Dialecte des cyclones Dialect of Hurricanes

Dialecte des cyclones

          Chaque jour, j'emploie le dialecte des cyclones fous.
Je dis la folie des vents contraires.
          Chaque soir, j'utilise le patois des pluies furieuses.
Je dis la furie des eaux en débordement.
          Chaque nuit, je parle aux îles Caraïbes le langage des tempêtes hystériques. Je dis l'hystérie de la mer en rut.
          Dialecte des cyclones. Patois des pluies. Langage des tempêtes. Déroulement de la vie en spirale.
          Fondamentalement la vie est tension. Vers quelque chose. Vers quelqu'un. Vers soi-même. Vers le point de maturité où se dénouent l'ancien et le nouveau, la mort et la naissance. Et tout être se réalise en partie dans la recherche de son double, recherche qui se confond à la limite avec l'intensité d'un besoin, d'un désir et d'une quête infinie.
          Des chiens passent - j'ai toujours eu l'obsession des chiens errants - ils jappent après la silhouette de la femme que je poursuis. Après l'image de l'homme que je cherche. Après mon double. Après la rumeur des voix en fuite. Depuis tant d'années. On dirait trente siècles.
          La femme est partie, sans tambour ni trompette. Avec mon coeur désaccordé. L'homme ne m'a point tendu la main. Mon double est toujours en avance sur moi. Et les gorges déboulonnées des chiens nocturnes hurlent effroyablement avec un bruit d'accordéon brisé.
          C'est alors que je deviens orage de mots crevant l'hypocrisie des nuages et la fausseté du silence. Fleuves. Tempêtes. Éclairs. Montagnes. Arbres. Lumières. Pluies. Océans sauvages. Emportez-moi dans la moelle frénétique de vos articulations. Emportez-moi ! Il suffit d'un soupçon de clarté pour que je naisse viable. Pour que j'accepte la vie. La tension. L'inexorable loi de la maturation. L'osmose et la symbiose. Emportez-moi ! Il suffit d'un bruit de pas, d'un regard, d'une voix émue, pour que je vive heureux de l'espoir que le réveil est possible parmi les hommes. Emportez-moi ! Car il suffit d'un rien, pour que je dise la sève qui circule dans la moelle des articulations cosmiques.
          Dialecte des cyclones. Patois des pluies. Langages des tempêtes. Je dis le déroulement de la vie en spirale.
 

Dialect of Hurricanes

          Every day I use the dialect of lunatic hurricanes.
I speak the madness of clashing winds.
          Every evening I use the patois of furious rains.
I speak the fury of waters in flood.
          Every night I talk to the Caribbean islands in the tongue of hysterical storms. I speak the hysteria of the rutting sea.
          Dialect of hurricanes. Patois of rains. Language of tempests. Unravelling of the spiralling life.
          Fundamentally, life is tension. Towards something. Towards someone. Towards oneself. Towards the point of maturity where the old and the new, death and birth untangle. And every being is realised in part in the search for its double, a search which may, in a sense, merge with the intensity of a need, a desire, and an infinite quest.
          Dogs pass by - I've always been obsessed with strays - they yap at the shadow of the woman I'm pursuing. At the image of the man I'm looking for. At my double. At the hubbub of fleeing voices. For so many years. Feels like thirty centuries.
          The woman's gone, without a fanfare. Along with my discordant heart. The man never even offered me his hand. My double is always at my heels. And the unhinged throats of night dogs howl with the cacophony of a busted accordion.
          It's then I become a storm of words bursting the hypocricy of clouds and the falseness of silence. Rivers. Storms. Lightning. Mountains. Trees. Lights. Rains. Savage oceans. Take me to the frenzied core of your articulation. Take me! Just a hint of clarity would give me a living chance. Would let me accept life. Tension. The inexorable law of growth. Osmosis and symbiosis. Take me! The sound of a step, a glance, a touching voice would be enough for me to live happy in the hope that awakening is still possible among humans. Take me! It wouldn't take much for me to speak the sap that flows through the core of the cosmos in motion.
          Dialect of hurricanes. Patois of rains. Languages of storms. I speak the unravelling of the spiralling life.
 

Lingo of Hurricanes

          Every day, I use the lingo of lunatic hurricanes.
I say the folly of contrary winds.
          Every evening, I use the patois of furious rains.
I say the fury of flooding waters.
          Every night, I speak to the Caribbean islands in the tongue of hysterical storms. I say the hysteria of the roaring sea.
          Lingo of hurricanes. Patois of rains. Language of storms. Flow of the spiralling life.
          Life, fundamentally, is tension. Towards something. Towards someone. Towards oneself. Towards the point of maturity where the old and new meet and death and birth untangle. And all this, in part, happens in the pursuit of one's double, a pursuit that merges on the border between the intensity of a need, of a desire and of a continual quest.
          Some dogs go by - I've always had an obsessions with stray mutts - they yelp after the outline of the woman I'm chasing. After the image of the man I'm looking for. After my double. After the hubbub of fleeing voices. For so many years. It looks like thirty centuries.
          The woman has gone, with neither trumpet nor drum. Along with my dissonant heart. The man did not even proffer his hand. My double is always encroaching on me. And the unsettling throats of nocturnal dogs yowl horribly with the cacophony of a broken-hearted accordion.
          It was then that I became a storm of words that burst the hypocrisy of clouds and the falsity of silence. Rivers. Storms. Lightning. Mountains. Trees. Lights. Rains. Savage oceans. Take me to the core of your frenetic articulations. Take me ! A pinch of clarity would suffice so as I might be born a viable being. Because I accept life. Tension. The unyielding law of growth. Osmosis and symbiosis. Take me ! The noise of a step, of a look, of a stirring voice would suffice, because I live happily in the hope that waking is still a possibility for mankind. Take me ! How little would it take, for me to say that sap circulates in the marrow of cosmic joints.
          Lingo of hurricanes. Patois of rains. Language of storms. I say the flow of the spiralling life.
 

Original Poem by

Franketienne

Translated by

André Naffis-Sahely with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

French

Country

Haiti