Poetic-Verses from ATHANASE
Words
For Quentin
« Every word that falls from our lips should be
the well-ripened fruit
of our inner succulence…”
Léon-Paul Fargue,
Under The Lamp
Yes, my dear Quentin, words need living beings
to live and to born again. Simple words like
waves of ripe wheat, words old as the sea,
well-worn and smooth as pebbles,
useful words like: father, mother,
brother, sister, bread, house, fire, warmth, child!
Solid and true words like live, love, kiss,
hurt, cry and die! Words that ring out, words you can see!
Formal words that quiver like great music
with the subtle call to high transcendence:
a path to a state of grace, a search for meaning,
an ascetic discipline, an meeting of the self and the Divine!
Words that arise from things and beings
like the sound of a harp made of flesh and blood,
like the sighs that take us far apart, my dear Quentin,
and that bring us nearer to ourselves!
Motionless words, moving words,
vast rivers, songs of the wind, the light of dawn!
Yes, my friend, words are blessed islands
that float in eternity, arable lands that gain in aptness,
in exactitude, in depth
when tasted by the blade of the plough and time!
Words are a fine and subtle road
where our hearts and lips
sing tenderly, keep silent
and slip into decline!
Translated from the French by Norton Hodges
« Every word that falls from our lips should be
the well-ripened fruit
of our inner succulence…”
Léon-Paul Fargue,
Under The Lamp
Yes, my dear Quentin, words need living beings
to live and to born again. Simple words like
waves of ripe wheat, words old as the sea,
well-worn and smooth as pebbles,
useful words like: father, mother,
brother, sister, bread, house, fire, warmth, child!
Solid and true words like live, love, kiss,
hurt, cry and die! Words that ring out, words you can see!
Formal words that quiver like great music
with the subtle call to high transcendence:
a path to a state of grace, a search for meaning,
an ascetic discipline, an meeting of the self and the Divine!
Words that arise from things and beings
like the sound of a harp made of flesh and blood,
like the sighs that take us far apart, my dear Quentin,
and that bring us nearer to ourselves!
Motionless words, moving words,
vast rivers, songs of the wind, the light of dawn!
Yes, my friend, words are blessed islands
that float in eternity, arable lands that gain in aptness,
in exactitude, in depth
when tasted by the blade of the plough and time!
Words are a fine and subtle road
where our hearts and lips
sing tenderly, keep silent
and slip into decline!
Translated from the French by Norton Hodges
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