Poetic-Verses from ATHANASE
The Rustic Joys of Poetry
The Rustic Joys of Poetry
for Tiburce
'After the rain of stars
In the meadow of ashes
They all met together guarded
by angels.'
Zbigniew Herbert
I love the modest, humble syllables of words
which swim, on this May evening, in supreme peace,
towards a kingdom of light
whose borders reach inside ourselves.
The chateau
resounds with amusing talk,
which, if truth be told, ought really to make us cry.
But I'm out here,
with the old cat
who seems to have developed a passionate attachment to me.
Standing before the ceremonial entrance,
I can admire without going any further
the spindle-trees moving harmoniously
in the elegant breath of the air
which is gently darkening
at the downy touch of night.
And it seems to me, in this moment,
that I'm becoming as imponderable
as the voluble roses climbing
up the light wooden stakes
which rise to a sky barely mauve.
Sorrow floats softly around all these beings
like a blessing - unexpected,
deep,
legible, moving -
from the Angel of dusk
who has forgotten to join his friends in the air.
Suddenly I'm dreaming of words
made of tones so discreet,
so unassuming, so modest
that they can no longer put up the least resistance
to the heart's clear-sightedness,
to its dense presence in a pure universe.
I dream of words which no longer dare harm
the joy of one minute
hewn from the crystal of love.
I dream of words come from the invisible
but sumptuously real depths
of a time immemorial
to celebrate the taciturn blossoming
of this beautiful spring garden.
translated from the French of Athanase Vantchev de Thracy by Norton Hodges
June 2008
for Tiburce
'After the rain of stars
In the meadow of ashes
They all met together guarded
by angels.'
Zbigniew Herbert
I love the modest, humble syllables of words
which swim, on this May evening, in supreme peace,
towards a kingdom of light
whose borders reach inside ourselves.
The chateau
resounds with amusing talk,
which, if truth be told, ought really to make us cry.
But I'm out here,
with the old cat
who seems to have developed a passionate attachment to me.
Standing before the ceremonial entrance,
I can admire without going any further
the spindle-trees moving harmoniously
in the elegant breath of the air
which is gently darkening
at the downy touch of night.
And it seems to me, in this moment,
that I'm becoming as imponderable
as the voluble roses climbing
up the light wooden stakes
which rise to a sky barely mauve.
Sorrow floats softly around all these beings
like a blessing - unexpected,
deep,
legible, moving -
from the Angel of dusk
who has forgotten to join his friends in the air.
Suddenly I'm dreaming of words
made of tones so discreet,
so unassuming, so modest
that they can no longer put up the least resistance
to the heart's clear-sightedness,
to its dense presence in a pure universe.
I dream of words which no longer dare harm
the joy of one minute
hewn from the crystal of love.
I dream of words come from the invisible
but sumptuously real depths
of a time immemorial
to celebrate the taciturn blossoming
of this beautiful spring garden.
translated from the French of Athanase Vantchev de Thracy by Norton Hodges
June 2008
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The Rustic Joys of Poetry
The Rustic Joys of Poetry
