|
links
The
webmaster
index
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
enausís
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
grants
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
nakedness
makes you a statue
beyond the distressing whiteness
of our hidden days
Later there is the world
outside
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
|
