Occitan poetry  980-2006

by Joan-Frederic Brun


Joan-Pèire Tardiu

Medieval poetry: the kingdom of love
XVI-XVIII century: tasty baroque antiliteratures
XIX th century: toward a renaissance
XIX th century (1854-1914):  spreading and sclerosis of the Provençal miracle
XX th century (1920-1965): the anguish of no future
XX th century (1965-1981): "un país que vòl viure" (a country that just wants to live)
XX th century (1981-2000): postoccitanisme
XXI th century: just a living literature among many other ones? 


The webmaster


to email me

Born in 1954 in Lot-et-Garonne, Joan-Pèire Tardiu is a professor of French and has written in Occitan since 1972. He has collaborated to most literary journals including L'Ether Vague and OC, and has translated Leopardi, Quevedo, Federigo Tozzi. 


"Jorns dobèrts" (1977) and "La mar quand i es pas" (1995) have both been received as important milestones in the evolution of modern Occitan poetry when they appeared. 


Nowadays he is Chief Editor of OC, the leading Occitan literary journal, following the footsteps of Ismaël Girard and Bernard Manciet.



Miracle negre del jorn que se vòl femna
tornam nàisser
dins las talvèras del gorrinatge
d'autres pronóncian los mots d'auba
e demòran al bòrd del poèma
Es la migra
que cor al cèrcle
al miegjorn del desir
L'èrsa venguda vent
pels escaborns de ton ventre
lo dieu que devorís l'espèra
Se faràn preséncia
sens que l'ivèrn o sàpia.


Quand la nuèit tota te calinha
venes carrièra de gemècs
sès dins lo cèrcle entredobèrt
a dançar ton malastre
lo catechisme del plaser entre las cambas

La nusetat
te fa estatua
delà la blancor angoissosa
de nòstres jorns resconduts

Puèi aquò's lo mond
lo defòra
l'endacòm mai
l'espandi sens cap de dire
que los autres nos i afraban


Me nafri de nusetat
a la broa dels jorns

coma los puègs autius
dins lo jòc
de lor cèl


desèrt fernissent
de la pagina impossibla
desèrt que nos esquiça
dins nòstre sang
l'ara pesuc
las caras del contrari
lutz e còs
cèl parlufièr de nòstres nèrvis


pas qu'una votz
esbleugida d'enfança
per esperar la fin
dins aquels òrts de la tendresa


Amb la nusetat de las causas
la doçor èrma
que dobrís la nuèit falsa
benlèu d'autres lindals
coma se lo fòc aviá lo temps


La broa
d'un caramentrant baug
ont vendriá dançar
l'escurada del mond

Qualqu'un parla a sota-votz
de l'autre latz de la sòm
las ciutats son d'agach
jos lo cèl nafrat
es la meteissa dolor
la meteissa fred
dins l'ora negra


Black miracle of the day that wants to be woman
we're born again
in the waste lands of lust
others utter the words of dawn
and remain on the edge of the poem
This is the migration
reaching the core
the south of desire
The wave become wind
through the dawns of your belly
the god craving the wait
They will become presence
unbeknownst to winter.

 When the whole night makes love with you
you become street of moaning
you're in the half-open circle
dancing your misfortune
catechism of pleasure between your legs

makes you a statue
beyond the distressing whiteness
of our hidden days

Later there is the world
out of there
space without any speech
where others crave us


I wound myself with nakednes
on the edge of days

like haughty hills
in the play
of their sky


 rustling desert
of the impossible page
desert that tears us up
within our blood
the heavy present time
the faces of the contrary
light and body
talkative heaven of our nerves


 Nothing but a voice
dazzled by childhood
in order to wait for the end
in those gardens of tenderness


With the nudity of things
uncultivated sweetness
that opens the false night
perhaps other thresholds
as if fire had time enough


the edge
of a mad carnival
where would come and dance
the obscureness of the world

Somebody speaks in a low voice
on the other side of sleep
towns are stare
under the wounded sky
that's the same pain
the same cold

within the black hour 


There is no copyright. Our aim is to disseminate our culture among all  interested people and not to earn money with it. 


a critic on JPT