The sixth hour (and others poems)

Bruno Sourdin (photograph by Fidélise)

The sixth hour 

The road

I walk

Solitude 

The Old Beast shakes its head swearing

The Villains of Space couldn’t care less about me

                        with their oldbroken down old rats

It’s hell

The sixth hour by the clock

A door opens suddenly

Every eye looks up

I’m soaked

The Blue Kid bites his lips

Baron Saturday is unable to stand up

Terror-sticken

His heart leaps in his chest

He cries out frightened

Can we really dream on this planet ?

The pack of dogs is off again

Bird-men are still a little ahead

The Calypso Nymph utters no sound

The day is over

I buried my shoes

I’m sitting in a corner

I’m small and insignificant

I’m cold

Claude Pelieu has just passed away

The Blue Kid starts to bang on walls sobbing

Me, I would like to sleep but I can’t

I look at the sea

I look at the sky

The wind has stopped

Nothing more

The night crow flies above me

Nowhere to land

Help me brother of the night

We’re merely stardust

Stars are not eternal

And we all die

Alone

Without a sound

Watching the snow fall on the terminal screen

When the wind will have nothing more to murmur

(translated by Mary Beach)

Blues for Brautigan

Your telephone is still ringing

in the middle of the night

near the smashed-up jukebox

from North Beach.

Here we can still hear the gun

and noises of the war.

Baudelaire has closed his hamburger stand

on the Haight.

He doesn’t like going to danse at the Fillmore any longer

he looks like a bewildered man

he speaks with riddles

and his words get lost in the wind.

Ordinary pedestrians walk by

without seeing him

ripped in a time crease.

What do you want me to say ?

I’m in a deep blues, too

I’m sapped by loneliness

disdain and hassles

I can’t help it

and I’m looking a last time for the key

that will open the tomb

at the bottom of which you’ve learnt

all the secrets

that ravens know

I need it.

(translated by Eric Dejaeger)

Bloody Beach
1.
No I don't want to die on this beach while all the flower shop girls in Roanoke sleep amid the roses and tulips dreaming of the sweetness of the waves on the pebbles of Normandy and while in the streets of Virginia all the doors are opened wide around midnight, no I haven't stopped hollering and gabbing without worrying about nothing, but I feel so lonely while all the horn players in jazz bands play their mouth on their saxophones and again I see our old wooden houses full of mystery, yes I hear the shouts of war slide through me, and yes I know what it is after so many days to wait ti shiver when in the distance a seagull sends us signals swallowed by the night.

2.
No I don't want to die on this beach while all the girls in the bars in Roanoke walk with a light step amid the beer glasses dreaming of the patience of the waves on the boulders of Normandy and while in the streets of America all the taxis whirl around by midnight, no I haven't stopped drinking it up and running around, but I feel lousy while all the jazz singers inVirginia strike up their wild chorus and again I see those old dusty trains full of the tears of good-byes, yes I hear the screams of war rising through me, and yes I know what it is after for so many days to hope for one great morning when in the distance a sandpiper sends us crazy signs.

3.
No I don't want to die on this beach while all the dressmakers in Roanoke walk balancing themselves in a doll's garden dreaming of the rumbling of the waves on the cliffs of Normandy and while in the streets of America all the lovers brush up against the stars around midnight, no I haven't stopped getting stinking drunk and day dreaming the time away, but I feel feverish while all the jazz drummers in Virginia whale on their skins, and again I see our full-voiced old hills that speak to us, yes I hear the cries of war pour through me, and yes I know what it is after so many days to spill tears when in the distance a cormorant crosses the void that is the world.

4.
No I don't want to die on this beach while all the girls in the typing pool in Roanoke rattle their typewriters dreaming of the caress of the waves on the sand of Normandy and while in the streets of America all the windows are thrown open-wide around midnight, no I haven't topped rambling and seeing the sights, but I feel terrified while all the jazz pianists of Virginia swing nonchalantly and again I see our fiery old Chevies full of violence, and yes I hear the howls of war rise up through me,  yes I know what it is after so many days to be on the look-out for pale eternity when in the distance an oyster-catcher signals tho us, flying with the angels.

(A tribute to the veterans of the 29th Infantry Division, the ones who landed at Omaha Beach on June 6th 1944)

Haikus

The pain, ah !

Starting awake

On a hospital bed 

*

Lying eyes wide open

Back slightly sore

What do the newspapers say ?

*

Suddenly at my window

A butterfly –

Already blown away by the wind

 *

Everyone gets busy

A door slams –

What happiness on the platform

*

Nobody, everyone’s asleep

Rain slashes at the shutters

Nightfall 

*

Switched off screens

There’s a wine bottle left

Evening loneliness 

*

Lying in bed

Closing my eyes –

I too can see the sea

(translated by Bertrand Agostini & Daniel Py)

Cocteau’s Breath

It doesn’t matter what day it is 

A tree ar the Royal Palace

Frantic conversation 

The aviator yawns

Someone gets excited with the ballerina

And the angel of sleep spits on the sleepers 

Yes we will become better

Tomorrow we will pick

All the herbs and I will perform a miracler 

Long live the kites

The Sea Cat
The sea cat eats potatoes
On the roof of the pigeon loft
At night he squabbles in the rain
With horses called Henry
From head to toe
Soaked to the skin
The Norman Athlete relives a childhood
The end of the world is certainly today

With The Family
Uncle Horse smokes a pipe in his hammock
The nightingale washes its teeth in the cigar box
Aunt Spider has a drink and scalps the piano professor
Cousin Blackbird cleans the sheriff
The concierge consults the stars wearing socks
Cousin Owl gets fat
The Dalai Lama dances the tango with the jazz band's drummer
Brother Dog gets angry wearing an Austrian overcoat
Before the newborn get stuffed

Winter Morning Blues
There is an admiral who snores in the trees
It is winter
The regiment gets washed
At noon the horses sneeze
The prodigious dreamer dances on an electric wire
Today his skin is transparent
And his poem has the shape of a draught of air
I'm cold
Go sit yourself down
The tram will only pass by next year

Manhattan

In her bird cage in Manhattan

The ballerina talks to the stamp about the snow

The soap bubbles are listening to the sherry-glass

The map of the world tells its tides

The hourglass interrupts the nightingale

The parrot says nothing 

See you tomorrow

(translated by Sol)

Bloody Beach

1.

Non je ne veux pas mourir sur cette plage quand toutes les fleuristes de Roanoke dorment parmi les roses et les tulipes en rêvant à la tendresse des vagues sur les galets de Normandie et que dans les rues de Virginie toutes les portes s’ouvrent autour de minuit, non je n’ai pas passé le temps de brailler et de bavarder sans me soucier de rien, mais je me sens seul alors que tous les souffleurs de jazz collent leur bec sur leur saxophone et que je revois nos vieilles maisons en bois pleines de mystères, oui j’entends glisser à travers moi les hurlements de la guerre, oui je sais ce que c’est que d’attendre depuis tant de jours le grand frisson quand au loin un goéland nous fait des signes engloutis par la nuit

2.

Non je ne veux pas mourir sur cette plage quand toutes les couturières de Roanoke marchent en équilibre dans un jardin de poupées en rêvant au grondement des vagues sur les falaises de Normandie et que dans les rues d’Amérique tous les amoureux frôlent les étoiles autour de minuit, non je n’ai pas passé le temps de m’enivrer et de passer mes journées à rêvasser, mais je me sens fébrile alors que tous les batteurs de jazz de Virginie frappent la peau de leur tambour et que je revois nos vieilles collines pleines de voix qui nous parlent, et oui j’entends se répandre à travers moi les cris de la guerre, oui je sais ce que c’est que de semer des larmes depuis tant de jours quand au loin un cormoran traverse le grand vide qu’est le monde

3.

Non je ne veux pas mourir sur cette plage quand toutes les serveuses de bar de Roanoke cheminent d’un pas léger parmi les verres de bière en rêvant à la patience des vagues sur les rochers de Normandie et que dans les rues d’Amérique tous les taxis tourbillonnent autour de minuit, non je n’ai pas passé le temps de picoler et de m’agiter dans tous les sens, mais je me sens misérable alors que tous les chanteurs de jazz de Virginie entonnent des chorus déchaînés et que je revois nos vieux trains poussiéreux pleins de larmes d’adieu, et oui j’entends monter à travers moi les vociférations de la guerre, oui je sais ce que c’est que d’espérer depuis tant de jours un vrai matin d’allégresse quand au loin un tourne-pierre nous fait des signes insensés

4.

Non je ne veux pas mourir sur cette plage quand toutes les dactylos de Roanoke font crépiter leur machine à écrire en rêvant à la caresse des vagues sur le sable de Normandie et que dans les rues d’Amérique toutes les fenêtres s’agitent autour de minuit, non je n’ai pas passé le temps de vadrouiller et de faire encore une grande virée, mais je me sens terrifié alors que tous les pianistes de jazz de Virginie swinguent avec nonchalance et que je revois nos vieilles Chevrolet pleines de fureur, et oui j’entends s’élever à travers moi les rugissements de la guerre, oui je sais ce que c’est que de guetter depuis tant de jours la pâle éternité quand au loin un huîtrier-pie nous fait des signes en volant avec les anges


Poème écrit en 1999, année du 55e anniversaire de la libération de Saint-Lô, ville jumelée avec Roanoke, Virginie, USA. En hommage aux soldats de la 29e Division d'infanterie US qui débarquèrent à Omaha Beach le 6 juin 1944.

(Anthologie Riverains des falaises, anthologie des poètes de Normandie du XIe siècle à nos jours, éditions Clarisse, 2010)