TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY JOHN DOHERTY

 

 

I use
Saturdays and Sundays
to make sure
that life slips away
behind me
with the neighbour’s dog

it’s neither in the loft
nor in the box of pins
nor in books
nor in silence

a lot of blood
all along me
bleeds from this music

*

Softly
I impregnate myself with your gaze

the slightest of your thoughts
quivers like a fish

a lone bird
will cross your desire
it’s not a bunch of roses

a boat
leads you to sleep
and the tamarisk
under which you were sitting
will pour out enough shade
for all the summer visitors

*

Stranger
what are you doing here
making land between wind and reeds

the corsairs
plunder your silence
your brothers
doze in books

your strong oar
has split
on your absence
the grass grows

numerous your missives
don’t build a port
your regret
breaks in waves

on your shoulders
heavy Sundays
and in your hands
darkness takes refuge

here you are
from grotto to grotto
sowing salt
on the rocks

*

Fear
that devours a seal
it’s enough for thunder
to burst from our eyes

I imagine they’ve unearthed
islets extracted from our sweat

and often
the corsairs are the dry land
that beckons to us from afar

our hands tease out waves
salt composes wells
on our shoulders

I finish off an omelette
and pay no heed to the fracas
of passion in the chalet next door

pain
is on a truce
the azure
both the shutters open

*

You who think
of the forests sleeping
in the trees
you’ve never managed
to draw the thorn
out of your silence

the birds of prey will long
fly over your life
no place of shelter for
your nights and your days

behind your eyes
the sky and its blueness bleed
you’ll spend your time labouring
at the foot of blackness

seated you look at the boats
going by in the distance
and then heading for the open sea

*

The gulls
aren’t necessarily
a good guide to the sea

winter keeps watch
each instant
from the tamarisk

in the same way
the week takes flight
with difficulty

from below
the day watches me
with the eyes of a drowned person

*

The boat
crosses a strait
the blue rises up to the pines
then a gull comes
to gather the farewells
and give them back to the hands

this isle
on which days suppurate
like my return thrown
into the loft
there’s no refuge
into which to withdraw
my glances

*

January
the mood of the plane trees
displeases me
nor does the sky
act like
a friend of mine
even the air is bitter

boat
that passes in the distance
then doesn’t approach

closer
to the closed-up café
above the port
the gulls alone
come and go
I lack only my gaze
for them to become
white

*

Today
it’s right that I sculpt the remorse
of dwelling on my watchings
as on a long shelf

it’s right that my doubts shine
that my losses line up
in the cupboard
like books

today
the weather’s fine
the sky’s clear

*

I smoke
to ward off loneliness

before my eyes
silence bleeds
like a severed thumb

the handle
rounds out time
and the door
great book of absences
blind

above the pain

*

There are lilies
where the rain and the stars take refuge
a white air
a forest that renews acquaintance with the trees

love
oh sunday
that hums in the mirror
oh snow
that listens to the snow

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Also, read Poems by Bernard Pozier, translated from the French by Patrick Williamson, and published in The Antonym.

Poems — Bernard Pozier

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