17
Is there greater happiness in old age
That listening to the birds?
More than reading Montaigne or Boileau,
More than writing a few rondeaux,
Is there no greater happiness in old age,
what is the use of regrets,
To have loved in one’s youth,
To be 20 years old in the Jura,
write us some rondeaux,
Which soothe the most virulent sorrows,
What does the glory of Walt Whitman matter,
Is there greater happiness in old age
That listening to the birds?
18
A day without looking at the sea
Would be a lost day,
What is your most cherished dream,
Will Lucille like Chengdu,
Will you be an unknown poet?
The sea doesn’t know people
She makes me think of something else,
Like a cat, or a rose,
What is your most cherished dream?
Will you see Montana again?
Will Lucille still please you?
A day without looking at the sea
Would be a lost day.
I love you, French language,
I love Descartes and Montaigne,
The mash of chestnuts,
You despise their nonsense,
I love you, French language,
I don’t give a damn about it, the coquillard,
writing this, is great art,
But what about strawberry reds?
You are the language of the fox,
Of the great dukes and of Ronsard,
From Descartes and Montaigne,
The song of the musaraigne
I love you, French language.
NB for rhymes, give you the french
Je t’aime, langue française,
J’aime Descartes et Montaigne,
La purée de châtaignes,
Tu méprises leurs fadaises ,
Je t’aime, langue française,
Je m’en tamponne, le coquillard,
écrire cela, est du grand art,
Mais que dire des rouges fraises ?
Tu es la langue du renard,
Des grands ducs et de Ronsard,
De Descartes et de Montaigne,
La chanson de la musaraigne
Je t’aime, langue française.
I would not have thought of it myself
to make love to drive away the crazy,
to be wary of virtuous principals,
to think of you more than New York,
I would not have thought of it alone,
I would not have thought of it myself,
to cross California on a horse,
To forget about the psychopaths,
to kiss you rather than become a writer,
I would not have thought of it alone,
I would not have thought of it myself,
to read Descartes and Montaigne to dream,
to be wary of strangers who walk,
to trust Alice more than the poets,
I would not have thought of it alone,
I would not have thought of it myself,
to understand the silences that I listen,
to make French cuisine to be lucid,
to make love to drive away the crazy,
I would not have thought of it alone,
How do I
To breathe?
To see the shooting stars?
To eat the pineapple
On my pizza?
How do I
To write to mom,
To sleep
In Chicago?
To drive a Ferrari?
How do I
To love Montaigne?
How about scallops?
To travel to Sicily?
How do I
Without you, huh?
To think?
To believe in tomorrow?
To make my poem heard
Beyond the mountains, huh?
How do I
Without you
To write my poem?
Poets, do not be discouraged, neither young nor old,
Uncertain verses can pierce stone, or iron,
Just believe those you love you, endure the headwinds,
To think that at the end of the sea there is America and its buffalos,
Just cross rivers with dangerous Indians,
The Amazon, the White Nile, or the great Mississippi, are friends,
Poet, do not be discouraged, do not deviate,
In front of Whitman shining in the diamond sky,
Follow your path, on the great snowy plains,
Follow your path, in the villages of Lower Brittany,
In the hotels of Sichuan, or Manaus,
Warm your heart in Calypso’s arms,
Think of Circe whose beauty poisoned Ulysses
Poet falls in love with the sea, the stars,
Do not be discouraged, Poet, you can be still and quiet like water, or
You can become a torrent in the mountains of Wyoming,
A verse is always an object of the future,
“Drop by drop, water pierces the stone.” (1)
NB (1) From Lucrèce in Montaigne les essais
a quote from Montaigne: (1533-1592):
"Si on me presse dire pourquoi je l'amais, je sens que
cela ne se peut s'exprimer, qu'en repondant:
'Parce que c'etait lui; parce que c'etait moi."
(translation: "If I am pressed to say why I loved him,
I feel it can only be explained by replying: 'Because it
was he; because it was me.')
We are as contentious as cactus
with little hope of surviving drought;
the evening spreads out, rising on
its ominous great vulture wings.
At the whisper of your name,
your bassoon voice curls upward
and, leaping like a startled platypus
verging toward extinction, it disappears --
the last sad shout of our dying Spring.
We, my aging illusion, are trapped
within this antique crystal globe's cold glow,
where glorious blue spiritual snow swirled
oh so very very long ago.
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