YOU ARE INVITED Poem by Pierre Alféri

The day advances masked
The strongest subtlest feeling
Of the day
The night
Lays its mechanisms bare
The burden of time
Water's coming in, we're heading straight
For the iceberg.


So the day advances masked
On very narrow rails. Oh no,
It doesn't look its age, which doesn't mean
It's older. Were it enough to hold
A mirror to the overbearing light
To read back to front across it - what? Not the truth
All the same. Just that the kilo of tomatoes
Weighs a bit more or a bit less. The hum
Of the town directs the boom from one minute to the next
Following the day's chorus, frail-sounding
Through riffs of oiled brass. The rendition
Smells of sweat and the big band in ragged tails
Mocks a classical orchestra. - No, no, that coat of mail
Couldn't suit you better, I swear. - I'm not saying
It clashes, but what if we dance? The man next to you
Doesn't find the music modern enough, he's a magazine
Reader. - So in three years you'll no longer love
The things you love today. - No
It's not that simple. I like, says your neighbor, things that give me
The strongest subtlest feeling
Like a perfume crossing the room on stiletto
Heels, of the day. Later
When I pop the cork I know
(And this adds spice to my pleasure
A bit bland as yet) that it'll be there
Vintage. - I see. That sort of thing never happens
To me I'm afraid, or only thanks to desperately
Vaporous creatures. Water that boils just
Before rising in the coffee pot, the sun
When it spills over the stained carpet
The fork clinking against the pewter
Of a plate of scraps for the cat drives him nuts.
For example. And that, you see, doesn't have much to do
With culture. I no longer read. Well
No longer hoping to feel - what? To feel
Quite simply. Some people put their polaroids
In the freezer; they age badly, that's obvious, but
Don't mistake the desire to postpone effacement
For that of unreal colours. Iceberg, aurora borealis.
Time only flows colorless at room
Temperature. As soon as the atmosphere coagulates
It stinks of cooking oil. The dishwasher has made
Thin scales as strange as fragments of meteorite
With more human remains. There are days
Like that. That'll be enough for this one
OK? Anyway the light is falling suddenly
In the bar, signalling a change of tariff
And daylight saving time, what a con, launders
Evenings loot by taxing morning sleep.
- Good night, sleep well my love. - If that's an order
Rest assured I'll mutiny. The captain's at the back of the hold.
A cat couldn't find her kittens in this murk
And neither the port we left nor the one we're heading for
Is visible. Yesterday stood me up. Tomorrow
Tomorrow (Gone with the wind)
Is another day. Night-time, what unexpected
Violence, don't you think? You're sleeping.
Not that it evokes death, the haunted solitude
Of children - these thoughts will populate insomnia -
But it lays yesterdays mechanisms bare
On the deck the whole ocean transforms itself
Into a machine room and at each lookout post
The amorphous discontinuity of hours tortures
The ships boy. If only he'd known! Not an interesting
Angst, Heidegger-style, as
That sleep-deprived friend says: a shambles, a sadistic medley
Of the worst songs on Golden Oldies AM,
The burden of time. Do you see that someone
Longs to wake you, my love, to grasp
Your shoulders to show you the dreadful things going on?
- What is it? - There's water coming in, we're heading straight
For the iceberg, and no, there's nothing on the horizon, that's just
The horror of it. Some say the Titanic
Never sank, but another
Almost identical ship, that its corrupt owner
Sold its name, counting on a shipwreck with no dead
To cash in on the insurance. The Titanic - the real one -
Would still be anchored in some peaceful harbour
No-one knows where. A postcard exists
Showing a half-sunk steamship - the Cabiria
Or perhaps the Carribbean - with this caption in bold:
‘You are invited.' It had something to do with the inauguration
Of a restaurant. I wondered who to send it to for ages,
Definitely a woman. I admit that I feel quite an affinity
With this renamed boat stripped of its big band
That sank, sinks still in our minds and
Never sank. Most often in the evening: evenings
Are so sentimental. I still have that card.
You've earned it through the toil of your sleep.

Translation: 2012, Kate Campbell