1. |
(de l'oubli)
04:50
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(de l'oubli)
On a relevé le rideau
cinq fois,
six fois peut-être;
mai il a fini par rester baissé,
non levé, sur l’Acteur.
Je reste seule avec ma proie
palpitante et qui va m’échapper,
seule dans une foule
floue et qui va se ramifiant au loin,
penchée sur un problème
aux données insuffisantes.
Je m’efforcerai de revoir ses chevaux flottants
estompés dans le décor,
résille d’astres,
subtil réseau de la nuit dépeignée…
En vain,
Ma mémoire se gonfle en vain.
Auprés de toi,
Vie,
que je suis pauvre!
Reviens,
fût-ce dans un rôle laid,
me deliver du souvenir morose,
remplir mes yeux vides,
me contraindre à lever une paupière de plus.
En vain,
Ma mémoire se gonfle en vain,
gorgée de ses faux trésors.
Tout ce que je tire de là,
flétri, sans consistance,
est comme algue sortie de l’eau.
C’est toute ma vie que j’en tire,
toute remise en question
pour n’avoir pas su vivre en sorte
qu’an jour d’épreuve,
au jour de fete,
qu’aujourd’hui
j’aie pu prolonger d’un instant
cet instant coulé sans traces.
(About forgetting)
The curtain had been raised
five
maybe six times;
but it ended unlifted
staying down on the Actor.
I remain alone with my prey
palpitating now, it will escape me,
alone in a blurred crowd,
which will go far away, dispersing,
poring over a problem
of insufficient gifts.
I’ll try so hard to see her floating hair again
smudged in the stage set,
hairnet of stars,
delicate network of the uncombed night…
In vain
my memory swells in vain.
Beside you,
Life,
how poor am I!
Come back,
be it in an ugly role,
deliver me from morose
remembrances,
fill my empty eyes,
compel me to lift one more eyelid.
In vain.
My memory swells in vain,
gorged with its false treasures.
Everything I pull out from there,
wilted, spineless,
is like weeds come out of the water.
It’s my whole life that I pull from there,
Everything put back into question
for not having known how to live so that
on the day of reckoning
the festival day,
today
I would have been able to prolong for an instant
this instant sunk without trace.
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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2. |
(de l'oubli)
05:29
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(de l'oubli)
Certain plaisirs trop frais
pour donner toute leur saveur
ont besoin de fermenter
comme le jus du raisin
et de vieillir
dans les caves de notre mémoire.
On doutera désormais
si la délectation morose,
passée au tamis du temps,
n’est pas préférable au plaisir.
Elle en est le suc,
la liqueur perverse,
concentrée, épurée,
plus forte et plus durable.
Si tu préfères le vin blond
à la grappe hâlée
tu feras chaque saison
la vendange de tes souvenirs.
Et tu les boires sans hâte.
(about forgetting)
Certain pleasures too fresh
to produce all their flavour
need to ferment
like grape juice
and grow old
in the cellars of our memory.
From now on one will ponder
whether morose delight,
passed through the sieve of time
isn’t preferable to pleasure.
It is the juice of it,
the corrupted liquid
concentrated, purified,
stronger and more lasting.
If you prefer late wine
made from sunburned grapes,
each season you will make
the vintage of your memories.
And you will drink them at your leisure.
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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3. |
(d'un enfant difficile)
02:10
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(d'un enfant difficile)
Reconnais en ce fils
le mystérieux mélange
des semences.
Et quand l’amour sera passé,
devant sa preuve grandissante recueille-toi
et douloureusement te réjouis.
Qu’un sourire descendant
explique et démente
ce pli amer de ta bouche.
Sois indulgente à sera passé,
soigne-le bien cet hypocrite,
embellis ce souvenir qui en dit long,
rends-lui grâce:
Tu peux nous faire croire à l’amour admirable
qui jadis ne fut pas le vôtre.
(about a difficult child)
Recognize in this son
the mysterious mixture
of seed.
And when love is over,
meditate on its growing proof,
and sorrowfully rejoice.
May a downward smile
explain and deny
the bitter fold of your mouth.
Be indulgent to your son;
look after him well this hypocrite,
beautify this talkative keepsake,
give thanks unto him:
You can make us believe in admirable love
which in the old days was never yours.
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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4. |
(de l'amour)
03:54
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(de l'amour)
Ils ont passé près de moi
les amants,
plus aimant et plus purs que jamais nous ne fûmes,
ensevelis sous l’amoncellement des caresses.
Ils ont ignoré ma présence
envieuse, admirative ou scandalisée.
Ils ont passé près de moi sans me voir,
insoucieux de qualifier mon émotion.
Et plus que tout
leur dédain me fut durement délectable.
Et leur douceur me plut qui se laisse observer.
Amants, ne craignez rien de moi:
Ma jalousie flotte entre vous, indécise…
C’est seulement à votre abstraction que j’en veux.
(about love)
They passed close by me
the lovers,
more loving and more pure than ever we were,
buried under a snowdrift of caresses.
They were oblivious of my presence,
my envy, admiration or shock.
They passed close by without seeing me,
heedless, not noting my emotion.
And more than anything
their disdain was harsh delight to me.
And their unconcealed tenderness, my pleasure.
Lovers, fear nothing from me:
My jealousy wavers between you, undecided.
I resent your abstraction, that’s all.
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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5. |
(de l'art)
05:18
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(de l'art)
Ces marbles fernes et polis
plus que la peau la mieux poncée,
ces corps blancs et mines
plus que l‘éphèbe le mieux fait,
muscles chers aux sculpteurs…
N’ont-ils pas ennobli leurs modèles?
J’accorde que ces froides noblesses
découragent les amants audacieux…
Et encore! dirait Lucien de Samosate.
Mais pour ceux qui cherchent humainement
l’évocation d’un souvenir,
de quel secours sont ces images tangibles!
L’art est la delectation morose par excellence,
un triste et tendre essai d’éterniser nos dilections,
de rappeler l’amour qui passe.
(About art)
These marble statues firm and polished
more than the best pumiced skin,
these bodies white and slim
more than the best made Adonis,
muscles that are dear to sculptors…
– Haven’t they ennobled their models?
I grant that these cold nobilities
discourage audacious lovers…
– And more! Lucien de Samosate would say.
But for those who humanely seek
the evocation of a memory,
what relief these tangible images provide!
Art is the very greatest morose delight,
A sad and tender attempt to immortalize our pleasures,
to remember passing love.
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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6. |
Vocation
01:42
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A-t-on le droit d’être jaloux de toi? Lequel à notre époque est assez riche pour te posséder? Auquel permettrait-on de t’enfermer? Tu es trop beau, trop cher, trop célèbre! Tu es pièce de musée, bien public.
Osera-t-on blâmer la Vénus de Praxitèle de s’offrir à tous: nue, tentatrice, impudique - indifférente?
Would anyone have the right to be jealous of you? Which man of our times is rich enough to possess you? Who would be permitted to hide you away? You are too handsome, too dear, too famous! You are a museum piece, truly public.
Will anyone dare censure the Venus of Praxitele for offering herself to everyone; naked, beguiling, immodest – indifferent?
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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7. |
Quatrième dimension
03:03
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Mon ange est souvent en retard. Je l’attends volontiers.
Mais que reste-t-il de moi, quand enfin le voici?
Un appel. Au secours! Mais pourquoi? Pourquoi t’ai-je appelé?
La tension, la résistance. Je me suis endormie, paralysée. J’ai bougé sans le savoir: ma foule m’a bousculée…
L’ange arrive et la chose m’échappe où son intervention pouvait nous donner l’univers ou l’amour.
My angel is often late. I willingly wait for him. But what is left of me when he finally turns up?
A shout. – Help! But why? Why did I call you? Tension, resistance.
I fell asleep, paralysed. I had moved without knowing it: my crowd had jostled me…
The angel arrives and the thing escapes me where his intervention could give us the universe or love.
English trans. by Susan de Muth
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Thomas Oboe Lee Cambridge, Massachusetts
Thomas Oboe Lee was born in China in 1945. He lived in São Paulo, Brazil, for six years before coming to the United States in 1966. After graduating from the University of Pittsburgh, he studied composition at the New England Conservatory and Harvard University. He has been a member of the music faculty at Boston College since 1990. ... more
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