Le Regardant En Face. (Translation) . Poem by Michael Walker

Le Regardant En Face. (Translation) .

Rating: 3.5

Mon visage noir se decolore,
en se cachant dans le granit noir.
J'ai dit que je ne le ferais,
mon sang: Pas de pleurs.
Je suis de pierre. Je suis le chair.
Mon reflet nuageux jette un coup d'oeil sur moi
comme un oiseau de proie, le profil de la nuit
incline contre le matin. Je me tourne
par ici-la pierre me permet d'aller.
Je me tourne par la-je suis a l'interieur
du Memorial Des Anciens Combattants Du Vietnam
en comptant sur la lumiere de faire une difference.
Je regarde en bas les 58,022 noms,
a moitie m'attendant a trouver
le mien en des lettres comme la fumee.
Je touche le nom d'Andrew Johnson;
Je vois l'eclat blanc du piege.
Des noms miroitent sur le corsage d'une femme
mais quand elle s'en va
les noms restent au mur.
Des traits de pinceau brillent, les ailes
d'un oiseau rouge en coupant a travers mon regard fixe.
Le ciel. Un avion au ciel.
L'image d'un ancien combattant blanc flotte
plus pres de moi, puis ses yeux pales
regardent a travers les miens. Je suis une fenetre.
Lui, il a perdu le bras droit
dans la pierre. Au miroir noir
une femme essaye d'effacer des noms:
Non, elle brosse les cheveux d'un garcon.

- 'Facing It'.(1988) . Yusef Komunyakaa (b.1947) .

Wednesday, August 2, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: war
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
To read the English original, see Poem Hunter, Yusef Komunyakaa, Poems,38/38.
The poet, who fought in Vietnam and survived the war, visits the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.at dawn, and it is a highly emotional experience for him, as you would expect. There are 58,022 names on that shiny black granite memorial; one Andrew Johnson
was killed by a booby trap, the poet remembers. Another veteran on the list has lost his right arm. The granite memorial is shiny, so that the men's names seem to shimmer on a woman's blouse; but the names stay on the wall when she walks away.
There is real artistry in 'Facing It'. The poet sheds tears, although he vowed not to: he is made of flesh not steel, after all. He moves the scene to a plane flying in the sky, long ago in Vietnam. He does not linger too long before the black granite walls. He ends the serious poem in a low key: a woman brushing a boy's hair, though she appears to be rubbing out names on the wall. An optical illusion. Masterful use of anti-climax. There is first-rate variation of tone throughout the quite long poem, which is a memorial itself to the fallen men.
This would have to be the best poem to come out of the Vietnam war, I think. It is not just that Yusef Komunyakaa had the advantage of seeing the war at firsthand, it is what he made of that experience, to write the poem, that counts.
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