poet Yves Bonnefoy

Yves Bonnefoy

The house where I was born (02)

I woke up, it was the house where I was born.
It was raining softly in all the rooms,
I went from one to another, looking at
The water that shone on the mirrors
Piled up everywhere, some broken or even
Pushed between the furniture and the walls.
It was from these reflections that sometimes a face
Would emerge, laughing, of a gentleness
That was different from what the world is.
And, with a hesitant hand, I touched in the image
The tossled hair of the goddess,
Beneath the veil of the water
I could see the sad, distracted face of a little girl.
Bewilderment between being and not being,
Hand that is reluctant to touch the mist,
Then I listened as the laughter faded away
In the halls of the empty house.
Here nothing but forever the gift of the dream,
The outstretched hand that does not cross
The fast flowing water where memories vanish.

Poem Submitted: Monday, October 23, 2017

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Comments about The house where I was born (02) by Yves Bonnefoy

  • Lungelo S MbuyaziLungelo S Mbuyazi (5/15/2018 3:38:00 PM)

    From these reflections that's sometimes a face would emerge, laughing....to....then I listened as the laughter faded away...shows such conflicts between mind of a little girl....Thanks I read this poem

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  • Fabrizio FrosiniFabrizio Frosini (5/15/2018 11:40:00 AM)

    La maison natal - 2

    Je m’éveillai, c’était la maison natale.
    Il pleuvait doucement dans toutes les salles,
    J’allais d’une à une autre, regardant
    L’eau qui étincelait sur les miroirs
    Amoncelés partout, certains brisés ou même
    Poussés entre des meubles et les murs.
    C’était de ces reflets que, parfois, un visage
    Se dégageait, riant, d’une douceur
    De plus et autrement que ce qu’est le monde.
    Et je touchais, hésitant, dans l’image
    Les mèches désordonnées de la déesse,
    ...

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  • Fabrizio FrosiniFabrizio Frosini (5/15/2018 11:38:00 AM)

    ...
    Je découvrais sous le voile de l’eau
    Son front triste et distrait de petite fille.
    Étonnement entre être et ne pas être,
    Main qui hésite à toucher la buée,
    Puis j’écoutais le rire s’éloigner
    Dans les couloirs de la maison déserte.
    Ici rien qu’à jamais le bien du rêve,
    La main tendue qui ne traverse pas
    L’eau rapide, où s’efface le souvenir.

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