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Occitan poetry 980-2006 by Joan-Frederic Brun
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Jean-Paul Creissac. Born in Montpellier, now living in Montpeyroux, famous for its wine in the wine country North of Montpellier. Distillates like an exquisite vintage a very limpid poetry that preserves for eternity the subtle emotion of simple flashes of everyday life, in an extremely pure Occitan close to that of his neighbor and friend Max Rouquette. |
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(Correspondéncias) Quand
per astre te reviras Tos
uòlhs cèrcan los sieus Una
filha bruna amb un agach La
vida raja al canalet del grífol Aquesta filha bruna ara ritz *** Un
darrièr còp la cara palla Una
mena de grand silenci Los
nauts-parlaires cridan los oraris Demòras
aquí destimborlat
Un
pas tressautava sul pont Era
benlèu un dimenge Dins
l'aiga los ostals Son
peu nadava fòl Era
benlèu dimenge dins la vila
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When luckily you turn looking back there is a
girl that passes and smiles to you. Your eyes seek for her, like an abyss that opens. A brunette
with a glance like a mystery follows
you. Life keeps flowing from the pipe of the fountain and you know time is fugitive This brunette is now laughing, and for a long time she will illuminate like embers *** The train slowly moves away.
You stay there on the quay looking
at it while it leaves. For
the last time the pale face of
a brunette through the window pane.
A kind of tremendous silence. Travelers press
themselves in the corridors. Microphones are screaming schedules.
Outside traffic comes and turns away. You remain there amazed, remembering dazzling instants.
***
Her footsteps
hop on the bridge, as light as a swallow. It was perhaps a Sunday, in the drowsy city. In the mirror of water, houses were staring at
themselves, strange. Her foolish hair undulated as if swimming, and she had
a fine chainette on her ankle. It was perhaps a Sunday in the city. Away, we knew that
people were and moved. |
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