Mary Oliver

Traduction (libre) d’un poème d’une poétesse américaine, Mary Oliver, extrait de sa collection : “Pourquoi je me lève tôt”.
Consciente
Chaque jour, je vois ou j’entends quelque chose qui plus ou moins
me tue de plaisir, qui me laisse comme une aiguille
dans une botte de foin de lumière.
C’était pour cela que je suis née – pour voir,
pour écouter, pour me perdre à l’intérieur de ce monde pénétrable -
pour m’instruire encore et encore
en joie, et en acclamation.
Je ne parle pas non plus de l’exceptionnel,
de l’effrayant, du terrible, de l’extravagant extrême –
mais de l’ordinaire, du commun, du plus quelconque,
des présentations quotidiennes.
Ô, bon élève, me dis-je à moi-même,
comment ne pourrais-tu pas devenir sage avec de tels enseignements –
la lumière intaillable du monde,
la brillance de l’océan,
les prières faites de brins d’herbe ?

Ne cessez jamais d'être fantasque. Et ne donnez jamais à qui que ce soit la responsabilité de votre vie.

I Am Pleased to Tell You

Mr. Death, I am pleased to tell you, there
are rifts in your long black coat. Today
Rumi (obit. 1273) came visiting, and not for
the first time. True he didn’t speak with
his tongue but from memory, and whether
he was short or tall I still don’t know.
But he was as real at the tree I was
under. Just because something’s physical
doesn’t mean it’s the greatest. He
offered a poem or two, then sauntered on.
I sat awhile feeling content and feeling
contentment in the tree also. Isn’t
everything in the world shared? And one
of the poems contained a tree, so of
course the tree felt included. That’s
Rumi, who has no trouble slipping out of
your long coat, oh Mr. Death.

Mme La Mort, il me fait plaisir de t'annoncer qu'il y a des fentes dans ton long manteau noir.
Aujourd'hui Rumi (décédé en 1273) est venu me rendre visite, et ce n'est pas la première fois.

Rumi n'a aucun mal à sortir de ton long manteau, Ô Madame La Mort..

The Journey


One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air –
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds –
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?

Except for the Body
Except for the body
of someone you love,
including all its expressions
in privacy and in public,
trees, I think,
are the most beautiful
forms on the earth.
Though, admittedly,
if this were a contest,
the trees would come in
an extremely distant second.

Leaves and Blossoms Along the Way
If you’re John Muir you want trees to
live among. If you’re Emily, a garden
will do.
Try to find the right place for yourself.
If you can’t find it, at least dream of it.
•
When one is alone and lonely, the body
gladly lingers in the wind or the rain,
or splashes into the cold river, or
pushes through the ice-crusted snow.
Anything that touches.
•
God, or the gods, are invisible, quite
understandable. But holiness is visible,
entirely.
•
Some words will never leave God’s mouth,
no matter how hard you listen.
•
In all the works of Beethoven, you will
not find a single lie.
•
All important ideas must include the trees,
the mountains, and the rivers.
•
To understand many things you must reach out
of your own condition.
•
For how many years did I wander slowly
through the forest. What wonder and
glory I would have missed had I ever been
in a hurry!
•
Beauty can both shout and whisper, and still
it explains nothing.
•
The point is, you’re you, and that’s for keeps.

The Pond
August of another summer, and once again
I am drinking the sun
and the lilies again are spread across the water.
I know now what they want is to touch each other.
I have not been here for many years
during which time I kept living my life.
Like the heron, who can only croak, who wishes he could sing,
I wish I could sing.
A little thanks from every throat would be appropriate.
This is how it has been, and this is how it is:
All my life I have been able to feel happiness,
except whatever was not happiness,
which I also remember.
Each of us wears a shadow.
But just now it is summer again
and I am watching the lilies bow to each other,
then slide on the wind and the tug of desire,
close, close to one another.
Soon now, I’ll turn and start for home.
And who knows, maybe I’ll be singing.

That Little Beast
That pretty little beast, a poem,
has a mind of its own.
Sometimes I want it to crave apples
but it wants red meat.
Sometimes I want to walk peacefully
on the shore
and it wants to take off all its clothes
and dive in.
Sometimes I want to use small words
and make them important
and it starts shouting the dictionary,
the opportunities.
Sometimes I want to sum up and give thanks,
putting things in order
and it starts dancing around the room
on its four furry legs, laughing
and calling me outrageous.
But sometimes, when I’m thinking about you,
and no doubt smiling,
it sits down quietly, one paw under its chin,
and just listens.