, lit by an exiled lantern, I see a refugee camp at the crossroads of the winds. The south rebels against the wind. The east is a west turned religious. The west is a murderous truce minting the coinage of peace. As for the north, the distant north, it is not a place or a geographical vicinity. It is the conference of heavenly divinity. A woman said to a cloud: cover my dear one, for my clothes are wet with his blood. If you are not rain, o dear one, then be a tree, fertile and verdant. Be a tree. And if not a tree, o dear one be a stone laden with dew. Be a stone. And if not a stone, o dear one, be the moon itself in the dreams of she who loves you. Be the moon itself. [thus a woman said to her son, in his funeral] O you who are sleepless tonight, did you not tire of following the light in our story and the red blaze in our blood? Did you not tire, you who are sleepless tonight? Standing here. Sitting here. Always here. Eternally here, we have one aim and one aim only: to continue to be. Beyond that aim we differ in all. We differ on the form of the national flag (we would have done well if we had chosen o living heart of mine, the symbol of a simple mule). We differ on the words of the new anthem (we would have done well to choose a song on the marriage of doves). We differ on the duties of women (we would have done well to choose a woman to run the security services). We differ on proportions, public and private. We differ on everything. We have one aim: to continue to be. After fulfilling this aim, we will have time for other choices. He said to me, on his way to jail, “When I am released I will know that praise of nation is like pouring scorn on nation- a trade like any other! A little of the infinite blue suffices to reduce the burden of our times and cleanse the mud from this place right now The spirit needs to improvise and walk upon its silken soles by my side, as hand in hand, two old friends we share a crust of bread and an old flask of wine walking the path together, then our days fork off into two separate paths: I to the unknown, and she sits squatting upon a high rock [to a poet] Whenever the sunset eludes you you are ensnared in the solitude of the gods. Be ‘the essence’ of your lost subject and the subject of your lost essence. Be present in your absence He finds time for sarcasm: My telephone has stopped ringing. My doorbell has also stopped ringing. So how did you know that I am not here? He finds time for song: Waiting for you, I cannot wait I cannot read Dostoyevsky nor listen to Umm Kalthum, Maria Callas or another. Waiting for you, the hands of the watch go from right to left to a time without a place. Waiting for you, I didn’t wait for you. I waited for eternity. He asks her, “What kind of flower is your favourite?” She says, “The carnation. The black carnation.” He asks her, “And where will you take me, with those black carnations?” She says, “To the abyss of life within me.” She says, “Further, further, further.” This siege will endure until the besiegers feel, like the besieged that anger is an emotion like any other. “I don’t love you. I don’t hate you,” The prisoner said to the interrogator. “My heart is full of that which is of no concern to you. My heart is full of the aroma of sage. My heart is innocent, radiant, brimming. There is no time in the heart for tests. No. I do not love you. Who are you that I may give my love to you? Are you part of my being? Are you a coffee rendezvous? Are you the wind of the flute, and a song, that I may love you? I hate imprisonment. But I do not hate you.” Thus a prisoner said to the investigator. “My feelings are not your concern. My emotions are my own private night… my night which moves from bed to bed free of rhyme and of double meanings! We sat far from our destinies, like birds which build their nests in cracks in statues or in chimneys, or in tents erected on the prince’s path at the time of the hunt On my ruins the shadows grow green and the wolf sleeps on a hybernating poem, dreaming, like me, and like a guardian angel, that life is pure and free of label Myths refuse to amend their patterns. Perhaps they were struck by a crack in the hull; perhaps their ships have been stranded on a land without a people. Thus the idealist was overcome by the realist. But the ships will not change their mould. Whenever an unpleasant reality crosses their path they demolish it with a bulldozer. The colour of their truth dictates the text: she is beautiful, white, without blemish. [to a semi-orientalist] Let’s say things are the way you think they are - that I am stupid, stupid, stupid and that I cannot play golf or understand high technology nor can fly a plane! Is that why you have ransomed my life to create yours? If you were another - if I were another we would have been a couple of friends who confessed our need for folly But the fool, like Shylock the merchant, consists of heart, and bread, and two frightened eyes Under siege, time becomes a location solidified eternally Under siege, place becomes a time abandoned by past and future This low, high land this holy harlot… we do not pay much attention to the magic of these words a cavity may become a vacuum in space a contour in geography The dead besiege me with every new day and ask me, “Where were you? Give back to the lexicon all the words you offered me and let the sleepers sleep without phantoms in their dreams! The dead teach me the lesson: there is no aesthetic beyond freedom The dead point out to me: why search beyond the horizon for the eternal virgins? We loved life on earth, between the fig and the pine trees but we couldn’t find our way even there. We searched until we gave life all we owned: the purple blood in our veins The dead besiege me. “Do not walk in the funeral if you did not know me. I seek no compliments from man nor beast The dead warn me. “Do not believe their rejoicing. Listen instead to my dad as he looks at my photo crying. “How did you take my place, son, and jump ahead of me? I should have gone first! I should have gone first!” The dead besiege me. “I have only changed my place of abode and my furnishings. The deer now walk on my bedroom’s roof and the moon warms the ceiling from the pain thus putting an end to my pain to put an end to my wailing.” and the moon warms the ceiling to put an end to my wailing.” This siege will endure until we are truly persuaded into choosing a harmless slavery, but in total freedom! To resist: that means to ensure the health of heart and testicles, and that your ancient disease is still alive and well in you a disease called hope in the remains of the dawn I walk outside of my own body in the remains of the night I hear the footsteps of my own being I raise my cup to those who drink with me to an awakening to the beauty of the butterfly in the long tunnel of this dark night I raise my cup to those who drink with me in the thick darkness of a night overflowing with crippled souls I raise my cup to the apparition in my being [to a reader] Don’t trust the poem She is the absentee daughter. She is neither an intuition nor a surmise, but a sense of disaster If love is crippled, I will heal it with exercise and humour and with separating the singer from the song My friends are ever preparing a party for me- a farewell party, and a comfortable grave in the shadow of the oak together with a marble witness from the tombstone of time But I seem to be first in attending their funerals. Who has died today? The siege is transforming me from a singer to a sixth string on a five string violin The deceased, daughter of the deceased, who is herself daughter of the deceased, who is the deceased’s sister The deceased resister’s sister is related by marriage to the mother of the deceased, who is grandaughter of the deceased’s grandfather and neighbour to the deceased’s uncle (etc. ..etc.) No news worries the developed world, for the time of barbarism has passed and the victim is Joe Bloggs. Nobody knows his name, and the tragedy, like the truth, is relative (etc. ..etc.) Quiet, quiet, for the soldiers need at this hour to listen to the songs which the dead resisters had listened to, and have remained like the smell of coffee, in their blood, fresh Truce, truce. A time to test the teachings: can helicopters be turned into ploughshares? We said to them: truce, truce, to examine intentions. The flavour of peace may be absorbed by the soul. Then we may compete for the love of life using poetic images. They replied, “Don’t you know that peace begins with oneself, if you wish to open the door to our citadel of truth? So we said, “And then?” Writing is a small ant which bites extinction. Writing is a bloodless wound. Our cups of coffee, and the birds, and the green trees with the blue shade, and the sun leaping from wall to wall like a doe and the waters in the skies of infinite shapes, in what is left to us of sky…and other matters the memory of which has been put on hold prove that this morning is strong and beautiful and that we are guests of evermore | ÉTAT DE SIÈGE Ici, aux pentes des collines, face au crépuscule et au canon du temps Près des jardins aux ombres brisées, Nous faisons ce que font les prisonniers, Ce que font les chômeurs : Nous cultivons l’espoir. * * * Un pays qui s’apprête à l’aube. Nous devenons moins intelligents Car nous épions l’heure de la victoire : Pas de nuit dans notre nuit illuminée par le pilonnage. Nos ennemis veillent et nos ennemis allument pour nous la lumière Dans l’obscurité des caves. * * * Ici, nul « moi ». Ici, Adam se souvient de la poussière de son argile. * * * Au bord de la mort, il dit : Il ne me reste plus de trace à perdre : Libre je suis tout près de ma liberté. Mon futur est dans ma main. Bientôt je pénètrerai ma vie, Je naîtrai libre, sans parents, Et je choisirai pour mon nom des lettres d’azur... * * * Ici, aux montées de la fumée, sur les marches de la maison, Pas de temps pour le temps. Nous faisons comme ceux qui s’élèvent vers Dieu : Nous oublions la douleur. * * * Rien ici n’a d’écho homérique. Les mythes frappent à nos portes, au besoin. Rien n’a d’écho homérique. Ici, un général Fouille à la recherche d’un Etat endormi Sous les ruines d’une Troie à venir. * * * Vous qui vous dressez sur les seuils, entrez, Buvez avec nous le café arabe Vous ressentiriez que vous êtes hommes comme nous Vous qui vous dressez sur les seuils des maisons Sortez de nos matins, Nous serons rassurés d’être Des hommes comme vous ! * * * Quand disparaissent les avions, s’envolent les colombes Blanches blanches, elles lavent la joue du ciel Avec des ailes libres, elles reprennent l’éclat et la possession De l’éther et du jeu. Plus haut, plus haut s’envolent Les colombes, blanches blanches. Ah si le ciel Etait réel [m’a dit un homme passant entre deux bombes] * * * Les cyprès, derrière les soldats, des minarets protégeant Le ciel de l’affaissement. Derrière la haie de fer Des soldats pissent — sous la garde d’un char - Et le jour automnal achève sa promenade d’or dans Une rue vaste telle une église après la messe dominicale... * * * [A un tueur] Si tu avais contemplé le visage de la victime Et réfléchi, tu te serais souvenu de ta mère dans la chambre A gaz, tu te serais libéré de la raison du fusil Et tu aurais changé d’avis : ce n’est pas ainsi qu’on retrouve une identité. * * * Le brouillard est ténèbres, ténèbres denses blanches Epluchées par l’orange et la femme pleine de promesses. * * * Le siège est attente Attente sur une échelle inclinée au milieu de la tempête. * * * Seuls, nous sommes seuls jusqu’à la lie S’il n’y avait les visites des arcs en ciel. * * * Nous avons des frères derrière cette étendue. Des frères bons. Ils nous aiment. Ils nous regardent et pleurent. Puis ils se disent en secret : « Ah ! si ce siège était déclaré... » Ils ne terminent pas leur phrase : « Ne nous laissez pas seuls, ne nous laissez pas. » * * * Nos pertes : entre deux et huit martyrs chaque jour. Et dix blessés. Et vingt maisons. Et cinquante oliviers... S’y ajoute la faille structurelle qui Atteindra le poème, la pièce de théâtre et la toile inachevée. * * * Une femme a dit au nuage : comme mon bien-aimé Car mes vêtements sont trempés de son sang. * * * Si tu n’es pluie, mon amour Sois arbre Rassasié de fertilité, sois arbre Si tu n’es arbre mon amour Sois pierre Saturée d’humidité, sois pierre Si tu n’es pierre mon amour Sois lune Dans le songe de l’aimée, sois lune [Ainsi parla une femme à son fils lors de son enterrement] * * * Ô veilleurs ! N’êtes-vous pas lassés De guetter la lumière dans notre sel Et de l’incandescence de la rose dans notre blessure N’êtes-vous pas lassés Ô veilleurs ? * * * Un peu de cet infini absolu bleu Suffirait A alléger le fardeau de ce temps-ci Et à nettoyer la fange de ce lieu * * * A l’âme de descendre de sa monture Et de marcher sur ses pieds de soie A mes côtés, mais dans la main, tels deux amis De longue date, qui se partagent le pain ancien Et le verre de vin antique Que nous traversions ensemble cette route Ensuite nos jours emprunteront des directions différentes : Moi, au-delà de la nature, quant à elle, Elle choisira de s’accroupir sur un rocher élevé. * * * Nous nous sommes assis loin de nos destinées comme des oiseaux Qui meublent leurs nids dans les creux des statues, Ou dans les cheminées, ou dans les tentes qui Furent dressées sur le chemin du prince vers la chasse. * * * Sur mes décombres pousse verte l’ombre, Et le loup somnole sur la peau de ma chèvre Il rêve comme moi, comme l’ange Que la vie est ici... non là-bas. * * * Dans l’état de siège, le temps devient espace Pétrifié dans son éternité Dans l’état de siège, l’espace devient temps Qui a manqué son hier et son lendemain. * * * Ce martyr m’encercle chaque fois que je vis un nouveau jour Et m’interroge : Où étais-tu ? Ramène aux dictionnaires Toutes les paroles que tu m’as offertes Et soulage les dormeurs du bourdonnement de l’écho. * * * Le martyr m’éclaire : je n’ai pas cherché au-delà de l’étendue Les vierges de l’immortalité car j’aime la vie Sur terre, parmi les pins et les figuiers, Mais je ne peux y accéder, aussi y ai-je visé Avec l’ultime chose qui m’appartienne : le sang dans le corps de l’azur. * * * Le martyr m’avertit : Ne crois pas leurs youyous Crois-moi père quand il observe ma photo en pleurant Comment as-tu échangé nos rôles, mon fils et m’as-tu précédé. Moi d’abord, moi le premier ! * * * Le martyr m’encercle : je n’ai changé que ma place et mes meubles frustes. J’ai posé une gazelle sur mon lit, Et un croissant lunaire sur mon doigt, Pour apaiser ma peine. * * * Le siège durera afin de nous convaincre de choisir un asservissement qui ne nuit pas, en toute liberté !! * * * Résister signifie : s’assurer de la santé Du cœur et des testicules, et de ton mal tenace : Le mal de l’espoir. * * * Et dans ce qui reste de l’aube, je marche vers mon extérieur Et dans ce qui reste de la nuit, j’entends le bruit des pas en mon intention. * * * Salut à qui partage avec moi l’attention à L’ivresse de la lumière, la lumière du papillon, dans La noirceur de ce tunnel. * * * Salut à qui partage avec moi mon verre Dans l’épaisseur d’une nuit débordant les deux places : Salut à mon spectre. * * * Pour moi mes amis apprêtent toujours une fête D’adieu, une sépulture apaisante à l’ombre de chênes Une épitaphe en marbre du temps Et toujours je les devance lors des funérailles : Qui est mort...qui ? * * * L’écriture, un chiot qui mord le néant L’écriture blesse sans trace de sang. * * * Nos tasses de café. Les oiseaux les arbres verts A l’ombre bleue, le soleil gambade d’un mur A l’autre telle une gazelle L’eau dans les nuages à la forme illimitée dans ce qu’il nous reste * * * Du ciel. Et d’autres choses aux souvenirs suspendus Révèlent que ce matin est puissant splendide, Et que nous sommes les invités de l’éternité. |
