Legenda de la joventa di peus ros La jovènta di peus ros e dis uelhs de coire vèrd l’an getada dins la clastra una nuech lisca d’ivèrn. Dins lo vuege dau convènt ela ausis un cant de vènt e crida: sus li crestencs sabe que l’aurassa confla una luna de cuer saure Pèr matar la votz de l’aura i an tapadas lis aurelhas. Pèr qu’oblide son pantais i an corduradas li cilhas. L’an butada au fons d’un mèmbre ont gingola lo remèmbre dins lo freg de la preguiera. Mai son pitre s’es dubèrt e’spelida entre si sens la flor cauda de son còr tèn espoussat son encèns tant de flaire e tant d’encèns que l’aiganha a perlejat sus li bards e qu’an gisclat mila greus au fons de l’ombra amb lo lum de son sang vèrd. Boca seca e mans au cèu i son li gardas vengudas. E la jovènta èra nusa cor sagnant entre li possas. E li parets èran sebissas d’ont rajava pèr cortina sus sa tèsta quatre sèrps. Sus li sèrps la luna saura se conflava dins lo vènt. Robert Lafont Five poems from Dire Translated from Occitan by William Calin William Calin 103 Legend of the Girl with Red Hair The girl with red hair and eyes of green copper they threw her into a cloister one smooth winter’s night. In the emptiness of the convent she hears a song of wind and cries: I know that over the crests the hurricane swells a moon with sorrel hide. To tame the voice of the wind they plugged her ears. To make her forget the dream they sewed her eyelashes. They thrust her to the far end of the hall where memory moans in the coldness of prayer. But her bust opened and blooming between her breasts the hot flower of her heart grasps its powdery incense so much fragrance and incense that dew pearled on the flagstones and burst forth a thousand tendrils to the depths of darkness with the light of her green blood. With mouth dry and hands raised to the sky the guards came. And the girl was naked her heart bleeding between her breasts. And the walls were hedges from which four snakes flowed as if a curtain onto her head. Above the snakes the sorrel moon swelled in the wind. 104 Robert Lafont Segonda legenda de la meteissa drolla La jovènta di peus doç se clinèt a son bescaume e moriá l’alen dau jorn sus li plècs de son reiaume. Dins la poussa dis ensenhas nèbla palla còrfalida que radava sus la plana quauqu’un sòna la manida e se’n cor la filha sola dins la nuech seca d’angoissa. Fèra nuech camin ferrat d’un terraire endemoniat que lo cèu ambé si carris i engrunava de dieus mòrts. Castèus d’ombra castèus d’aur massapans de vièlhi pecas sus l’estrada sènsa luna tot trestomba e tot s’endeca l’aucelilha revoluma. Mai s’aplanta la jovènta sus la tepa d’un vièlh fluvi ont marmusan de deluvis que se nèga dins l’escur lo dieu jove mau-segur que sonava au clarebrun. E la dròlla di peus doç tornarà puèi au bescaume pèr mirar l’alen dau jorn sus li plècs de son reiaume. William Calin 105 Second Legend of the Same Girl The girl with soft hair leaned over her balcony and the breath of day died on the folds of the kingdom. In the powder of the constellations pale swooning mist that drifts over the plain someone summoned the girl and she fled alone in the parched night of anguish. Fierce night paved road on a bewitched land where the sky with his chariots crushed dead gods. Castles of shade castles of gold caskets of old sins on the moonless road all tumbles down and all is corrupted the little birds swirl. But the girl stops on the grass of an old river where deluges murmur when the insecure young god who called out in the twilight drowns in darkness. And the girl with soft hair will return to the balcony to behold the breath of day on the folds of the kingdom. 106 Robert Lafont Cantata de la miseria dins Arle A Teò Rigaud Ròse Ròse roiga-terra plueja plueja manja-cèu nèbla nèbla banha-còr misèria freja coma fanga Aura d’aut mossega-serra gèu gelat dagueja-nèu cèu d’estam galeja-mòrt misèria dura coma pèira. Arle quichada coma un crit. Bomba aguda creba-terra flors d’encèndi enaura-cèu vonve d’aut bacèla-còr dolor duberta sus l’Autura. Garba d’uelhs dançar di serras gau-galin petar di lèus eli negre nuech di mòrts dolor sèns fe dolor sèns gaubi. Arle crebada coma un uòu. Sabèm nosautres coma es tèndre lo còs de l’òme dins la guerra. Dròlle dròlle plora-astrada òme preda de sofréncia femna femna quicha-còr solesa barri sèns torrilhas. Vira vira la jornada mentre soina la paciéncia ombra lutz e mar sèns pòrt agriòta de desiranças. Arle malauta coma un mond. Sabèm nosautres coma es lònga nòstra carriera dins la fam. Tu que cantas diga caraco ton esperança d’agoléncia. William Calin 107 Cantata of the Misery in Arles For Teò Rigaud Rhone Rhone earth-gnawer rain rain sky-devourer mist mist heart-bather misery cold like mud south wind crest-eroder frozen frost snow-stabber pewter sky death-joker misery hard like rock Arles squeezed like a cry. High-pitched bomb earth-smasher flowers of fire sky-glorifier buzzing from above heart-striker pain opened on the Auture. Bouquet of eyes dancing of crests poppy bursting of lungs black lily night of the dead faithless pain formless pain. Arles broken like an egg. We know well how tender is a man’s body in war. Child child fate-weeper man prey of suffering woman woman heart-bruiser loneliness rampart with no turrets. Turn turn the day while patience whimpers darkness light and sea with no port wild cherry of desires. Arles ill like a world. We know well how long is our path in hunger. You who sing tell gypsy your hope of wild rose. 108 Robert Lafont Lo caraco Ou! Quau ne vòu de nòstri vetges trenam lo solèu amb l’odor de l’aiga e nòstre còr es rege avèm pas la fòrça d’un plor. Quau nos balharà de dardenas pèr comprar doas onças de pena? Ou! quau vòu una banastada de luna lisca a Montmajor e d’ombra. Desnusam li fadas sabèm pas lis us de l’amor. Quau nos balharà de dardenas pèr comprar doas onças de pena? Voliàtz l’amor d’una caraco . . . Anessiatz donc levar un rai au solèu de la posaraca. Una caraco ama jamai. Quau nos balharà de dardenas pèr comprar doas onças de pena? Fasèm balar ors e monina e siátz curiós de nòstris uelhs avèm lo biais d’una robina ont se miralha vòstra nuech. Quau nos balharà de dardenas pèr comprar doas onças de pena? E vòstra saviesa caraco? Vènga la jòia o la maganha nosautres quora caminam avèm de pès d’esteriganhas toi li matins son un deman. Quau nos balharà de dardenas pèr comprar doas onças de pena? De qu’es deman amic caraco? Quau nos vèn parlar de vielhonge? Viram coma una eternitat muts e descauç pariers de monges au vèntre un vòt de pauretat. William Calin 109 The Gypsy Oh! Would you like our wicker baskets we weave the sun with the fragrance of water and our heart is hardened we don’t have the force of a tear. Who will give us the money to buy two pennies of sorrow? Oh! Who would like a basket full of smooth moon at Montmajour and of darkness. We undress the fays we know not the ways of love. Who will give us the money to buy two pennies of sorrow? You wish for the love of a gypsy woman? Then go snatch a ray from the sun in the water wheel. A gypsy woman never loves. Who will give us the money to buy two pennies of sorrow? We make the bear and monkey dance and you are curious about our eyes we have them like a canal where your night is mirrored. Who will give us the money to buy two pennies of sorrow? And your wisdom gypsy? Come joy or misery when we are on the road we have spiders’ legs all mornings are tomorrow. Who will give us the money to buy two pennies of sorrow? What is tomorrow friend gypsy? Who would speak to us of old age? We go round like an eternity mute and discalced like monks in the belly a vow of poverty. 110 Robert Lafont Ou! quau ne vòu de nòstri vetges nos quitaretz la languison de nòstri còrs dorguetas vuejas amb la misèria seca au fons. Quau nos balharà de dardenas pèr comprar doas onças de pena? Caraco que caraco es una estranha istòria Nòia ton pòble negre de trimards fan de sòmis d’aiga que s’enfusan entre li dets. Nòia ton pòble nus e mai bragard amb de bortolaiga còson la luna au topinet. Caraco que caraco eli vènon en òdi mouson l’esfrai di galiniers tòrçon lo còu i miugraniers. E vòstri caracos òmes blancs? Vincèns Van Gogh vengut en Arle vèn s’embarrar a Sant-Romieg. I a una pena sus lo mond vira e crema coma un solèu. I a una pena dintre l’èime e lo cèu es una vouta tant dessús coma dessota. Vincèns Van Gogh t’aviàm bandit dau terraire de nòstris uelhs mai pintas la còma dau roge e lo mond vira a ton entorn. Fegondas la carn de la nuech amb lo verd de l’innocéncia e la man mòrta de l’espèr clava la cleda de l’angoissa. Solèu uelh sènsa parpèlas torres torres de dolor cèndre cèndre vènt-terrau misèria d’òmes sènsa raras Ròse Ròse mòrt di velas cèu d’encèndi crema-jorn William Calin 111 Oh! Who would like our wicker baskets You leave us the nostalgia of our hearts empty jugs with arid misery at the bottom. Who will give us the money to buy two pennies of sorrow? Gypsy or not it’s a strange tale Little girl your black people of migrants dream dreams of water that slip through one’s fingers. Little girl your naked and braggart people with purslane cook the moon in a little earthenware jug. Gypsy or not they come to be hated they draw forth the fear of poultry-mongers they wring the neck of pomegranate trees. And your white gypsies? Vincent Van Gogh having come to Arles shuts himself away at Saint-Rémy. There is a sorrow over the world turns and burns like a sun. There is a sorrow in the soul and the sky is a vault overhead as well as underneath. Vincent Van Gogh we chased you away from the homeland of our eyes yet you paint hair red and the world revolves around you. You sowed the flesh of the night with the green of innocence and hope’s dead hand locks up the paddock of anguish. Sun eye with no lids towers towers of pain ashes ashes north wind misery of men with no borders Rhone Rhone death of sails sky of fire day-burner 112 Robert Lafont Camarga flaca plana Crau sèrp de dobtança sèrp de l’ombra. Arle carbon dau clarebrun. De qué parlatz de la misèria? Au clarebrun la vila es freja e d’Arabs i viran sèns fe. —Sabèm nosautres coma aissejan en estrifant l’onda e la vida li batèus que vènon d’Argier bressats di votz de la paciéncia. Arquipèus negres barrutlaires coneissèm pas la poësia que pèr nos engardar dau langui li pesolhs nos tènon companha di còstas mòros fins Marselha. Mòro Mòro ta cançon es estranha dins lo terraire. —Arlatenc nòstra misèria es estranha en tot païs. Lo mòro vielh Lo ris es bas e vèn dins l’aiga solèu corona de mi lombs lo ris es bas e vèn dins l’aiga ai l’idèa qu’es coma un plomb. Li mistèris dau capitau aiga ponhaus de freg subtila li mistèris dau capitau fan d’aur ambé la bauca umila. Lo Capitau es una Mèca que sols i van li tres pèr cènt lo Capitau es una Mèca lassiera luna dins la mènt. Luna redona sus lo ris veses dins ieu coma dins l’aiga luna redona sus lo ris siám pèr noirir una erba vaiga. William Calin 113 Camargue limp plain Crau snake of doubt snake of the shadow. Arles charcoal of the twilight. What do you say about misery? At twilight the city is cold and Arabs wander about with no faith. — We know well how the boats that come from Algiers rocked by voices of patience moan ripping apart the waves and life. Black archipelagos adrift we know not the poetry that could protect us from languor lice keep us company from the moorish coasts to Marseille. Moor Moor your song is foreign to our land. —Man of Arles our misery is foreign to all lands. The Old Moor The rice low down grows in water sun crown of my back the rice low down grows in water my thought is like lead. The mysteries of capital subtle water dagger of cold the mysteries of capital turn the humble weed into gold. Capital is a Mecca only the three percent go there Capital is a Mecca Weariness moon in the mind. Round moon over the rice field you see into me as into water round moon over the rice field we nourish a sluggish weed. 114 Robert Lafont E morirem devèrs la Mèca virats pregant lo Capitau e morirem devèrs la Mèca virats misèria solèu rauc. Ai! li camins de Cabilia miran dançar l’ombra dis euses... Ai! Mòro vièlh una legènda... Legènda que legènda avèm fam de la vida sus la levada en letania menam d’ombras que son pas d’òmes a caminar sus lo tremont. Ome òme preda d’òmes la vergonha es dins lo vènt e lo verme dins lo fruch misèria vida empalunada ràbia flors celèstre còma d’espèrs glòria de l’Oriènt confla nuech deman alut misèria prens coma una taura. Capitala di nuechs fegondas. Li caminòus de Cabilia lis andanas di Segonaus sabon lo mistèri de l’aiga sabon lo greu e sabon l’òme. Mòro deman es causa doça coma candèla dins la nuech. Detràs la fam e li mitralhas l’èime es tan grand pèr abraçar lo pensament e la foliá. L’èime es tan grand coma lo cièri redon parier que la rason e l’uelh. E l’èime es de nosautres. Darrier la fam e li mitralhas son li terraires de la Patz la Patz de sòmi e d’archimbèla pèr pesar tot lo ris dau mond. Ome òme òme òme... Arle levada Arle torres. William Calin 115 And we will die facing Mecca turned praying to Capital and we will die facing Mecca turned misery raucous sun. Oh! The roads of Kabilia behold the shade of holm oaks dancing... Oh! old Moor a legend... Legend or not we hunger for life on the levee in litany we direct shades that are not men to head for the setting sun. Man man prey of men shame is in the wind and worm in the fruit misery life made a swamp madness flowers open-air hair glory of the East of our hopes swollen night winged tomorrow misery in calf as if a heifer. Capital of fertile nights. The little paths of Kabilia the paths of Ségonnaux know the mystery of water know the seed and know the man. Moor tomorrow is sweet like a candle in the night. Beyond hunger and pennies the spirit is so great as to embrace worry and madness. The spirit is as great as the Arena round like reason and the eye. And the spirit is ours. Beyond hunger and pennies are the lands of Peace the Peace of our dreams and of a scale to weigh all the rice in the world. Man man man man... Arles raised high Arles towers.