(Et ta simplicité supprime un Ange.)
Lovers and Writers
Sometimes lovers or writers
find a few ephemeral words
that turn the heart into a glad place
of endless reverie. . . .
Invisible strength is born there
beneath everything that happens;
its footprints can’t be seen
except in the steps of a dance.
12
Parfois les amants ou ceux qui écrivent
trouvent des mots qui, bien qu’ils s’effacent,
laissent dans un cœur une place heureuse
à jamais pensive . . . .
Car il en naît sous tout ce qui passe
d’invisibles persévérances;
sans qu’ils creusent aucune trace
quelques-uns restent des pas de la danse.
When I Go
When I go, will I have spoken
my tormented heart that agrees to go on?
Until my dying day must I learn from
that old teacher named Unexpected?
Words of tender admiration spoken too late
are eclipsed by a summer day.
Which of our half-open flower-words
exhale pure perfume?
And shouldn’t this beautiful woman
step into a pastoral scene when she goes?
The sweet ribbon fluttering behind her
has more life than this grasping line.
13
L’aurai-je exprimé, avant de m’en aller,
ce cœur qui, tourmenté, consent à être?
Étonnement sans fin, qui fus mon maître,
jusqu’à la fin t’aurai-je imité?
Mais tout surpasse comme un jour d’été
le tendre geste qui trop tard admire;
dans nos paroles écloses, qui respire
le pur parfum d’identité?
Et cette belle qui s’en va, comment
la ferait-on passer par une image?
Son doux ruban flottant vit davantage
que cette ligne qui s’éprend.
The Grave
(in a park)
Sleep, child, under your stone
down at the end of the lane.
We’ll circle around your empty space
and sing a summer song.
If a snow-white dove in flight
passes over our heads,
I can offer your grave only this:
its shadow as it falls.
14 Tombeau
[dans un parc]
Dors au fond de l’allée,
tendre enfant, sous la dalle;
on fera le chant de l’été
autour de ton intervalle.
Si une blanche colombe
passait au vol là-haut,
je n’offrirais à ton tombeau
que son ombre qui tombe.
What Longing, What Regret
To what longing, to what regret
have we fallen victim,
we who mine poetry
for the unique universal?
Obstinate that we are,
we let our mistakes lead the way,
but of all human mistakes,
that one is pure gold.
15
De quelle attente, de quel
regret sommes-nous les victimes,
nous qui cherchons des rimes
à l’unique universel?
Nous poursuivons notre tort
en obstinés que nous sommes;
mais entre les torts des hommes
c’est un tort tout en or.
4
Valaisian Quatrains
“I would describe myself like a landscape I’ve studied at length.”6
Rilke considered these the core of his French poems.7 Beyond the tribute to France, Switzerland, and the French language, the “Quatrains” express the spiritual aspect of the landscape of the Valais that had received him so well, where his soul had found solace.
Well grounded in geography and history, this place “Instead of denying its nature, / . . . gives itself permission” to be itself, a land of natural paradox. In the interplay between light and shadow, soil and sun, there is dynamic alchemy that “will end up in the wine.” Indeed, man-made influence plays a seamless part in this landscape, especially the vineyards that produce “the cluster, the link / between us and the dead.” Stone towers and their bells, crumbling walls overgrown with hedges, even the villages themselves bless humanity with their teachings about memory and impermanence, embodying the essence of the earth, the same as any tree or stream.
I experience these poems like a Cezanne still-life, a study in contrast with corners of darkness worth exploring and occasional bursts of bright color, reminders of goodness. Unlike a still-life, there is movement everywhere, the “gorgeous momentum” of the artisan. Often the reader’s attention is directed upward, away from “this ardent land” to “climb toward a sky that nobly understands / its difficult past.” Much spaciousness is revealed in the emptiness of sky and wind that “takes brightness / from tall cornstalks. . . / rising to higher altitudes.” The marriage of solid earth with “all the youth of the sky” is the primordial source of creation in which artists of all time participate. In the sound of flowing water and the vineyards “in line,” Rilke saw space in language, the silence “between words / moving along in rhythm.”
Dramatic days of cloud-play lead to rest, as “evening settles / into infinite peace.” Did Rilke find some of that peace within himself? He wrote in a letter that the hills of the Valais seemed to have space around them and bring space with them, like a Rodin sculpture. “It is not only the loveliest landscape I have ever seen, but capable of reflecting one’s inner experience.”8
6. Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours, trans. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy (New York: Penguin, 2005), 69.
7. Liselotte Dieckmann, “Rainer Maria Rilke’s French Poems,” Modern Language Quarterly, 12 (1951) 323.
8. Dieckmann, “Rainer Maria Rilke’s French Poems,” 331.
This Land
This land floats in mid-air
between earth and heaven,
with voices of water and stone,
young and old, gentle and strong
like an offering lifted
toward receiving hands.
Land at its best,
warm as fresh bread.
2
Pays, arrêté à mi-chemin
entre la terre et les cieux,
aux voix d’eau et d’airain,
doux et dur, jeune et vieux,
comme une offrande levé
vers accueillantes mains,
beau pays achevé
chaud comme le pain!
Rose and Wall
Lighted rose, a crumbling wall—
yet, on the slope of the hill
this high flower, like Proserpina,
makes a hesitant gesture.
The vineyard, no doubt, drinks its fill
of shadow, and too much light
gallops down upon it
from the wrong direction.
3
Rose de lumière, un mur qui s’effrite—
mais, sur la pente de la colline,
cette fleur qui, haute, hésite
dans son geste de Proserpine.
Beaucoup d’ombre entre sans doute
dans la sève de cette vigne;
et ce trop de clarté qui trépigne
au-dessus d’elle, trompe la route.
Towers
The towers of this ancient country insist
that t
heir bells remember—
without being sad, the wrinkled features
sadly show their ancient shadows.
So many forces exhaust themselves:
sun turns the vineyards gold . . .
and spaces glimmer in the distance
like futures we do not know.
4
Contrée ancienne, aux tours qui insistent
tant que les carillons se souviennent—
aux regards qui, sans être tristes,
tristement montrent leurs ombres anciennes.
Vignes où tant de forces s’épuisent
lorsqu’un soleil terrible les dore . . .
Et, au loin, ces espaces qui luisent
comme des avenirs qu’on ignore.
Lovely Curve
Lovely curve along the ivy,
languid lane that slows the goats;
beautiful light that any jeweler
would wish to contain in a stone.
A poplar in its proper place
balances its verticality
with slow, solid green
that stretches from side to side.
5
Douce courbe le long du lierre,
chemin distrait qu’arrêtent des chèvres;
belle lumière qu’un orfèvre
voudrait entourer d’une pierre.
Peuplier, à sa place juste,
qui oppose sa verticale
à la lente verdure robuste
qui s’étire et qui s’étale.
Silent Land of Quiet Prophets
Silent land of quiet prophets,
land that grows its wine,
where the hills still feel Genesis
and never fear demise!
Land too proud to want to change,
that, like elm and walnut,
obeys the coming of summer,
happy to repeat itself.
Only water brings news to this land,
all the generous waters
that soften the earth’s hard consonants
with their bright, clear vowels.
6
Pays silencieux dont les prophètes se taisent,
pays qui prépare son vin;
où les collines sentent encore la Genèse
et ne craignent pas la fin!
Pays, trop fier pour désirer ce qui transforme,
qui, obéissant à l’été,
semble, autant que le noyer et que l’orme,
heureux de se répéter.
Pays dont les eaux sont presque les seules nouvelles,
toutes ces eaux qui se donnent,
mettant partout la clarté de leurs voyelles
entre tes dures consonnes!
Alpine Meadows
Do you see the angelic alpine meadows
high between the dark pines?
So distant, almost heavenly,
lit with the strangest light.
From the bright valley all the way to the peaks,
what airborne treasure!
Everything floating in this air
will end up in the wine.
7
Vois-tu, là-haut, ces alpages des anges
entre les sombres sapins?
Presque célestes, à la lumière étrange,
ils semblent plus que loin.
Mais dans la claire vallée et jusqu’aux crêtes,
quel trésor aérien!
Tout ce qui flotte dans l’air et qui s’y reflète
entrera dans ton vin.
The Invisible
It’s almost the invisible that glimmers
above the winged incline;
a bit of clear night lingers
mingled with the silver of day.
Look, the light is so light
on the long-suffering contours,
and the hamlets down there, someone
consoles them for being so far away.
9
C’est presque l’invisible qui luit
au-dessus de la pente ailée;
il reste un peu d’une claire nuit
à ce jour en argent mêlée.
Vois, la lumière ne pèse point
sur ces obéissants contours,
et, là-bas, ces hameaux, d’être loin,
quelqu’un les console toujours.
Altars Where the Fruit Was Laid
Oh, these altars where the fruit was laid
alongside a lovely terebinth branch
or one from the pale olive tree—
and also a flower, dying, bruised in an embrace.
Hidden in the green of this vineyard,
could we find the original altar?
The offering is ripe; the Virgin herself
would bless it, counting her carillon beads.
10
Ô ces autels où l’on mettait des fruits
avec un beau rameau de térébinthe
ou de ce pâle olivier—et puis
la fleur qui meurt, écrasée par l’étreinte.
Entrant dans cette vigne, trouverait-on
l’autel naïf, caché par la verdure?
La Vierge même bénirait la mûre
offrande, égrainant son carillon.
This Sanctuary
Even so, let us bring to this sanctuary
all that nourishes—bread and salt,
these handsome grapes—and bewilder the mother
with this immense maternal realm.
ancient gods with gods of the future,
and this ancient, wise walnut tree
offers its shade, a pure temple.
11
Portons quand même à ce sanctuaire
tout ce qui nous nourrit: le pain, le sel,
ce beau raisin . . . . Et confondons la mère
avec l’immense règne maternel.
Cette chapelle, à travers les âges,
relie d’anciens dieux aux dieux futurs,
et l’ancien noyer, cet arbre-mage,
offre son ombre comme un temple pur.
The Belltower Sings
I’m not an ordinary tower.
I warm my carillon to make it ready.
May it be sweet, may it be good
for the Valaisian women.
Every Sunday, note by note,
I scatter my manna among them.
Let my carillon be good
for the Valaisian women.
May it be sweet, may it be good
on Saturday night in the towns
when the droplets of carillon fall
on the men of the Valaisian women.
12: Le Clocher Chante
Mieux qu’une tour profane,
je me chauffe pour mûrir mon carillon.
Qu’il soit doux, qu’il soit bon
aux Valaisannes.
Chaque dimanche, ton par ton,
je leur jette ma manne;
qu’il soit bon, mon carillon,
aux Valaisannes.
Qu’il soit doux, qu’il soit bon;
samedi soir dans les channes
tombe en gouttes mon carillon
aux Valaisans des Valaisannes.
The Year Turns
The year turns on the pivot
of peasant perseverance;
the Virgin and Saint Anne
both have something to say.
More ancient words
also come into play;
everything is blessed
and out of the earth
comes a timid green
whose effor
t eventually
yields the cluster, the link
between us and the dead.
13
L’année tourne autour du pivot
de la constance paysanne;
la Vierge et Sainte Anne
disent chacune leur mot.
D’autres paroles s’ajoutent
plus anciennes encor—
elles bénissent toutes,
et de la terre sort
cette verdure soumise
qui, par un long effort,
donne la grappe prise
entre nous et les morts.
A Rosy Mauve
A rosy mauve in the tall grass,
a gentle gray, the vineyards in line . . .
but a glorious sky above the slopes
looks like a prince who’s receiving.
This ardent land nobly climbs
toward a sky that nobly understands
that a difficult past forever requires
a life of vigor and vigilance.
14
Un rose mauve dans les hautes herbes,
un gris soumis, la vigne alignée . . . .
Mais au-dessus des pentes, la superbe
d’un ciel qui reçoit, d’un ciel princier.
Ardent pays qui noblement s’étage
vers ce grand ciel qui noblement comprend