poet Yves Bonnefoy

Yves Bonnefoy

The house where I was born (04)

Another time.
It was still night. Water slid
Silently on the black ground,
And I knew that my only task would be
To remember, and I laughed,
I bent down, I took from the mud
A pile of branches and leaves,
I lifted up the whole dripping mass
In arms I held close to my heart.
What to do with this wood where
The sound of color rose from so much absence,
It hardly mattered, I went in haste, looking for
At least some kind of shed, beneath the load
Of branches that were full of
Rough edges, stabbing pains, points, cries.

And voices that cast shadows on the road,
Or called to me, and, my heart beating fast,
I turned around to face the empty road.

Poem Submitted: Monday, October 23, 2017

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Comments about The house where I was born (04) by Yves Bonnefoy

  • Fabrizio FrosiniFabrizio Frosini (5/21/2018 8:14:00 AM)

    LA MAISON NATALE, IV

    Une autre fois.
    Il faisait nuit encore. De l’eau glissait
    Silencieusement sur le sol noir,
    Et je savais que je n’aurais pour tâche
    Que de me souvenir, et je riais,
    Je me penchais, je prenais dans la boue
    Une brassée de branches et de feuilles,
    J’en soulevais la masse, qui ruisselait
    Dans mes bras resserrés contre mon cœur,
    ...

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  • Fabrizio FrosiniFabrizio Frosini (5/21/2018 8:13:00 AM)

    ...

    Que faire de ce bois où de tant d’absence
    Montait pourtant le bruit de la couleur,
    Peu importe, j’allais en hâte, à la recherche
    D’au moins quelque hangar, sous cette charge
    De branches qui avaient de toute part
    Des angles, des élancements, des pointes, des cris.
    Et des voix, qui jetaient des ombres sur la route,
    Ou m’appelaient, et je me retournais,
    Le cœur précipité, sur la route vide.

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