{"id":3906,"date":"2015-12-30T11:11:13","date_gmt":"2015-12-30T11:11:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/cequireste\/?p=3906"},"modified":"2017-09-03T11:02:18","modified_gmt":"2017-09-03T11:02:18","slug":"mcdonald-dixon","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/cequireste.fr\/?p=3906","title":{"rendered":"R\u00e9veil (et autres po\u00e8mes)"},"content":{"rendered":"

R\u00c9VEIL<\/span><\/h3>\n

Pour Merle, In memoriam.<\/em><\/p>\n

La beau\u00adt\u00e9 devient matin, lumi\u00e8re et amants
\nc\u00e9lestes dra\u00adp\u00e9s dans les nuages, au-des\u00adsus d\u2019un rougeoiement
\nde tulipes afri\u00adcaines fai\u00adsant reten\u00adtir des langues
\nen trom\u00adpette. Les nerfs coa\u00adgulent la lumi\u00e8re, quand les gout\u00adte\u00adlettes coulent
\ndes yeux pen\u00addant des si\u00e8cles en tis\u00adsant montagnes
\net monu\u00adments, \u00e9quar\u00adris sur l\u2019argile et aplanis
\ndans le sable. Un fleuve loin\u00adtain \u00e9crit son nom
\nsur l\u2019ardoise, les hi\u00e9\u00adro\u00adglyphes cer\u00adn\u00e9s de vert.
\nLes col\u00adlines chantent leurs libret\u00adtos iras\u00adcibles au vent.<\/p>\n

Le matin est un chant de p\u00e9r\u00e9\u00adgrin, a\u00e9roport\u00e9,
\nici rien ne colore l\u2019esprit (sauf l\u2019endroit)
\nsans le tour-de-force*  <\/span>1<\/sup><\/a><\/span><\/em> du Niger ou le Nil
\nsuin\u00adtant du sar\u00adco\u00adphage d\u2019un pharaon,
\nl\u2019Histoire trouve le r\u00e9con\u00adfort pro\u00adfon\u00add\u00e9\u00adment enfoui dans le schiste
\navec lance et her\u00admi\u00adnette. Les l\u00e9zards griffent le fumier
\ndans l\u2019espoir de ves\u00adtiges d\u2019un pain azyme laiss\u00e9
\npar quelque sombre pas\u00ads\u00e9 juras\u00adsique. Les P\u00e2ques saignent
\npour une foi \u00e9clai\u00adr\u00e9e \u2013 les tyrans se multiplient.<\/p>\n

La chair nour\u00adris\u00adsant la chair, r\u00e9si\u00adliente comme l\u2019acier, fa\u00e7onne
\nde nou\u00advelles dimen\u00adsions ; forme cin\u00adtr\u00e9e ; lumi\u00e8re muette,
\ncr\u00e9ant \u00e0 par\u00adtir du n\u00e9ant, le son. Leurs cris
\nde liber\u00adt\u00e9 \u00e9branlent la matrice de Saba, transper\u00e7ant
\nses murs, en exi\u00adgeant d\u2019\u00eatre entendus.
\nL\u2019incapacit\u00e9 \u00e0 com\u00adprendre le sens de ces signes
\nnon \u00e9crits ne peut pas \u00eatre cette cr\u00e9a\u00adtion perdue.
\nUne mer d\u00e9cha\u00ee\u00adn\u00e9e se divise. Des voix ruisselant
\ndans une plaine \u00eelienne, luttent avec les mots.<\/p>\n

Oublie ces rou\u00adleaux anciens, leurs sym\u00adboles nourrissent
\nles dicho\u00adto\u00admies de la pen\u00ads\u00e9e. Nous, les fils interdits
\ndes plan\u00adteurs, nous sommes indivisibles,
\nli\u00e9s par une des\u00adti\u00adn\u00e9e mis\u00e9\u00adrable, nous savons
\nque c\u2019est \u00e0 la gr\u00e2ce et non \u00e0 la loi que nous devons de survivre.
\nDemande \u00e0 un enfant soma\u00adli mou\u00adrant de faim ;
\ndemande \u00e0 une m\u00e8re du Pen\u00adjab pen\u00addant que la mous\u00adson fait rage ;
\ndemande \u00e0 un p\u00e8re de Bel\u00adfast, arm\u00e9 de sa fus\u00e9e de cordite :
\nIls se m\u00ealent au sang qui coule en moi \u00e0 la recherche de la cause.<\/p>\n

Ces bips, ils tapotent dou\u00adce\u00adment \u00e0 ma porte d\u2019entr\u00e9e
\nje ne puis \u00eatre afri\u00adcain, quand trois vieux mondes
\ndans ma dimen\u00adsion sont \u00e0 nou\u00adveau blanchis.
\nAvec quel chro\u00adno\u00adm\u00e8tre mesu\u00adrons-nous le temps,
\nquelle uni\u00adt\u00e9 \u00e9tran\u00adg\u00e8re mesure la longueur
\nde mes jours ? Les mil\u00adl\u00e9\u00adnaires prennent la forme du sable
\ndans les sabliers, aus\u00adsi rapides que les secondes ils se multiplient.
\nEnfoui dans cet endroit global,
\nj\u2019ai peur quand des gnomes vivants \u00e9clipsent leurs morts.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

AWAKENING<\/span><\/h3>\n

For Merle, In memoriam.<\/em><\/p>\n

Beau\u00adty becomes mor\u00adning, light and heaven
\nlovers dra\u00adped in cloud, above a blaze
\nof Afri\u00adcan tulips bla\u00adring trumpet
\ntongues. Nerves curdle light, as dro\u00adplets pour
\nfrom eyes for cen\u00adtu\u00adries wea\u00adving mountains
\nand monu\u00adments, squa\u00adred on clay and leveled
\nin sand. A dis\u00adtant river writes her name
\non slate, the hie\u00adro\u00adgly\u00adphics hem\u00admed in green.
\nHil\u00adls chant their gut\u00adsy libret\u00adtos to the wind.<\/p>\n

Mor\u00adning is a peregrine\u2019s song, airborne,
\nhere nothing colours the mind, (except for place)
\nwithout the Niger\u2019s tour-de-force, or the Nile
\noozing from a pharaoh\u2019s sarcophagus,
\nHis\u00adto\u00adry finds solace buried deep in shale
\nwith spear and adze. Lizards claw the midden
\nhoping lef\u00adto\u00advers from some dark Juras\u00adsic past
\nyield unlea\u00adve\u00adned bread. Pas\u00adso\u00advers bleed
\nfor a dis\u00adcer\u00adning faith \u2013 tyrants multiply.<\/p>\n

Flesh bree\u00adding flesh, resi\u00adlient like steel, shapes
\nnew dimen\u00adsions; ben\u00adding form; muting light,
\ncrea\u00adting from nothing, sound. Their screams
\nof free\u00addom rat\u00adtle Sheba\u2019s womb, piercing
\nthrough its walls, cla\u00admou\u00adring to be heard.
\nFai\u00adlure to grasp mea\u00adning from unwritten
\nsigns can\u00adnot be that lost creation.
\nAn angry sea divides. Voices trickling
\nacross an island plain, wrestle with the words.<\/p>\n

For\u00adget those ancient scrolls, their sym\u00adbols feed
\ndicho\u00adto\u00admies of thought. We the planters\u2019
\nfor\u00adbid\u00adden sons are indivisible,
\nbound by a god\u00adfor\u00adsa\u00adken destiny
\nkno\u00adwing we sur\u00advive by grace, not by right.
\nAsk a Soma\u00adli child dying of hunger;
\nask a Pun\u00adja\u00adbi mother while mon\u00adsoons rage;
\nask a Bel\u00adfast father, armed with his cor\u00addite fuse:
\nThey merge with the blood inside me in search of cause.<\/p>\n

These blips, they tap soft\u00adly at my front door
\nI can\u00adnot be Afri\u00adcan, when three old worlds
\nin my dimen\u00adsion are laun\u00adde\u00adred anew.
\nBy which chro\u00adno\u00adme\u00adter we mea\u00adsure time,
\nwhich forei\u00adgn yard\u00adstick mea\u00adsures the length
\nof my days? Mil\u00adlen\u00adniums mould with sand
\nin hour\u00adglasses, fast as seconds multiply.
\nBuried in this glo\u00adbal plot,
\nI fear when living gnomes eclipse their dead.<\/p>\n

<\/h1>\n

TOI<\/span><\/h3>\n

Pour PCD<\/span> 27 juin 1976.<\/em><\/p>\n

Je ne puis deman\u00adder davan\u00adtage. Deman\u00adder \u00e0 la rose
\nd\u2019\u00eatre une rose, une fleur appliqu\u00e9e
\nenvoyant son ar\u00f4me ; l\u2019odeur des oc\u00e9ans,
\nle par\u00adfum boi\u00adteux de l\u2019intimit\u00e9,
\nun vent de hasard souf\u00adflant le chaud
\ndans les cour\u00adsives du pouvoir,
\nla vapeur sur mes cos\u00adtumes ami\u00addon\u00adn\u00e9s et repass\u00e9s.<\/p>\n

Aube, je t\u2019observe mon\u00adter avec la d\u00e9mangeaison.
\nDans une sai\u00adson o\u00f9 br\u00fble le soleil,
\ntout est d\u2019or ; un visage d\u2019or souriant
\nsur mes po\u00e8mes. Je ne dois pas r\u00eaver, les visages
\nsont fa\u00e7on\u00adn\u00e9es dans les usines quand les falots faiblissent.
\nCes ami\u00adti\u00e9s oubli\u00e9es s\u2019agitent et tremblotent,
\nta flamme br\u00fble sur mon oreiller.<\/p>\n

Les r\u00eaves retiennent les larmes qui tachent le coton :
\nUne courte che\u00admise de nuit pelant un pot d\u2019ignames ;
\ndes mains sai\u00adgnant sur la nageoire friable du vivaneau
\nrouge\u2026 Dans la cui\u00adsine, ton art est supr\u00eame,
\ntou\u00adjours recon\u00adnu, mais rare\u00adment avec des mots.
\nJe ne par\u00adle\u00adrai pas le lan\u00adgage que br\u00fble
\nle papier, un calme b\u00e9gaie\u00adment, rien que pour tes oreilles.<\/p>\n

Pour com\u00adprendre les sen\u00adti\u00adments du c\u0153ur<\/p>\n

je dois d\u2019abord me comprendre.<\/p>\n

Pour\u00adquoi toutes ces ann\u00e9es per\u00addues ont appris,<\/p>\n

aspi\u00adr\u00e9 au contact du po\u00e8me, et \u00e0 toi.<\/p>\n

Tu es le matin, \u00e0 l\u2019aube le som\u00admeil tremble,<\/p>\n

excite une main engour\u00addie qui embrase le papier,<\/p>\n

et tout ce que j\u2019\u00e9cris devient toi.<\/p>\n

Devient une crique avec sa plage sans rochers ;
\nun bat\u00adte\u00adment d\u2019ailes de tyran \u00e0 longue queue, un claquement
\nde rames \u2013 la m\u00e9lo\u00addie vivante de l\u2019homme
\net de la b\u00eate. Je ne vois ces po\u00e8mes qu\u2019\u00e0 travers
\ntes yeux, ce qui coule dans ces veines ne peut
\n\u00eatre du sang ; ne peut \u00eatre de la chair l\u00e0 o\u00f9 les col\u00adlines sont de chair,
\nne peut \u00eatre de la vie quand les blancs embruns de la mer<\/p>\n

Sur\u00advivent \u00e0 ce ten\u00addon mor\u00adtel et conti\u00adnue\u00adront de vivre
\npar-del\u00e0 la houle ner\u00adveuse du temps.
\nMatin, tu es \u00e0 jamais, la ros\u00e9e,
\nun Beau\u00adjo\u00adlais Nou\u00adveau<\/em>*, qui te tache les l\u00e8vres.
\nLe d\u00e9mon dans l\u2019aine divague pen\u00addant que les fl\u00fbtes de No\u00ebl
\nannoncent le sang du Nou\u00advel An. Tu prends une forme
\n\u00e0 par\u00adtir du silence, domi\u00adnant le r\u00eave de tout son haut,<\/p>\n

Par-des\u00adsus cette flamme inextinguible.<\/p>\n

Je ne modi\u00adfie\u00adrai pas ces po\u00e8mes pour que tu<\/p>\n

y entres, ils coulent comme nos rivi\u00e8res<\/p>\n

enva\u00ads\u00e9es empor\u00adtant de vagues souvenirs<\/p>\n

vers la mer tou\u00adjours bien\u00adve\u00adnue. La mer<\/p>\n

et mes pre\u00admi\u00e8res m\u00e9ta\u00adphores refusent d\u2019\u00eatre noy\u00e9es<\/p>\n

en toi. Toi, matin pour mes cano\u00ebs \u2013<\/p>\n

Aube sur mes traces d\u2019herbe, fl\u00e2\u00adnant dans une \u00e9troite<\/p>\n

saillie mon\u00adta\u00adgneuse, un gouffre d\u2019eau lim\u00adpide lib\u00e9r\u00e9e<\/p>\n

du regard r\u00e9fl\u00e9\u00adchi des blondes. Lib\u00e9\u00adr\u00e9e de<\/p>\n

la soif qui sol\u00adli\u00adci\u00adtait l\u2019humeur de ton corps,<\/p>\n

mais trou\u00advait sa cha\u00adleur. Lais\u00adsez-moi \u00e9crire des po\u00e8mes<\/p>\n

pour vous deux, femmes que j\u2019ai aim\u00e9es<\/p>\n

et ha\u00efes quand les moments se soul\u00e8vent.<\/p>\n

<\/h2>\n

YOU<\/span><\/h3>\n

For PCD<\/span> June 27, 1976.<\/em><\/p>\n

I can\u00adnot ask for more. To ask the rose
\nto be a rose, a dili\u00adgent flower
\nmai\u00adling its scent; the odour of oceans,
\nthe lame smell of intimacy,
\na for\u00adtu\u00adnate wind blo\u00adwing heat
\nthrough the cor\u00adri\u00addors of power,
\nblo\u00adwing steam on my starch-iro\u00adned suits.<\/p>\n

I watch you dawn with the itch rising.
\nIn a sea\u00adson when the sun burns
\nall is gol\u00adden; a gol\u00adden face smiling
\non my poems. I must not dream, faces
\nmould from fabric when lan\u00adterns dim.
\nThose for\u00adgot\u00adten friend\u00adships flirt and flicker,
\nyour flame burns on my pillow.<\/p>\n

Dreams hold back tears that blot on cotton:
\nA short night dress pee\u00adling a pot of yam;
\nhands blee\u00adding on the red snapper\u2019s brittle
\nfin\u2026 In the kit\u00adchen, your art is supreme,
\nack\u00adnow\u00adled\u00adged always, but sel\u00addom in words.
\nI will not speak the lan\u00adguage that paper
\nburns, a quiet stam\u00admer, for your ears only.<\/p>\n

To unders\u00adtand the fee\u00adlings of the heart<\/p>\n

I must first unders\u00adtand myself.<\/p>\n

Why all those was\u00adted years were learning,<\/p>\n

year\u00adning for the poem\u2019s touch, and you.<\/p>\n

You are mor\u00adning, at dawn sleep trembles,<\/p>\n

excites a dumb hand that ignites paper,<\/p>\n

and eve\u00adry\u00adthing I write becomes you.<\/p>\n

Becomes an inlet with its unro\u00adcked beach;<\/p>\n

a flap of scis\u00adsor-bird wings, a slap<\/p>\n

of oars \u2013 the live\u00adly melo\u00addy from man<\/p>\n

and beast. I see these poems through your eyes<\/p>\n

only, what flows in these veins cannot<\/p>\n

be blood; can\u00adnot be flesh where hil\u00adls are flesh,<\/p>\n

can\u00adnot be life when the sea\u2019s white splurge<\/p>\n

Out\u00adlives this mor\u00adtal sinew and will live
\non beyond the ner\u00advous heave of time.
\nFore\u00adver mor\u00adning you are, the dew,
\na Beau\u00adjo\u00adlais Nou\u00adveau, its stain on your lips.
\nThe devil in the groin raves while Christ\u00admas flutes
\nannounce the New Year\u2019s blood. You take shape
\nfrom silence, towe\u00adring above the dream,<\/p>\n

Above this inex\u00adtin\u00adgui\u00adshable flame.<\/p>\n

I will not alter these poems for you<\/p>\n

to enter them, they flow like our silt-bound<\/p>\n

rivers bea\u00adring vague memories<\/p>\n

to the ever wel\u00adcome sea. The sea<\/p>\n

and my first meta\u00adphors refuse to be drowned<\/p>\n

in you. You, mor\u00adning to my canoes \u2013<\/p>\n

Dawn on my grass tracks, traip\u00adsing through a narrow<\/p>\n

moun\u00adtain ledge, a gulf of clear water freed<\/p>\n

from the blonds\u2019 reflec\u00adted stare. Freed from<\/p>\n

the thirst that cra\u00adved your body\u2019s humour,<\/p>\n

but found its heat. Let me write poems<\/p>\n

to you both, women I have loved<\/p>\n

and hated as the moments heave.<\/p>\n

<\/h1>\n

DE<\/span> SALOMON<\/span> \u00c0 SABA<\/span><\/h3>\n

Les croyants d\u00e9bitent leurs his\u00adtoires, en cou\u00adsant des points,
\navec des mod\u00e8les aus\u00adsi vieux que leur foi h\u00e9breu.
\n\u00c0 la recherche d\u2019indices pour les accrocs de la cr\u00e9a\u00adtion perdue,
\ndes pul\u00adsars explo\u00adsant fa\u00e7onnent ce cour\u00adroux solitaire.<\/p>\n

Des incen\u00addies balaient les hori\u00adzons dans le ciel,
\natti\u00ads\u00e9s par une race \u00e0 qui on a refu\u00ads\u00e9 d\u2019exister.
\nLes scribes dans le silence du temple tis\u00adsaient un mensonge,
\neffa\u00ad\u00e7ant des notes ren\u00advoyant \u00e0 des r\u00e9f\u00e9\u00adrences analogues.<\/p>\n

Mais la m\u00e9lo\u00addie de Saba est royale jusque dans la veine,
\nles signes d\u00e9ter\u00adr\u00e9s en Nubie parlent de classe.
\nLa com\u00adplexion n\u2019a pas de nuance pour colo\u00adrer la souffrance,
\ncau\u00adt\u00e9\u00adri\u00adsant sans rete\u00adnue \u00e0 tra\u00advers des prismes de verre.<\/p>\n

Pour p\u00e9rir \u00e0 la recherche du sang ancestral,
\nIl faut le feu et non les flots d\u00e9cha\u00een\u00e9s.<\/p>\n

DE<\/span> SALOMON<\/span> \u00c0 SABA<\/span><\/h3>\n

Belie\u00advers loop their yarn, threa\u00adding stitches,
\npat\u00adterns old as their Hebraic faith.
\nSee\u00adking clues to lost creation\u2019s glitches,
\nExplo\u00adding pul\u00adsars shape this lone\u00adsome wraith.<\/p>\n

Fires\u00adtorms sweep hori\u00adzons in the sky,
\nange\u00adred by a race denied existence.
\nScribes in the temple\u2019s silence wea\u00adved a lie,
\nera\u00adsing notes to kin\u00addred reference.<\/p>\n

Still, Sheba\u2019s strain is royal to the vein,
\nciphers unear\u00adthed in Nubia speak class.
\nCom\u00adplexion has no shade to colour pain,
\nsea\u00adring unbrid\u00adled through prisms of glass.<\/p>\n

To per\u00adish sear\u00adching for ances\u00adtral blood,
\nIt must be fire, not the strag\u00adgling flood.<\/p>\n

<\/h1>\n

NOBLESSE<\/span> OBLIGE<\/span><\/h3>\n

Peux-tu ne pas tenir compte du fl\u00e9au de la canne
\nDans les val\u00adl\u00e9es mau\u00addites, oubli\u00e9es au soleil ?
\nLivide, le pavillon mar\u00adchant d\u00e9vore la renomm\u00e9e ;
\nAssu\u00adjet\u00adties par la col\u00e8re ses cou\u00adleurs passent.<\/p>\n

Entends le sif\u00adfle\u00adment crois\u00adsant des fouets,
\nCla\u00adquant sur les dos ances\u00adtraux ; des cris de douleur
\nS\u2019\u00e9chappent de hanches m\u00e9con\u00adtentes qui se contorsionnent,
\n\u00c0 moi\u00adti\u00e9 aveu\u00adgl\u00e9es, gar\u00adro\u00adt\u00e9es aux chevalets.<\/p>\n

Le temps m\u00fbrit la haine, la peur conjure le respect,
\nLa rai\u00adson rem\u00adplace le juge\u00adment h\u00e2tif.
\nL\u2019ironie des cha\u00eenes ne peut s\u2019attendre \u00e0 ce que
\nNous soyons moins nobles dans le gouvernement.<\/p>\n

Qui peut s\u2019abstenir de cette tache qui aime \u00e0 s\u2019effacer
\nQui marque d\u2019un cer\u00adveau notre droit de naissance.<\/p>\n

NOBLESSE<\/span> OBLIGE<\/span><\/h3>\n

Can you dis\u00adcount the mise\u00adry of cane
\nIn val\u00adleys cur\u00adsed, for\u00adgot\u00adten in the sun?
\nLivid, the red ensi\u00adgn devours fame;
\nSub\u00addued by anger its colours run.<\/p>\n

Hear the rou\u00adsing whistle of the whips,
\nFlai\u00adling across ances\u00adtral backs;
\nScreams writhe from sore dis\u00adgrunt\u00adled hips,
\nHalf blin\u00added, pinio\u00adned to the racks.<\/p>\n

Time mel\u00adlows hate, fear conjures respect,
\nRea\u00adson super\u00adcedes the has\u00adty judgment.
\nThe iro\u00adny of chains can\u00adnot expect
\nWe\u2019d be less noble in the regiment.<\/p>\n

Who can for\u00adbear that self-effa\u00adcing stain
\nThat marks our bir\u00adthright with a brain.<\/p>\n

<\/h1>\n

CARTES<\/span> POSTALES<\/span> \u2013 PARIS<\/span>, 1890<\/h3>\n

Quar\u00adtier Mont\u00admartre : le minus\u00adcule vil\u00adlage en pente sinuant
\ncomme une larme tom\u00adb\u00e9e de l\u2019\u0153il du Sacr\u00e9-C\u0153ur, passant
\nla rue Chappe, des\u00adcen\u00addant, jusqu\u2019\u00e0 ce qu\u2019il donne sur le Bvd Cligny,
\ndans Pigalle, sous les ailes immo\u00adbiles du Mou\u00adlin Rouge.
\nDegas blan\u00adchit \u00e0 la craie dans une pirouette sa bal\u00adle\u00adrine inachev\u00e9e
\net Lau\u00adtrec mau\u00adgr\u00e9e dans ses crises syphi\u00adli\u00adtiques en sirotant
\nde l\u2019absinthe au bar. Des g\u00e9ants comme Zola
\net Mau\u00adpas\u00adsant sont de conni\u00advence avec les syco\u00adphantes politiques
\nconvoi\u00adtant la lie de leur g\u00e9nie pour pr\u00e9\u00adser\u00adver les arts.<\/p>\n

Rodin, dans son ate\u00adlier dans la Rue \u2013 j\u2019ai oubli\u00e9 o\u00f9 \u2013 fait trans\u00adpi\u00adrer un bloc
\nde cal\u00adcaire dolo\u00admi\u00adtique, encore jeune, encore une \u00e9ternit\u00e9
\navant de se trans\u00adfor\u00admer en marbre \u2013 contem\u00adplant les formes.
\nTout cela se passe dans cette \u201cville-lumi\u00e8re\u201d. C\u2019est la belle \u00e9poque<\/em>* !
\nVolants et cri\u00adno\u00adlines enj\u00f4lent les mous\u00adtaches en guidon,
\nqui font la queue pour obte\u00adnir les faveurs des dan\u00adseuses des Folies Ber\u00adg\u00e8res<\/em>,
\n\u00e0 un p\u00e2t\u00e9 de mai\u00adsons de la foule. Trop boi\u00adteux pour \u00e9crire, je me l\u00e8ve
\nplein de res\u00adpect pour toute cette his\u00adtoire flot\u00adtant dans cette carte de 5 sur 7
\ncou\u00adleur s\u00e9pia pour pr\u00e9\u00adser\u00adver l\u2019\u00e9poque radoteuse.<\/p>\n

Manet est mort depuis sept ans et Van Gogh dispara\u00eet
\nde sa main cette m\u00eame ann\u00e9e ; Pissarro
\net C\u00e9zanne portent des bras\u00adsards noirs en m\u00e9moire
\nd\u2019un mou\u00adve\u00adment qui est mort avant son ma\u00eetre, dans le cadre
\nde son pre\u00admier chef\u2011d\u2019\u0153uvre. La conscience ne tien\u00addra pas fermement
\nles lignes, elles doivent s\u2019affaisser car Apol\u00adli\u00adnaire n\u2019a que dix ans et Rimbaud
\nest trop malade \u00e0 trente-cinq ans pour leur venir en aide. L\u2019\u00e9poque engen\u00addre\u00adra son g\u00e9nie
\nm\u00eame quand le temps fera tout pour s\u2019y oppo\u00adser. Un jeune Matisse joue avec ses flammes,
\nPicas\u00adso, vivant en Espagne, s\u2019appr\u00eate \u00e0 rece\u00advoir la lumi\u00e8re qui embrasse tout.<\/p>\n

POST<\/span> CARDS<\/span> \u2013 PARIS<\/span>, 1890<\/h3>\n

Quar\u00adtier Mont\u00admartre; the tiny vil\u00adlage mean\u00adde\u00adring downhill
\nlike a tear\u00addrop from the eye of Sacr\u00e9-Coeur, past
\nRue Chappe, down\u00adhill, until it floods drains on Blvd Cligny,
\nin Pigalle, under the sta\u00adtio\u00adna\u00adry sails of Mou\u00adlin Rouge.
\nDegas chalks in a pirouette on his unfi\u00adni\u00adshed ballerina
\nand Lau\u00adtrec moans through his syphi\u00adli\u00adtic fevers with a sip
\nof absinthe from the bar. Giants like Zola
\nand de Mau\u00adpas\u00adsant pan\u00adder to poli\u00adti\u00adcal sycophants
\nyear\u00adning for dregs of their genius to pre\u00adserve the arts.<\/p>\n

Rodin, in his stu\u00addio on Rue \u2013 I for\u00adget where \u2013 sweats a slab
\nof dolo\u00admi\u00adtic limes\u00adtone, still green, short of a couple
\naeons before it turns to marble \u2013 contem\u00adpla\u00adteng shapes.
\nIt is all hap\u00adpe\u00adning in this \u201ccity of light.\u201d C\u2019est la belle \u00e9poque !
\nFrills and cri\u00adno\u00adlines ens\u00adnare hand\u00adle\u00adbar mustachios,
\nqueuing for favours from dan\u00adcers at Les Folies Ber\u00adg\u00e8re<\/em>,
\none block away from the pack. Too lame to write, I rise
\nin awe of all this his\u00adto\u00adry floa\u00adting across this 5x7 card
\ntin\u00adted in sepia to pre\u00adserve the dri\u00advel\u00adling age.<\/p>\n

Manet is seven years dead and Van Gogh goes
\nby his own hand in that same year; Pissarro
\nand Cezanne are wea\u00adring black arm\u00adbands in memory
\nof a move\u00adment that died before its mas\u00adter, in the frame
\nof his first mas\u00adter\u00adpiece. Conscience will not hold lines
\nfirm, they must sag for Apol\u00adli\u00adnaire is only ten and Rimbaud
\nis too ill at thir\u00adty-five to help. Age will spawn its genius
\neven when time contrives against. A young Matisse toys with its flames,
\nPicas\u00adso alive in Spain, primes to receive the all embra\u00adcing light.<\/p>\n

<\/h1>\n

ST<\/span>. PIERRE<\/span>: MARTINIQUE<\/span>, 1902<\/h3>\n

Des nuages gris grom\u00admellent, har\u00adna\u00adchant la pluie qui s\u2019agrippe<\/p>\n

au ver\u00adsant de la mon\u00adtagne. Un man\u00adteau gris cache le soleil,<\/p>\n

refu\u00adsant de tom\u00adber sur cette \u201cPerle des Antilles\u201d<\/p>\n

o\u00f9 des f\u00eates du cr\u00e9\u00adpus\u00adcule \u00e0 l\u2019aube dans la Rue Monte-au-ciel<\/p>\n

affluent avec la lave dans la Rue Levas\u00adsor. Eau :<\/p>\n

la Roxe\u00adlene est de pierre. Le temps tra\u00adduit ses larmes<\/p>\n

en \u00e9cume.<\/p>\n

Le rhum attise les feux dans chaque cre\u00advasse : dans<\/p>\n

la sen\u00adtine de cette ville, reje\u00adt\u00e9e par la mer,<\/p>\n

condam\u00adn\u00e9e \u00e0 se repen\u00adtir, ou affron\u00adter la fin du monde*<\/em> \u2013 style<\/p>\n

fin de si\u00e8cle*<\/em>, atten\u00addant le vote pr\u00e9\u00advu dans<\/p>\n

trois jours.<\/p>\n

En toute autre sai\u00adson ils auraient fui,<\/p>\n

fuite et cendres vers Fort-de-France, avec son ch\u00e2le de brume<\/p>\n

grise du jour.<\/p>\n

Enter\u00adr\u00e9 en enfer, Syll\u00adba\u00adris n\u2019entend rien. Pas m\u00eame<\/p>\n

l\u2019habituel tour\u00adnoie\u00adment du scorpion.<\/p>\n

Pas de cha\u00adleur cau\u00adt\u00e9\u00adri\u00adsant la chair ; pas d\u2019os blan\u00adchis\u00adsant jusqu\u2019\u00e0<\/p>\n

la pierre. Rien\u2026 le nuage rouge et chaud des\u00adcend tranquillement<\/p>\n

les flancs de la mon\u00adtagne. Rien, la vie est une sculpture<\/p>\n

conser\u00adv\u00e9e dans la pierre. La mer, vivante dans son pot de terre,<\/p>\n

fr\u00e9\u00admit sous le poids du char\u00adbon ardent.<\/p>\n

Apr\u00e8s que l\u2019horloge du mar\u00adch\u00e9 s\u2019est arr\u00ea\u00adt\u00e9e \u00e0 neuf heures moins<\/p>\n

le quart, les pluies sont arri\u00adv\u00e9es, les cannes ont pous\u00ads\u00e9 et le rhum a coul\u00e9<\/p>\n

dans les cuves. Il existe une chan\u00adson li\u00e9e au pass\u00e9<\/p>\n

du fleuve, trop faible pour d\u00e9lo\u00adger ses pierres, flot\u00adtant sur<\/p>\n

des langues d\u2019herbe, elle ser\u00adpente \u00e0 tra\u00advers le cal\u00adcaire noirci<\/p>\n

comme un thr\u00e8ne qui jamais ne se tait, mar\u00adchant tout droit<\/p>\n

pour sou\u00adte\u00adnir ses morts.<\/p>\n

ST<\/span>. PIERRE<\/span>: MARTINIQUE<\/span>, 1902<\/h3>\n

Gray clouds grumble, har\u00adnes\u00adsing rain that clings to<\/p>\n

the mountain\u2019s side. A gray cloak blots out the sun,<\/p>\n

refu\u00adsing to fall on this \u201cPearl of the Antilles\u201d<\/p>\n

where fetes from dusk till dawn on Rue Monte-au-ciel<\/p>\n

flow with lava into Rue Levas\u00adsor. Water;<\/p>\n

the Roxe\u00adlene is stone. Time trans\u00adlates its tears<\/p>\n

into foam.<\/p>\n

Rum swells the fires in eve\u00adry cre\u00advice: in<\/p>\n

the bilge of this town, rejec\u00adted by the sea,<\/p>\n

doo\u00admed to repent, or face la fin du monde \u2013 fin<\/p>\n

de si\u00e8cle style, wai\u00adting for the vote due in<\/p>\n

three days.<\/p>\n

In any other sea\u00adson they would have fled,<\/p>\n

fly and ash to Fort-de-France, shaw\u00adled in the day\u2019s<\/p>\n

gray mist.<\/p>\n

Buried in hell, Syll\u00adba\u00adris hears nothing. Not<\/p>\n

even the habi\u00adtual scorpion\u2019s twirl.<\/p>\n

Not heat sea\u00adring flesh; not bone whi\u00adte\u00adning to<\/p>\n

stone. Nothing\u2026 the red hot cloud saun\u00adters down<\/p>\n

the mountain\u2019s slopes. Nothing, life is a sculpture<\/p>\n

pre\u00adser\u00adved in stone. The sea, \u2018live in its ear\u00adthen pot,<\/p>\n

sim\u00admers under the weight of hot coal.<\/p>\n

After the mar\u00adket clock stop\u00adped at quar\u00adter to<\/p>\n

nine, the rains came, the canes grew tall and rum flowed<\/p>\n

in the vats. There is a song stuck to the river\u2019s<\/p>\n

past, too weak to dis\u00adlodge its stones, floa\u00adting on<\/p>\n

tongues of grass, it swirls through the bla\u00adcke\u00adned limestone<\/p>\n

like a dirge that never fades, yet walks upright<\/p>\n

to prop its dead.<\/p>\n

<\/h1>\n

MONTER<\/span> DANS<\/span> DES<\/span> TRAINS<\/span><\/h3>\n

pour tous ceux qui sur\u00advivent \u00e0 l\u2019oppression<\/em><\/p>\n

Atten\u00adtion en mon\u00adtant dans des trains \u00e0 des arr\u00eats non signal\u00e9s,
\nau milieu de nulle part. Des st\u00e8les
\ncom\u00admo\u00adtion\u00adn\u00e9es, d\u00e9fient la gueule d\u2019un Mauser
\nfour\u00adr\u00e9e dans tes c\u00f4tes pour te faire avancer.<\/p>\n

Une pho\u00adto\u00adgra\u00adphie obs\u00adcure prise sur
\npel\u00adli\u00adcule Agfa, par un offi\u00adcier SS<\/span>
\n\u00e0 l\u2019int\u00e9rieur d\u2019un ghet\u00adto, quelque part en Europe \u2013
\naucun doute \u2013 en l\u2019an 1944<\/p>\n

Visages en noir et blanc, vieux
\net pour\u00adtant jeunes, signes enre\u00adgis\u00adtreurs priv\u00e9s
\nde vie \u2013 pri\u00adv\u00e9s de joie, \u00e0 l\u2019exception
\ndu sou\u00adrire, se moquant des rails\u2026<\/p>\n

Les wagons \u00e0 bes\u00adtiaux roulent jusqu\u2019\u00e0 Auschwitz,
\nles pan\u00adneaux rou\u00adtiers tra\u00adhissent l\u2019arr\u00eat sui\u00advant. Le monde
\nne s\u2019en sou\u00adciait pas alors, ou main\u00adte\u00adnant, une fois qu\u2019on peut gagner
\nfaci\u00adle\u00adment du fric, en fai\u00adsant com\u00admerce de propagande.<\/p>\n

Quelque part dans un avion pour l\u2019Europe, j\u2019ai crois\u00e9
\nune femme avec un num\u00e9\u00adro tatou\u00e9
\nsur le bras. Elle est une preuve. Il y a eu Dachau,
\nBuchen\u00adwald, Bel\u00adsen et Auschwitz,<\/p>\n

par\u00adtout o\u00f9 elle et d\u2019autres se rassemblent
\ncontre leur gr\u00e9 ; que ce soit dans un goulag
\nou \u00e0 Git\u00admo, invec\u00adti\u00advant les guerres qui ne s\u2019arr\u00eatent
\njamais. Comme les cica\u00adtrices sur son corps, elles prosp\u00e8rent<\/p>\n

sur les tatouages ou les chiffres sur des st\u00e8les
\neffa\u00adc\u00e9s comme ma t\u00eate avec un joint,
\nla dou\u00adleur de pen\u00adser trop vite \u2013 four\u00adrage ou
\nm\u00e9moire, en mon\u00adtant dans des trains \u00e0 des arr\u00eats non signal\u00e9s.<\/p>\n

BOARDING<\/span> TRAINS<\/span><\/h3>\n

for all who sur\u00advive oppression<\/em><\/p>\n

Beware boar\u00adding trains at unmar\u00adked stops,
\nin the middle of now\u00adhere. Headstones
\nshell-sho\u00adcked, defy a mauser\u2019s muzzle
\npoked at your ribs to prod you forward.<\/p>\n

An obs\u00adcure pho\u00adto\u00adgraph taken on
\nAgfa film, by an SS<\/span> officer
\ninside a ghet\u00adto, somew\u00adhere in Europe \u2013
\nno doubt \u2013 the year 1944<\/p>\n

Scrol\u00adled in black and white on faces, old
\nyet young, regis\u00adte\u00adring signs bereft
\nof living \u2013 bereft of joy, except
\nfor the smile, snee\u00adring at the tracks\u2026.<\/p>\n

They ride the cat\u00adtle trains to Auschwitz,
\nroad signs betray the next stop. The world
\ndid not care then, or now, once quick bucks
\ncan be made, tra\u00adding propaganda.<\/p>\n

Somew\u00adhere on a plane to Europe, I met
\na woman with a num\u00adber tattooed
\non her arm. She is proof. There was Dachau,
\nBuchen\u00adwald, Bel\u00adsen and Auschwitz,<\/p>\n

whe\u00adre\u00adver else she and others congregate
\nagainst their will; whe\u00adther in a gulag
\nor Git\u00admo, rai\u00adling at wars that never
\nend. Like the scars on her body, they thrive<\/p>\n

on tat\u00adtoos, or num\u00adbers on headstones
\ngone faint like my head on a spliff,
\nthe pain of thin\u00adking too fast \u2013 fod\u00adder, or
\nmemo\u00adry, boar\u00adding trains at unmar\u00adked stops.<\/a><\/p>\n

Tra\u00adduc\u00adtion : Thier\u00adry Gillyboeuf<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

R\u00c9VEIL<\/span> Pour Merle, In memo\u00adriam. La beau\u00adt\u00e9 devient matin, lumi\u00e8re et amants c\u00e9lestes dra\u00adp\u00e9s dans les nuages, au-des\u00ad\u00adsus d\u2019un rou\u00adgeoie\u00adment de tulipes afri\u00adcaines fai\u00adsant reten\u00adtir des langues en trom\u00adpette. Les nerfs coa\u00adgulent la lumi\u00e8re, quand les gout\u00adte\u00adlettes coulent des yeux pen\u00addant des si\u00e8cles en tis\u00adsant mon\u00adtagnes et monu\u00adments, \u00e9quar\u00adris sur l\u2019argile et apla\u00adnis dans le [\u2026]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"wp_typography_post_enhancements_disabled":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[515],"tags":[517,393,278],"coauthors":[516],"class_list":["post-3906","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-mcdonald-dixon","tag-antilles","tag-bilingue","tag-vers"],"yoast_head":"\nR\u00e9veil (et autres po\u00e8mes) - Ce qui reste<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/cequireste.fr\/?p=3906\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"fr_FR\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"R\u00e9veil (et autres po\u00e8mes) - Ce qui reste\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"R\u00c9VEIL Pour Merle, In memoriam. La beau\u00adt\u00e9 devient matin, lumi\u00e8re et amants c\u00e9lestes dra\u00adp\u00e9s dans les nuages, au-des\u00adsus d\u2019un rougeoiement de tulipes afri\u00adcaines fai\u00adsant reten\u00adtir des langues en trom\u00adpette. 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