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Occitan poetry 980-2006 by Joan-Frederic Brun
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Philippe
Angelau was born near Paris in 1955. He has been living in Périgord -
the land of ancient troubadours that so deeply fascinated Ezra Pound -
since 1976. Has published many poems in the journal OC since
1974, as well as in other journals, Catalan like L'Aiguadolç
based in Valence, Reduccions, in Vic, and in Europe (n°
878-879 June-July 2002). He has published a few books: Sebissas vivas
e semena-cur, Gresa. A third should be published in 2006.
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Gresa
en picar lo sňl emb sos talons fins venián
totjorn passat sičis oras del ser entre totas qu'aimavi mai que mai las
d'Asia tan fugidissas coma brumas tčbias deu remembrar sedas d'aurňra
regard de risičra e pial coma coire sentida moissa e tendra de l'estiu drňlle
las regardavi anar e passar ja čran lo meu País a
cap d'autona a cap de memňria jos las parpčlas tala 'na pelada d'istňria
d'ňlms e de colimators
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striking the ground with their sharp heels they always arrived after six
hours in the evening. I especially enjoyed those from Asia, so fugitives
in the cool fogs of memory, silks of dawn, glances of paddy field, with
their skin like copper, sweet and moisty feeling of summer fascinated, so fascinating eyelids half-eyelids extending expectation eluding and slipping on the
curves of their body that the half-opened door was unveiling to me I was a child and I glanced at them while they wandered: they were
already my Country at the end of autumn at the end of memories under eyelids as an alopecia of history of ormes and collimators
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dos
de mai dos de mens oxigenada mai que saura la criničra aeriana fučlhas
faubas de la caissičra e son riset tan servicial coma sa rauba dubčrta
sul bassučlh de las cučissas totas gainadas d'escura estialada e
beviam aitau dusc'a la nudesa la seuna e la de l'aora gulas
d'Abriu o gulas de Mai en surtir de Biŕrrits nos damandčron los papičrs
que per la claror de las prumičras cigarretas los gavians virolejavan e
de la mňrt que ne parlavam sempre entŕ que la tornčssem butar mai
lonh coma se nos posqučsse aparar del nient l'enfachilhatge del dire...
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two more, two less, peroxided rather than blonde, the very aerial
mane as tawny foliage of the cashier and her smile as welcoming as her
dress open on the threshold of her thighs cased with starry night and we thus drank up, until nakedness, both hers and that of this
time mouths of April or mouths of May on the way out from Biarritz they
controlled our papers while were whirling sea gulls in the clarity of
the first cigarettes And one was continuously talking about death to push it far
away, just as
if the wizardry of words could protect us from void...
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** Pňtas
d'un ponent qu'atraversan los neons en plčn brumalhar enmagina res pus
del temps 'quí que trespira puči te pega aus clarums la nučch que las
trempadas de tos učlhs l'i mancan d'alčn Flairas
frejolčtas que sablas e fialats s'i desplegan entre espatlas e cučissas
lusisson los vents de mar de palpas que s'acercan los dčts que
serpinhan furtius jos l'estňfa mai te fan tremolar
Potons trŕs 'quí dins lo cňl limpan e desrapan
sempre que davalan lavandas fins a las ribas de lutz cambas tčunas
lisas me sarran fort la boca e per la tia marina ma lenga vai-včn dins
las rebocadas movedissas de tas plučjas d'endacňm mai
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** Lips of sunset crossed by neon tubes in the full haze, don't
imagine anything more of those times that ooze and stick to your bright
spots the night where gets out of breath the wet of your eyes chilly perfumes where spread out the sands and their fishnets between
shoulders and thighs, sea winds shine fingers snakily grope their
furtive way under textile and make you quiver
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