René Char - Twelve Poems

ren char
the oriole
the sorgue
argument
evande
refusal song
homage and famine
watchers and dreamers
threshold
the windowpane
long may he live!
the black stags
cave-in
translated by dawn-michelle baude

The Oriole
3 September 1939
The oriole entered the capital of sunrise.

The blade of his song silenced the sad bed.
Everything reached forever its end.
8
The Sorgue
Song for Yvonne
River leaving too early, darting away, alone,

Present the face of your passion to the children of this land.
River where lightning ends and where my house begins,

Who wheels the rock of my reason in the way of forgetfulness.
River, in you earth is quivering, the sun anxious.

Let each of the poor, in his night, make bread from your harvest.
River, often punished, river neglected.
River of apprentices covered with calluses,

Every wind bows to the ridge of your furrows.
River of empty soul, of rags and suspicions,

Of old woes reeling, of elms, of compassion.
River of crazies, of the feverish, the knackered,

Of the sun deserting its plough for the company of a liar.
River of those better than us, river of hatching mists,

Of the lamp quenching angst around its shade.
River considerate of dream, river that rusts iron,

Where stars have a shadow they withhold from the sea.
River of relinquished powers and waters pierced with cries,

Of the storm gnawing the vine, announcing new vintage.
River with unyielding heart in a world craving confinement,

Keep us violent, but friends of the horizons bees.
9
Argument
How to live without beholding the unknown?
Todays men want the poem to be in the image of their life, made with such little consideration, with
such little space and burning with intolerance.
Because theyre no longer able to act supremely, in this fatal preoccupation to destroy
themselves via their fellows, because their inert wealth slows them down and enslaves them, the men
of today, their instinct weakened, lose. They keep themselves alive while their names turn to dust.
Born of the call of becoming and of the anguish of custody, the poem, rising from its wells
of mud and stars, will testify almost silently that there was nothing in it that truly did not exist
elsewhere in this rebellious and solitary world of contradictions.
10
Evande
The summer and our life were of a piece

The countryside ate the color of your fragrant skirt
Avidity and constraint were reconciled
The chateau of Maubec was sinking in clay
The spin of its lyre would soon collapse
The vegetal violence made us falter
A somber, rowing crow drifted from the fleet
On the mute flint of the torn noon
It accompanied our accord with tender movements
Everywhere the sickle needed to rest
Our rarity was beginning its reign
(The insomniac wind wrinkling our eyelids
While turning each night the yielding page
Wants that each part of you I remember
Extend to a land of famished age and giant eaves)
It was the beginning of adorable years

The earth loved us a little I remember.
11
Refusal Song
Beginning of the Partisan
The poet returned for many long years into the void of the father. Dont call to
him, all ye who love him. If it seems that the swallows wing no longer mirrors the earth,
forget this happiness. He who was kneading the bread of suffering is invisible in his
shining lethargy.
Ah! May beauty and truth ensure that you come in throngs at the salvos of
deliverance!
12
Homage And Famine
Woman who vibrates with the tongue of a poet, this torrent of peaceful alluvium,
who taught him while he was still only a captive seed of anxious wolf, the tenderness of
tall walls polished by your name (acres of Paris, entrails of beauty, my passion rises under
your runaway robes). Woman sleeping in pollen of flowers, place upon his pride your
frost of limitless medium, so that he remains until the hour of ossified heather the man
who, to adore you even more, forever reverses in you the goddess of his birth, the fist of
his sorrow, the horizon of his victory.
(It was night. We were cuddling beneath the majestic oak of tears. The cricket
sang. How did it know, all by itself, that the land would not die, that we, children deprived
of clarity, soon would speak?)
13
Watchers and Dreamers
for Maurice Blanchard
Before rejoining the nomads

The seducers, igniting columns of crude,
Dramatize the crop
The poetic work begins tomorrow

The cycle of voluntary death paves the way
The reign of obscurity sunk reason, the diamond in the mine
Mothers infatuated by the masters of final sigh

Mothers excessive
Always digging into the massive heart
Forever the shivering ferns of embalmed thighs will pass you by
We will beat you
You will go to bed
Alone at the windows of rivers

Faces grand and shining
Dreaming that nothing is perishable
In their carnivorous landscape.
14
Threshold
When the dam of man was rocked, caught in the colossal crack of the abandoned
divine, words in the remote distance, words that wished not to be lost, attempted to resist
the exorbitant thrust. Just there, the dynasty of their meaning was decided.
I ran to the outcome of this diluvian night. Rooted in the wavering morning, my
belt full of seasons, I wait for you, o my friends who are on their way. Already I sense you
behind the horizons shadow. My hearth never wearies of wishing your homes well. And
my cypress scepter laughs heartily for you.
15
The Windowpane
Pure rains, awaited ladies,

The face that you bathe,
Is the face of the rebel,
Glass destined for suffering.
The other, the happy windowpane,
Thrills before the wood fire.
I love you, twin mysteries.

I touch each of you:
Im in pain and very light.
16
Long May He Live!
This country is only a spirits wish, an anti-tomb
In my country, the tender tokens of spring and poorly dressed birds are preferable to
far-off goals.
Truth awaits the sunrise beside a candle. The windowpane is neglected. The vigilant one
does not mind.
In my country, no one questions an emotional man.
There is no cancerous shadow on the capsized boat.
A begrudging hello is unknown in my country.
We only borrow what is paid back with a plus.
There are leaves, a lot of leaves on the trees in my country. The branches are free to forgo
fruit.
We dont believe in the good faith of the victor.
In my country, we thank you.
17
The Black Stags
The waters were speaking in the ear of the sky.

Stags, you have broached millennial space,
From your rocky darkness to the caressing air.
The hunter who spurs you, the genius who spots you,
How I adore, from my ample shore, their passion!
And what if I had their eyes whenever I want?
18
Cave-in
Grapes have for a heartland

Fingers of the girl who harvests.
But shewho does she have,
After the narrow path of cruel vines?
The rosary of the cluster;

Nightfall. The highest fruit, as it sets,
Bleeds a final sparkle.
19

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ren char

translated by dawn-michelle baude

The oriole entered the capital of sunrise.

River leaving too early, darting away, alone,

River where lightning ends and where my house begins,

River, in you earth is quivering, the sun anxious.

River, often punished, river neglected.

River of apprentices covered with calluses,

River of empty soul, of rags and suspicions,

River of crazies, of the feverish, the knackered,

River of those better than us, river of hatching mists,

River considerate of dream, river that rusts iron,

River of relinquished powers and waters pierced with cries,

River with unyielding heart in a world craving confinement,

How to live without beholding the unknown?

The summer and our life were of a piece

It was the beginning of adorable years

Before rejoining the nomads

The poetic work begins tomorrow

Mothers infatuated by the masters of final sigh

Alone at the windows of rivers

Pure rains, awaited ladies,

I love you, twin mysteries.

This country is only a spirits wish, an anti-tomb

In my country, no one questions an emotional man.

There is no cancerous shadow on the capsized boat.

A begrudging hello is unknown in my country.

We only borrow what is paid back with a plus.

We dont believe in the good faith of the victor.

In my country, we thank you.

The waters were speaking in the ear of the sky.

Grapes have for a heartland

The rosary of the cluster;

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