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Born in Labarthe en Quercy, dead in
Montauban. As wrote once Félix Castan, he is an author of an outstanding
importance in the history of Occitan literature.
Around 1900, he decided, following Auguste Fourès's
dream, to purify modern Occitan and to write it the closest as possible
from the way the troubadours used 700 years ago. And he succeded, because, actually, the language had not so much changed and
has remained
remarkably stable. In the 30's, Loís Alibèrt prolonged this pioneering work and defined the modern rules for writing Occitan as
a classic language, in contrast with Frederic Mistral's system which was
purely phonologic and excessively influenced by French orthographic
rules.
Actually Perbosc spent all his life in the effort of
rediscovering amid the wild popular language the forgotten
"classical" rules of a modern
literary idiom. Passionately seeking an ever purest vocabulary and syntax. And he
succeded.
His poetry is centered on this wonderful obsession of
rediscovering the elusive purity of language. This leads sometimes to great
texts.
Perbòsc's language, as says Félix Castan, is surely
among the merest Occitan that has ever been written. Even Mistral's one,
in comparison, lacks some degree of classicism.
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LAS TRES FADAS
Lo vièlh camin de las Fadas
es ara descaminat.
I passan plus que las lèbres;
las gens l’an abandonat.
Se tot camin mena a Roma,
coma se ditz, aquò rai,
non pas el, que, per plan dire,
n’es qu’un caminol, pas mai.
Milanta ans pastres e pastras
aquí, suls nolents serpols,
an gardat lor tropelada
dels matins als solelhs-colcs.
Las joventas, per tal astre,
s’i trobavan a las fonts
amb las Fadas, debanairas
dels sòrts e de las sasons,
qu’aimavan la paure monde,
lo paravan de trabuc,
e fasián don als còrs bloses
de bon èime e d’abeluc.
Ara, ni tropèls ni pastres
suls tucòls, dins los combèls ;
a las lindas fonts cantairas
van beure que los ausèls,
e los òmes del campèstre
an asirat, entenères,
las turras de lors aradas,
lors vinhas e lors codèrcs.
per córre' a las òrras vilas
ont, alucrits e flaunhacs
de mai en mai s'arremausan
coma abelhas en bornacs.
Cresèm que i a plus de fadas :
aquò’s que benlèu - qual sap ? -
nos sèm fòraviats en dralhas
ont jamai ne trèva cap...
Socant a las treviradas
dels òmes e del destin,
l’autre ièr, a l’ora luscrala,
seguissiái lo vièlh camin.
Dins l’aire ausent bronzinavan
las campanas de luenhtans
cloquièrs emplenant l’espandi
de lors clars balins-balans.
D’alleguedas ennairavan
las flors de lors nauts pedels,
en dòl de las causas mòrtas
qu’auràn jamai plus regrelhs.
La nuèch davalava, canda;
la luna, a son plec, d’amont,
suavament pausava l’ombra
dels albars sus una font.
Appui qu’a la font chorrenta,
clinas sus l’escampador,
i a tres ruscairas que macan
a bèls còps de macador
la farda de lor ruscada.
Lor clapadís fa pas mai
de bruch que dins la ramilha
l’aura d’un matin de Mai.
Res brusís dins l’aire sorne
que l’etèrne glopadís
de la dotz e lo solòmi
d’un chòt qu’a l'escur clussís
Las ruscairas ploran, ploran,
ploran a glops rajolants.
Clapan sur lor farda gòfa
o sus lors còrs bategants?
Aqui que las tres plorairas
m’an agachat de lors uèlhs
prigonds coma lo mistèri
dels brèces e dels tombèls
Mon agach - cap de paraula
n’auriá dich mai clarament
ma pensada : : « Pauras femnas,
« qual es donc vòstre torment? »
E las Fadas - èran elas,
las Fadas, que trèvan plus,
luènh dels òmes, que la gresa,
a l’ora de l’entrelutz,
m’an dich de lors bocas d’ombra :
« ieu, plori los jorns d’antan.
« - E ieu, plori los jorns d’ara.
« - E ieu, los jorns de deman. »
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The THREE
FAIRIES
The old path of Fairies
is no longer a path
only hares are passing here,
while people have let it.
If every way leads to Rome,
as people say -
this one surely doesn't
because, to say the truth,
it's, at most, just a small path.
There during a thousand of years
shepherdesses and shepherds,
amid odorous wild thymes,
kept their herd from morning to sunset.
Near the springs, when they were lucky
maidens used to meet the Fairies
unrolling our seasons and destinies,
Fairies who loved poor people,
who kept them away from hazards,
and to pure hearts made the gift
of rightness and courage.
There's no longer herds now,
nor shepherds on hills and coombs;
in singing and limpid springs
only birds are coming to drink
while countrymen
hated now, so stupidly
their hills and fields
their vineyards and farms
rushing to the hideous cities where,
full of desire and idleness,
each day more they pile up,
like bees in hives.
We now believe that there's no more Fairies
because perhaps - who knows? -
we are mislaid in paths
where none of them ever passes
While thinking about tribulations
of men and their fate,
the other day at the hour of twilight
I was following the old path.
In the air where any noise resounded
one heard the bells of remote bell-towers,
filling space with their clear tinkling.
Sorb-apples raised
the flowers of their high stems,
carrying the mourning of dead things
which will never revive
the night, limpid, descended
there high the moon, full
softly put willows' shadows
over a fountain
An there about the murmuring fountain
bent over the outfall,
there're three washerwomen, beating,
with great blows of their beater
the linen of their washing
Their beating doesn't make more noise than, in the foliages,
breeze of an old morning of May.
Nothing disturbs the dumb air,
but the eternal drip
of the source and the elegy
of an owl groaning in the shade.
Washerwomen are crying and crying
so that they're making brooks of tears.
are they striking the wet linen
or their palpitating hearts?
Here that the three whining ones
looked at me, with their deep eyes
deep like the mystery
of tombs and cradles.
My glance, - but, no word would have
more clearly said my thought,
asked this question : poor women,
what's then your torment?
And the Fairies, for they were the Fairies,
the Fairies who far from men,
are only haunting the moor,
at the hour of twilight,
said me with their mouth of shade:
I cry for the former days,
- and me, I cry for the days of today
- and me, for the days of tomorrow.
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LA MOçaDA
O Trobaire ! as l’ufan de congrear de cantas
Qu’al temps avenidor los òmes rediràn.
Agacha lo lauraire etèrnament obrant
Suls camps que sempre auràn segadas resurgantas!
Las relhas an crosat de regas qual sap quantas!
Lo terraire es com un palimpsèst ont, laurant
Suls bordons dels aujòls, los pacans botaràn
Sens fin meteis semen de granas bategantas!
Los blats que bèl-temps-a lo cròs fasquèt florir
Son los paires d’aquels qu’ara, per nos noirir,
An raubat a la mòrt lor espiga daurada.
Atal, Trobaire, fas, dins los bordons d’antan,
Novèla curbison subre la vièlha arada;
deman, d’autres segràn ta moçada, - en cantant.
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the plough
Oh! poet, your glory is to create songs
that in forthcoming times men will repeat.
Just look at the ploughman eternally at work,
in the fields which always will yield new harvests.
How many furrows did dug the coulter of the plough!
The soil is like a palimpsest where
peasants, plowing on their fathers' furrows,
will endlessness put the same palpitating seed !
The corns that formerly blossomed over their grave
are ancestors of those that nourish us today,
and they've robbed to death their bright ears.
Thus, you, poet, in furrows of old times,
on the old ground you're sowing new harvests;
and others will follow, tomorrow, your ploughing - while singing.
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