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Occitan poetry 980-2006 by Joan-Frederic Brun
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Born
in Toulon (Provence), died in Nimes. Spent most of his life in Paris and
found all his inspiration in a passionate love that filled his life.
Actually his homeland was neither France nor Occitania but the place he
called "mon país lo de l'escriure" (my country, that of
writing). Max Roqueta defined him to me as such: he was not a man, he was
an angel.
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Òsca Manòsca (1963) Provènça Li
mots que li vòle son delembrats La
negra nuech li vei cercar dins sa combor Un
sòmí li mourà, ma sobeirana, París, 1951.
Un
espavent. Li mots se desvàrian. Mai
se ne trai un gran que sabe
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Provence The words I want are forgotten in the abyss of the flesh of a people, the
sea shakes the walls of forgiveness, silence hides itself within silence Black night sees them seeking in its own heat - the dazzling
water that waits - while up there plays the wind - and for the
bitter joy of eagles. A dream will move them, my sovereign lady, closed light, dream of
esclave, and in a groove of chainless light, star and pay and joy will
be all that is lost Terror. Words lose their sense. Night's horse ...... black. Widow is the
day. Sterile is my country for lack of wind. Sterile is my country since
others then will take away the glory of its prince. Too much youth gags
me. Meanwhile I plow a language aged from too much silence. And I make all my efforts, and I plow the silence, while my
years go away, carried by a stream. Love's wheat is immature. I stick
my teeth in time's crust, more bitter than the echo of screaming lettuce.
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