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Occitan poetry 980-2006 by Joan-Frederic Brun
Olivier LAMARQUE |
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Born in Roissy in1974. Lives now in Toulouse. Has published most of his poems since 1999 in "OC ", but also in " Europe ", " Jardin d'essai ", " Rivaginaires ". His poems were read in the " Cave poésie " at Toulouse in 2001 and 2002, and he also participated in a radio program " Poésie sur parole " at France Culture in 2002. Olivier has translated into Occitan most international authors (Primo Levi, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Ana-Maria Matute) and has translated into French " Rai la mòrt ", a compilation of narratives of the late Occitan novelist Joan-Maria Pieyre. His first book of poems " L'amor es un orquèstra blanc que ne somián los gosses " / " Love is an orchestra and dogs dream about it " recently appeared (2006) at the editions "OC passatges". In his texts, poetic emotion delicately arises from the astonishment of the poet scrutinizing the absurd strangeness of everyday life. And, amazingly, everything becomes poem and subtly takes you to another universe...
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Lucian Freud isalada Dètz mila agaças de nuèit alisan los lièits daurats d'excusas. Los lombs amusan, despachan, desondran las onglas, la musa. Dètz mila agaças de nuèit, capusas bèstias del còr pertús. Gardarem pas que la que s'es perduda.
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Lucian Freud Fugitive Ten thousand nocturnal magpies burnish the gilded, excuse-laden beds. Loins tickle and rush, disfigure the nails, the muzzle. Ten thousand nocturnal magpies- stubborn, heart-tunneling beasts. We'll keep only the one that got lost.
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Poèma a Mericà Sèt oras tres dins l'otèl blanc, banhas los pòts dins lo cafè ; - saturat - sembla lo tast de çò vertat. Los dets perduts, rufats, entre ton lièit, amassas tos sòmis : quatre son pècs. Lo sèxe umide d'un sègle voide, l'as alisat, l'as desbrembat, calat, coma una alarma. Gravitacion de çò begut, as daissat la guèrra dels mondes, los darrièrs anges e las morenas sus la tèrra brunassa dels mots. Dins lo tresluc, cèrcas la pichona brústia ròsa dels tròces de sucre. |
Poem for Merica 7:03 in the white hotel you dip your lips in coffee -so black- it tastes like the truth. Your fingers lost, curled in the bed, you gather your four silly dreams. Your sex is damp with an empty century. You've stroked it, forgotten it, muted it like an alarm. In the gravid drink you've left world wars, final angels, and lampreys on a brownish, word-heavy earth. In full moonlight you search for the little pink box of sugar cubes. |
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Un curiós adissiatz polida musica de maridatge, òme negre, dos sòmis que s'encontran, -quicòm deuriá venir vertat- coma de sagèls bizantins, de passarilhas lo pitre conflat, entre lèrba jauna, cavi encara per ela totjorn per ela |
Hello and Goodbye fine wedding music, dark man,
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Arquimèdes "Does the sea remember the walker upon it?" Sylvia Plath dins la lusor, un ventre e una banhadoira blanca una, doas, tres cagaròtas eissinjadas que nadan per sorire lo mot tendre, l'ofìci de l'istòria -sapin blau? nis blau?- ton monde nus tremòla la massa de l'aiga aborgalida a regolat sus ton còs te torna menar al sòl coma lo carrèu blanc que tomba a bèlas pausas es pas de bon aver sa coneissença sus una flor autentica amb lo tast dels negats dins la boca
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Archimedes "Does the sea remember the walker upon it?" Sylvia Plath In the gleam, a belly, a white tub, one, two, and three expelled turds smilingly swim the tender word, history's office -blue pine? blue nest?- your naked world trembles a ton of city water, sloshed on your body, keeps knocking you down like a white tile falling again and again it isn't easy to stay awake on a real flower with the taste of the drowned in your mouth. |
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Sièis taxis Sièis taxis de seguida -pes del monde- peisses de l'espaci Lo masca blau Lo masca blau del grand babau lo truc perdut demorì mut Dètz segondas miralh Lo bèl bombet de carn a de flors desvolgudas. Sembla un miralh. Mas las flors an pas de nom.
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Six Taxis Six cabs in a row -weight of the world- space fish The blue mask The blue mask of the great bimbo When the shock wore off I was standing mute Ten Second Mirror The fine corsage of mirrors and involuntary flowers, they seem like a mirror but the flowers have no name. translations by Sarah White
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