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Poem

The Offering, Translation of “Offrande” by René Etiemble

(Quatrains rhymed abab, cdcd, efef, ghgh, each line made up of eleven to thirteen syllables. Etiemble is wary of free verse as we shall see in the next posting. From his only collection: le Coeur et  la cendre: soixante ans de poésie (the heart and the ash: sixty years of poetry). Illustrs. by Hiro Soumita. Paris: Les deux animaux, 1984, p. 43.)

For you! Here are the hands more scarce than chance
the nails of my fingers remain in bud
which never shed their leaves and agonies of perfumes
there fuse their aromas with the roses of Menton.

Here for you my arms, weary of so many wars
so heavy to bear, so many sent to concentration camps,
that the flesh looks lifeless where of late it sagged
in cribs for winter, in chains for summer.

Here for you my breast (did you sense it so close?)
made heavy by sorrow and this darkened core
that the most beautiful nipples in their flesh cock of the rock
achieve fullness: the cause of their desperation 

Here for you this yet unformed abdomen which age
nor love can wound: Ah! Don’t let it worry you
even a bit, forgetting your death by drinking its mirage
and to want to die by drawing the screen!

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014

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