24-04-2012




© Ernest Pignon Ernest






































" .. Dat is het enige wat ik echt heb, in mijn leven: muren .."

(Michel Houellebecq, De kaart en het gebied, 2011)



Labels: , ,

2 opmerkingen:

  1. sodade4/26/2012

    le murmur des murs...



    Mural (Mahmoud Darwish - de figuur op de muur)

    This is your name --
    a woman said,
    and vanished through the winding corridor
    There I see heaven within reach.
    The wing of a white dove carries me
    towards another childhood. And I never dreamt
    that I was dreaming. Everything is real.
    I knew I was casting myself aside . . .
    and flew. I shall become what I will
    in the final sphere. And everything
    is white . The sea suspended
    upon a roof of white clouds. Nothingness is white
    in the white heaven of the absolute.
    I was and was not. In this eternity's white regions,
    I'm alone. I came before I was due;
    no angel appeared to tell me:
    "What did you do back there, in the world?"
    I didn't hear the pious call out,
    nor the sinners moan for I'm alone
    in the whiteness. I'm alone.
    Nothing hurts at the door of doom.
    Neither time nor emotion. I don't feel
    the lightness of things, or the weight
    of apprehensions. I couldn't find
    anyone to ask: Where is my where now?
    Where is the city of the dead,
    and where am I? Here
    in this no-here, in this no-time,
    there's no being, nor nothingness.
    As if I had died once before,
    I know this epiphany, and know
    I'm on my way towards what I don't know.
    Perhaps I'm still alive somewhere else,
    and know what I want.
    One day I shall become what I want.
    One day I shall become a thought,
    taken to the wasteland
    neither by the sword or the book
    as if it were rain falling on a mountain
    split by a burgeoning blade of grass,
    where neither might will triumph,
    nor justice the fugitive.
    One day I shall become what I want.
    One day I shall become a bird,
    and wrest my being from my non-being.
    The longer my wings will burn,
    the closer I am to the truth, risen from the ashes.
    I am the dialogue of dreamers; I've shunned my body and self
    to finish my first journey towards meaning,
    which burnt me, and disappeared.
    I'm absence. I'm the heavenly renegade.
    One day I shall become what I want.
    One day I shall become a poet,
    water obedient to my insight. My language a metaphor
    for metaphor, so I will neither declaim nor point to a place;
    place is my sin and subterfuge.
    I'm from there. My here leaps
    from my footsteps to my imagination . . .
    I am he who I was or will be,
    made and struck down
    by the endless, expansive space.
    One day I shall become what I want.
    One day I shall become a vine;
    let summer distil me even now,
    and let the passers-by drink my wine,
    illuminated by the chandeliers of this sugary place!
    I am the message and the messenger,
    I am the little addresses and the mail.
    One day I shall become what I want.
    This is your name --
    a woman said,
    and vanished in the corridor of her whiteness.
    This is your name; memorise it well!
    Do not argue about any of its letters,
    ignore the tribal flags,
    befriend your horizontal name,
    experience it with the living
    and the dead, and strive
    to have it correctly spelt
    in the company of strangers and carve it
    into a rock inside a cave:
    O my name, you will grow
    as I grow, you will carry me
    as I will carry you;
    a stranger is brother to a stranger;
    we shall take the female with a vowel
    devoted to flutes.
    O my name: where are we now?

    Tell me: What is now? What is tomorrow? What's time, what's place, what's old, what's new?
    One day we shall become what we want.

    Translated by Sargon Boulus from the author's collection 'Judariya'['Mural'],Riad El-Rayyes Books, Beirut, 2000.

    BeantwoordenVerwijderen
  2. d.s.4/26/2012

    een vrouw (tiens, een vrouw) zegt niet: tu es cela, maar geeft hem (of wijst hem, de levende dode, op) een naam. merkwaardig

    en ook Mahmoud bedient zich van een engel, merk ik, maar dit terzijde

    BeantwoordenVerwijderen

Abonneren op: Reacties posten (Atom)