Je me rends compte à quel point mes centres d’intérêt semblent se déplacer d’un point à l’autre d’un territoire dénué de cartographie. Littérature, musique ou arts picturaux, on pourrait croire que j’ai autant de constance qu’une puce dans le dos à sauter partout. Et pourtant, quand j’écris, je parle toujours de l’imaginaire et de sa capacité de créer avant que la réalité parvienne éventuellement à le rattraper. Je ne conçois pas l’art autrement, y compris la science-fiction.

⊗…⊕…⊗

 

« The Poet »
Bob Kaufman, The Ancient Rain: Poems 1956-1978

 

 

 

 

 

 

FROM A PIT OF BONES
THE HANDS OF CREATION
FORM THE MIND, AND SHAPE
THE BODY IN LESS THAN A SECOND.
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
THE POET NAILED TO THE
BONE OF THE WORLD
COMES IN THROUGH A DOOR
TO LIVE UNTIL
HE DIES,
WHATEVER HAPPENS IN BETWEEN,
IN THE NIGHT OF THE LIVING
DEAD, THE POET REMAINS ALIVE,
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
THE POET WALKS ON THE EARTH
AND OBSERVES THE SILENT
SPHINX UPON THE NILE.
THE POET KNOWS HE MUST
WRITE THE TRUTH,
EVEN IF HE IS
KILLED FOR IT, FOR THE
SPHINX CANNOT BE DENIED.
WHENEVER A MAN DENIES IT,
A MAN DIES.
THE POET LIVES IN THE
MIDST OF DEATH
AND SEEKS THE MYSTERY OF
LIFE, A STONE REALITY IN THE
REALM OF SYMBOLS, FANTASY, AND
METAPHOR, FOR REASONS
THAT ARE HIS OWN WHAT IS REAL
IS THE PIT OF BONES HE COMES
FROM.
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
SOMEWHERE A BUDDHA SITS IN
SILENCE AND HOLDS THE
POET AND THE WORLD IN
SEPARATE HANDS AND REALIZES HE
IS BORN TO
DIE.
THE BLOOD OF THE POET
MUST FLOW IN HIS POEM
SO MUCH SO THAT OTHERS
WILL DEMAND AN EXPLANATION.
THE POET ANSWERS THAT THE
POEM IS NOT TO BE
EXPLAINED. IT IS WHAT IT
IS, THE REALITY OF THE POEM
CANNOT BE DENIED,
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
THE POET IS ALONE WITH OTHERS
LIKE HIMSELF. THE PAIN IS BORN
INTO THE POET. HE MUST LIVE
WITH IT. IT IS HIS SOURCE OF
PURITY, SUFFERING HIS
LEGACY,
THE POET HAS TO BE A
STONE.
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
WHEN THE POET PROTESTS THE
DEATH HE SEES AROUND
Him,
THE DEAD WANT HIM SILENCED.
YET LORCA SURVIVES IN HIS
POEM, WOVEN INTO THE DEEPS
OF LIFE. THE POET SHOCKS THOSE
AROUND HIM. HE SPEAKS OPENLY
OF WHAT AUTHORITY HAS DEEMED
UNSPEAKABLE, HE BECOMES THE
ENEMY OF AUTHORITY. WHILE THE
POET LIVES, AUTHORITY
DIES. HIS POEM IS
FOREVER,
WHEN THE POET DIES,
A STONE IS PLACED ON
HIS GRAVE, IT IS HIM,
A PIT OF BONES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
IN THE PIT OF BONES
A SKY OF STARS, A HEAVEN OF
SUNS AND MOONS, AND THE GREAT
SUN IN THE CENTER,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
A MASK CREATED IN THE PIT
IS THE IMAGE OF THE POET.
THE IMAGE OF THE POET
IS A
SECRET.
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.
I HAVE WALKED IN THIS WORLD
WITH A CLOAK OF DEATH WRAPPED
AROUND ME, I WALKED ALONE, EVERY
KISS WAS A WOUND, EVERY SMILE
A THREAT.
ONE DAY DEATH REMOVED HIS
CAPE FROM AROUND ME,
I UNDERSTOOD WHAT I HAVE LIVED
THROUGH. I HAD NO REGRETS,
WHEN THE CLOAK WAS REMOVED,
I WAS IN A PIT OF BONES.
A FISH WITH FROG’S
EYES,
CREATION IS PERFECT.

 

 

À défaut de découvrir un jour qui je suis, je comprends mieux ce que j’ai toujours cherché avec au contraire la persévérance d’une voyageuse inlassable.
Creation is perfect & L’esthète de mule est une mariole