I am devastated, dumbfounded, dismayed,
These people are so stupid, or crazy,
They threw some hot soup
On a painting by Claude Monet,
These people are ridiculous, wicked,
Who will listen to them? Not me,
How can you believe what they say?
They destroy immortal works,
These people are so stupid, or crazy,
No one will defend their cause,
They’re like child killers
Who come to talk to us about God.
Je suis catastrophé, médusé, atterré,
Ces gens sont si idiots, ou fous,
Ils ont jeté de la soupe chaude
Sur une toile de Claude Monet,
Ces gens sont ridicules, méchants,
Qui voudra les écouter ? Pas moi,
Comment croire ce qu’ils disent ?
Ils saccagent des œuvres immortelles,
Ces gens sont si idiots, ou fous,
Personne ne défendra leur cause,
Ils sont comme des tueurs d’enfant
Qui viennent nous parler de Dieu.
There is a wind , which sketched,
Without my knowledge, the message;
Autumn had lying words,
On my page.
It was by way of red leaves,
The bird of passage,
Twirling in space,
I followed it of my glance
And its woven loops,
On the canvas of the sky.
I just transcribed,
What the wings,
Supported on the wind,
Said to me.
-
(translated from french )
--
C'est un vent qui traçait,
A mon insu, le message ;
L'automne avait couché les mots,
Sur ma page.
C'étaient en guise de feuilles rousses,
L'oiseau de passage,
Virevoltant dans l'espace,
Je l'ai suivi de mon regard,
Et de ses boucles tissées,
Sur la toile du ciel .
J'ai seulement retranscrit,
Ce que les ailes,
Appuyées sur le vent,
M'avaient dit.
Lost in a vertical field
Stretched over a wire,
Cut into a shape,
Hanging on wet folds ...
The sun moves and dazzled me,
... I'll be drunk by the white
Cleared to everyone eyes,
Already waving, and pushed by the wind,
Until going out of the canvas,
And thus losing my shadow.
-
RC
-
translated from french...
see below...
-
Egaré dans un champ vertical,
Tendu sur un fil,
Découpé en une forme,
Accrochée aux plis humides …
Le soleil se déplace et m’éblouit,
… Je serai bientôt bu par le blanc ,
Effacé aux yeux de tous,
Déjà ondulant, et poussé par le vent,
Jusqu’à sortir de la toile,
Et perdant ainsi mon ombre.
-
The homes displayed in magazines
Are opulent or spare.
In either case, it’s hard to picture
Ever living there.
The lavish and extravagant
To me are too ornate.
With all that chintz, brocade and toile,
I think I’d suffocate.
And as for “modern” rooms, they seem
Too empty, bare and bleak;
While some are soothed by all that space,
It’s not a style I’d seek.
So let the rich spend money
On their million dollar lairs.
My digs would not appeal to them
But nor, to me, do theirs!
Oh DARK artist
What a beautiful picture you create
Not with hues, pigments, and light
But with tone, imagery, and night
The soul an awaiting canvas
Your pen the finest brush
With reckless abandon you work
Is the masterpiece entitled Suffering
Images of sacrifice, torture, and insanity
A downward spiral of regret in the midst
Ah but when did doom ever seem so sweet
So many beautiful extenuating means
Surely they will justify any end
Your tale like sorcery captivates
You carry the title of Ciarraighe
From the dark rain filled lands
The darkness extends to your inner being
Rain now covering the pictures you paint
Pours forth from within
With each toile of tribulation
Resonating beauty resides
Will the beauty outlive the pain
Unfortunately the canvas cannot answer
Millions of myopic men
sit with hand on pen
to write out monthly checks
and pay by crook or heck
to keep their many toys
(promised to all good boys)
and for which they'v toile and sweat
just to keep and get
more of everythin
and, suddenly, comes the sting
as the multiplying mania
shows them overdrawn again!
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