Image, G.AdC
BEAUTIFUL THING
Beautiful thing
― the whole city doomed ! And
the flames towering .
like a mouse, like
a red slipper, like
a star, a geranium,
a cat’s tongue, or―
thought, thought
that is a leaf, a
pebble, an old man
out of a story by
Pushkin .
Ah!
rotten beams tum-
bling,
. an old bottle
mauled
The night was made day by the flames, flames
on which he fed ― grubbing the page
(the burning page)
like a worm ― for enlightenment
Of which we drink and are drunk and in the end
are destroyed (as we feed). But the flames
are flames with a requirement, a belly of their
own that destroys ― as their are fires that
smolder
smolder a lifetime and never burst
into flame
Papers
(consumed) scattered to the winds. Black.
The ink burned white, metal white. So be it.
Come overall beauty. Come soon. So be it.
A dust between the fingers. So be it.
Come tatterdemalion futility. Win through.
So be it. So be it.
William Carlos Williams, Paterson, New York, New Directions Paperbook 806, pp. 116-117. Revised Edition Prepared by Christopher MacGowan.
Ph., G.AdC
BEAUTÉ
Beauté
― toute la ville détruite ! Et
les flammes qui s’élèvent
comme une souris, comme
une pantoufle rouge, comme
une étoile, un géranium,
la langue d’un chat ou ―
la pensée, la pensée
qui est une feuille, un
caillou, un vieillard
droit sorti d’une histoire de
Pouchkine .
Ah !
des poutres pourries qui
s’écroulent,
une vieille bouteille
pulvérisée
La nuit ressemblait au jour à cause des flammes, flammes
dont il se nourrissait ― creusant la page
(la page en flammes)
comme un ver ― pour mieux comprendre
Que nous buvons jusqu’à l’ivresse pour être finalement
détruits (par cette nourriture). Mais les flammes
sont flammes avec une exigence, une outrance destructrices
qui leur sont propres ― comme il y a des feux qui
couvent
couvent très longtemps sans jamais
s’embraser
Des papiers
(consumés) éparpillés au vent. Noirs.
L’encre brûlée à blanc, le métal à blanc. Ainsi soit-il.
Viens, beauté transcendante. Viens vite. Ainsi soit-il.
Poussière entre les doigts. Ainsi soit-il.
Viens, futilité déguenillée. Triomphe.
Ainsi soit-il.
William Carlos Williams, Paterson, José Corti, 2005, pp. 126-127. Traduit par Yves di Manno.
Magnifique découverte.
Encore une fois, merci.
Rédigé par : johal | 15 mars 2009 à 11:29
Je n'avais pas encore tout à fait bouclé la mise en ligne de la note quand tu as fait ton commentaire, ma chère Johal. Depuis, j'ai rajouté un encadré de liens externes. Tu pourras notamment lire ce qui est écrit sur le site Corti :
"Paterson est sans conteste le « grand œuvre » de William Carlos Williams, et l’une des bornes majeures de la poésie nord-américaine du XXe siècle", comme l'avaient compris dans les années 1950 Ginsberg et tous les poètes de la Beat Generation.
Rédigé par : Agenda culturel de TdF | 15 mars 2009 à 12:57
Zut ! mais ça se laisse lire ! Tout ça !
chère Angèle
Rédigé par : Deborah Heissler | 15 mars 2009 à 14:55
Tiens une belle occasion d’écouter cette version passablement éraillée et en live de Desolation Row de et par Bob Dylan !
C’est à pleurer de beauté et de vérité !
Merci à vous William Carlos Williams, sans vous pas de Beat Generation !
Amicizia
Guidu____
_________________________________________
Desolation Row
They're selling postcards of the hanging
They're painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They've got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they're restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row
Cinderella, she seems so easy
"It takes one to know one," she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he's moaning
"You Belong to Me I Believe"
And someone says," You're in the wrong place, my friend
You better leave"
And the only sound that's left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row
Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortunetelling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing
He's getting ready for the show
He's going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row
Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row
Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
He looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
Now you would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row
Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They're trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She's in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
"Have Mercy on His Soul"
They all play on penny whistles
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough
From Desolation Row
Across the street they've nailed the curtains
They're getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
A perfect image of a priest
They're spoonfeeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they'll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls
"Get Outa Here If You Don't Know
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row"
Now at midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row
Praise be to Nero's Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
And everybody's shouting
"Which Side Are You On?"
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain's tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row
Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can't read too good
Don't send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row
Copyright ©1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music
Rédigé par : Guidu | 15 mars 2009 à 16:43
=>Deborah (version Zazie ou version NS ?)
« C’est bien... ça! ».
« Oh pardon, je ne l’ai pas prononcé comme il le fallait : "C’est biiiien… ça… " »
NS, Pour un oui ou pour un non
=>Guidu
Et pas de WCW sans Ezra Pound... Et pas d'Ezra Pound sans Dante...
Rédigé par : Yves | 15 mars 2009 à 17:19
Je pense à la danse rituelle du feu de De Falla et au Flamenco en lisant ce poème (que les liens utiles permettent de situer dans ce livre considérable, Paterson, que j'aimerais bien connaître). Superbe note sur le site de José Corti sur William Carlos Williams et sur ce livre.
Le feu... fascination et peur... passion... Beauté dévorante... transmutation...
La typographie du texte est étrange...
Rédigé par : Christiane | 15 mars 2009 à 19:02
Oh Queneau ... peut-être bien ! C’est le hic à vrai dire !
Je file au Département de Français
et vous laisse trancher - cours en fin de soirée.
@bientôt, Yves
Rédigé par : Deborah Heissler | 16 mars 2009 à 09:11