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Occitan poetry 980-2006 by Joan-Frederic Brun
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Xavièr Bach is a young Occitan poet of the XXIth century, whose powerful texts have been already remarked by the late Bernat Manciet, Most of them have been published in "OC". He translated into French the poems of Olivier Lamarque. His Occitan poems are beautifully adapted to English by a young British lady, Louise Esher, who is not only a great connoisseur of Occitan language and literature, but, even more, is a true Occitan writer! With this beautiful translation, I think that most of the exquisite taste of this limpid and lightening poetry will be accessible to the English-reading visitor of these pages...
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sus la branca l'aucèl Secat e poirit de l'ivèrn Coma lo còr mitat burèl Mitat òrb, mitat - e lo vèrm - Lo temps reguitna. Lo vent s'escrifa sus la
prada E sul sulhet de l'error
maire
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Like
the bird on the branch, Dried out and rotted by winter, Like the heart half brown Half blind, half - and the maggot - Time lashes out. The wind tears apart over
the field And on the threshold of
the mother error Translation : Louise Esher.
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Per un Narcissi
l'anar de son còs mut se mirava dins l'aiga frega-bronzissiá son vestit ispre de tela rufa qu'acrancava una rómec aguirlandida d'un sause rosselh a la bròca seca d'un garric; las fuèlhas cracinavan jol córrer de sa camba lassa; s'alisava lo pitre per la camisa mièg dubèrta mentre que lo vent... l'anar de son còs mut se mirava dins l'aiga l'esclau èra estacat a la còrda de pèira; sa man cercava son cap e sa man furgava sos pèlses de desirança; sa cara s'enaurava de la jòia d'una mòrt; sa man cercava son còr. l'agrat de son còs mut se mirava dins l'aiga i a temps una dròlla l'aviá seguit a la broa de l'aiga; avián begut amassa una taça de vin, negre, sorne, qu'aviá faitas lors caras mai claras que l'entrelusir de boscalha; sa man fernissiá. l'agrat de son còs nud se mirava dins l'aiga gaitava, de longa; las causòtas blavas e vivas, los casses ronhoses bronzinent de ferum e la tornada parièra de sa cuèissa alisada. l'agrat de son còr nud se mirava dins l'aiga los bòsques èran cauds e lo cèl negrissiá; dont mai veniá la nuèit, dont mai son agach s'atrumava, asuaudit de tubas doças e candas; lo babau de son sénher s'arrapava a la flor pesolhièra; Narcissi se levèt... Xavièr Bach.
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For a Narcissus the water a mirror for his silent body's movement his rough shirt of coarse cloth rustled, caught on a bramble strung garland-like from a yellowed elder to the dry branch of an oak; the leaves rustled beneath his tired legs' running; through the half-open shirt, he ran his hand over his chest as the wind... the water a mirror for his silent body's movement the slave was bound with a rope of stone; his hand sought for his head and his hand searched through his hair with desire; his face shone golden with the joy of a death; his hand sought for his heart. the water a mirror for his silent body's consent long ago, a girl had followed him to the water's edge; they had drunk together a cup of dark, sombre wine, which had made their faces brighter than the dappled light of a clearing; his hand trembled. the water a mirror for his naked body's consent for a long time he gazed at the blue scurrying things, the peeling oaks rustling with birds, and his hand returning ever along his leg. the water a mirror for his naked heart's consent the woods were hot and
the sky was darkening; the closer the night drew, the thicker the
storm-clouds gathered in his eyes, softened by pure and gentle mists;
the ladybird clung to the aphid-ridden flower; Narcissus stood up... Traduction : Louise Esher (Oxford). |
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