Listening to ‘Bookworm,’ a weekly radio program hosted by Michael Silverblatt, I discovered the French poet Pierre Reverdy. He is known as a Surrealist, but his poems seem very straightforward to my untrained ears. They are morbid, dismal, creepy, and cut to the heart of things with unusual eloquence. Keep in mind that I hate poetry, though.
Ron Padgett read his new translation of a prose poem by Reverdy that ended with “….alas, my hate endures” bla bla bla. I experienced that shock of recognition: Mine, too! I thought happily.
I’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo, probably a terrible idea, but I haven’t been able to come up with a good idea until now. So I’ve been trying to find out how to translate this phrase back into French, without success.
Can anyone help? “My hatred endures” is the single best description of my worldview that I’ve ever stumbled upon. I know it’s pretentious to get a tattoo in a foreign language, but at least it’s not Latin. I just read about some actress/moron who has a tattoo in Sanskrit, which seems like some sort of milestone in stupidity. My other tattoo idea, for the last few years, was a gang-banger name that I think I made up: Lil’ Spiteful. I’m not ruling that one out, but I’m wondering how it will go over in the nursing home where I’ll end up, with nothing left in my memory bank except the Complete Lyrics of Bob Dylan.
Meanwhile, my hatred endures, and tonight it is flowing in several directions. I tried Lunesta last night for the first time, and instead of that cute little butterfly I got nothing but grinding insomnia. I’m so disgusted by this failed experiment in pharmaceuticals that I don’t want to try my sample of Rozerem. If I can’t achieve the butterfly, it’s hard to believe I’ll get Abe Lincoln and that hedgehog. I don’t even know if that thing is a hedgehog, a gopher, or a beaver.
Alas.
I have a fluently bilingual english/french friend coming over this afternoon, I get the translation for you then.
After much searching, I found the poem:
LE VENT ET L’ESPRIT
C’est une étonnante chimère. La tête, plus
haut que cet étage, se place entre deux files
de fer et se cale et se tient; rien ne bouge.
La tête inconnue parle et je ne comprends
aucun mot, je n’entends aucun son -bas
contre terre. Je suis toujours sur le trottoir
d’en face et je regarde; je regarde les mots
qu’emporte le vent; les mots qu’il va jeter plus
loin. La tête parle et je n’entends rien, le vent
disperse tout.
O grand vent, moqueur ou lugubre, j’ai
souhaité ta mort. Et je perds mon chapeau que
tu m’as pris aussi. Je n’ai plus rien; mais ma
haine dure, hélas plus que toi-même.
And here is my translation:
THE WIND AND THE SPIRIT
This is an astonishing fantasy. The head, higher
than this floor, places itself between two iron files
and is fixed and is held; nothing budges.
The unknown head speaks and I do not understand
a word, I do not hear any sound – low
against the ground. I am always on the pavement
of opposites and I look; I look at the words
that the wind carries; the words that it will throw
further. The head speaks and I hear nothing, the wind
disperses all.
O high wind, mocking or gloomy, I have wished
your death. And I lose my hat that
you also took from me. I no longer have anything; but my
hatred endures, alas more than yourself.
Beautiful. Thank you so much!!