This week, ACM is posting poetry every weekday.
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Translator’s Note:
These poems from The Ink’s Path are part of a book-length work of 11 sequences. Each sequence has seven poems, and each poem has 17 lines of 17 syllables each. Bernard Noël liked to work within formal constraints; his use of syllabics provided the tone to the sequences. As the title suggests, he was following the ink’s path. Noël and I agreed that I would translate the book in 15-syllable lines, as the French language has more syllables than English.
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6.1
and right now the one who speaks has closed the door on becoming
being poor he says I have been poor I shall be all my life
the world stands still for a moment at the edge of what it hides
hope has always been rotten language of the acceptable
its old decomposition fills the throat suddenly with stink
there is no excuse for the maintenance of dereliction
yet everything contributes from morals to laws to justice
you get this feeling then comes the crazed look of one who’s seen death
so we look around ourselves to find the life underneath life
when the world was a bit younger it sufficed to raise our fist
the future sang at the end of the beautiful illusion
all are terrified now of losing what they’ve already lost
though the desire for security puts into our heads
a solitude starved by the same thing that makes it voracious
the social bonds from which misfortune could draw the only rest
the living unlike the dead are unable to live again
the sawdust of their consciousness covers in dust all their thought
et maintenant celui qui parle a fermé la porte au devenir
être pauvre dit-il je l’ai été je le serai toute ma vie
le monde tel qu’il va s’arrête un moment au bord de ce qu’il cache
l’espoir depuis toujours est la langue pourrie de l’acceptable
sa vieille décomposition empuantit soudain la gorge
il n’y a pas d’excuse a l’entretien de la déréliction
tout y contribue pourtant de la morale et de la loi à la justice
on a cette impression puis vient le regard fou de qui a vu la mort
on cherche alors autour de soi la vie d’au-dessous de la vie
quand le monde était un peu plus jeune il suffisait de lever le poing
l’avenir aussitôt chantait au bout de la belle illusion
tous ont peur désormais de perdre ce qu’ils ont déjà perdu
cependant qu’en chacun le désir de la sécurité met en tête
une solitude affamée de cela même qui la rend dévorante
du lien social d’où son malheur pourrait tirer le seul repos
les vivants à la différence des morts sont incapables de revivre
la sciure de leur conscience empoussière en eux toute la pensée
6.2
and now who from over there remembers having remembered
deprived of our bodies we have at the end a big too late
who remembers when time suddenly left behind its old path
meanwhile evil changed both its ruts and nature at the same time
all the self-deception piled up to sow the seeds of error
like a cascade of forgetting pouring into memory
we’d just torn out not the eyes but the reflection in the eyes
while culture hanging on the media’s fangs was dying there
no more tongue-in-cheek now and above the vulgarity of
doing cartwheels thinking thus to prove its legitimacy
doesn’t the assassin push forward by brandishing his knife
how to expose the secret invisible weapon of lies
all is felt in the movement of our syllables and nothing
says what wounds ensue especially when time comes for today
when each phrase is crafted to lure you to the head that rotten
place where consonants and vowels gather for acts of thinking
collecting in saliva hollow teeth the will to resist
et maintenant qui depuis là-bas se souvient de s’être souvenu
quand privé de nos corps nous n’avons pour bien dernier qu’un grand trop tard
qui de cet aujourd’hui où le temps quitta soudain son vieux chemin
cependant que le mal changeait à la fois d’ornière et de nature
toute une tromperie sur elle-même retroussée pour semer l’égarement
et ce fut alors comme une cascade d’oubli versant dans la mémoire
on venait d’arracher non pas les yeux mais dans les yeux la réflexion
tandis que pendue aux crocs des media la culture agonisait
il n’y avait plus de langue dans les bouches et là-haut la vulgarité
faisait la roue en croyant prouver ainsi sa légitimité
l’assassin ne se fait-il pas valoir en agitant son couteau
mais comment dénoncer l’arme secrète et invisible du mensonge
tout s’éprouve au mouvement de nos syllabes et rien pourtant ne dit
quelles blessures en découlent surtout quand vient le temps d’un aujourd’hui
un temps où toute phrase est faisandée pour que se gâte dans la tête
le lieu où consonnes et voyelles s’assemblent pour l’acte de penser
rameutant parmi salive et dents creuses la volonté de résister
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Bernard Noël (1930-2021) was a poet, novelist, essayist, historian and art critic. He received France’s highest literary honors, including the Prix National de Poésie and was given the poet laureateship as well as the Grand Prix International Guillevic-Ville de Saint-Malo for his oeuvre. He was the author of numerous books of poetry including: La Chute des temps and Extraits du corps from Poésie/Gallimard and Le Reste du voyage: Et Autres Poèmes from Points/Poésie Seuil.
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Eléna Rivera, a poet/translator, was born in Mexico City and spent her formative years in Paris. She won the 2010 Robert Fagles prize for her translation of Bernard Noël’s The Rest of the Voyage (Graywolf Press) and is a recipient of an NEA Fellowship in Translation. Most recently she translated Isabelle Baladine Howald’s Phantomb (Black Square Editions), as well as Body Was by Isabelle Garron (Litmus Press)
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Nadia Arioli’s visual art can be found as the cover of Permafrost, in Wrongdoing Magazine, Feral, Strawberry Moon, Anti-Heroin Chic, Northwest Review (forthcoming) and Kissing Dynamite (forthcoming). They illustrated James Rodehaver’s chapbooks, published by Cringe Worthy Poetry Collective.
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