Occitan poetry 980-2006
by Joan-Frederic Brun
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.
per astre te reviras
uòlhs cèrcan los sieus
filha bruna amb un agach
vida raja al canalet del grífol
Aquesta filha bruna ara ritz
darrièr còp la cara palla
mena de grand silenci
nauts-parlaires cridan los oraris
pas tressautava sul pont
benlèu un dimenge
l'aiga los ostals
peu nadava fòl
benlèu dimenge dins la vila
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.
with a glance like a mystery follows
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.
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
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.