mardi 25 juillet 2017

New year -- Joanna Klink


We woke to the darkness before our eyes,
unable to take the measure of the loss.
Who are they. What are we. What have we
abandoned to arrive with such violence at this hour.
In answer we drew back, covered our ears
with our hands to the heedless victory, or vowed,
as I did, into the changed air, never to consent.
But it was already too late, too late for the unfarmed fields,
the men by the station, the park swings, the parking lots,
the ground water, the doves—too late for dusk
falling in summer, chains of glass lakes
mingled into dawn, the corals, the neighbors,
the first drizzle on an empty street, cafeterias and stockyards,
young men asking twice a day for
work. Too late for hope. Too far along
to meet a country, a people, its annihilating need.

Because the year is new and the great change
already underway, we concede a thousandfold
and feel, harder than the land itself,
a complicity for everything we did not see
or comprehend: cynicism borne of raw despair,
long-cultivated hatreds, the promises of leaders
traveling like cool silence through the dark.
My life is here, in this small room, and like you
I am waiting to know—but there is no time
to wait for what has happened.
What does the future ask of me,
those who won’t have enough to eat by evening,
those whose disease will now take hold—
and the decades that carry past me once I’ve died,
generations of children, the suffering that is never solved,
the heat over the earth, its marshes,
its crowded towers, its unbreathable night air.
I would open my hand from the wrist,
step outside, not lose nerve.
Here is the day, still to be lived.
We do not fully know what we do.
But the trains depart the stations, traffic lurches
and stalls, a highway crew has paused.
Desert sun softens the first color of the rock.
Who governs now governs by grievance and old scores,
but we compass our worth,
prepare to do the work not our own,
and feel, past the scorn in his eyes, the burden
in the torso of a stranger, draw close to the sick,
the weak, the women without jobs, the twelve-year-old
facing spite half-tangled into sleep, the panic
tightening inside everyone who has been told to go,
I will help you although I do not know you,
and strive not to look away, be unwilling to profit,
an ache inside that endless effort,
a slowed-down summons not from those
whose rage is lit by greed—we do not consent—
but the ones who wake without prospect,
those who don’t speak, cannot recover,
like the old woman at the counter, the helpless father
who, like you, gets no more than his one life.



Parodia magnifica


Publié via Poem-a-day, le 21 février 2017 ; très représentatif du changement de ton de Joanna Klink, dans la ligne de Excerpts of a secret prophecy.
New year ... une nuit d'introspection, quelque part entre l'élection de Donald Trump (19 Décembre 2016) et sa prise de fonction (20 Janvier 2017).


mercredi 19 juillet 2017

Nothingwood -- Sonia Kronlund


J'y allais un peu à reculons, plutôt rebuté par une promotion vantant le côté "picaresque" d'une joyeuse équipe de "bras cassés" tournant de la série Z sur fond d'attentats et de check-points à barbus.
Mais quelque chose me disait aussi qu'on ne pouvait pas s'arrêter à cela, s'agissant de Sonia Kronlund et de l'Afghanistan, et ce quelque chose avait raison ; loin d'une histoire de bras cassés, c'est une émouvante "insurrection de la vie" dont Sonia Kronlund se fait le témoin.



Salim Shaheen et Sonia Kronlund


Pour évoquer le personnage de Salim Shaheen, on pense à ces mots de Denis Roche :

"JE DANSE PARCE QUE J'AI PEUR ET JE MANIE JUSQU'A L'EPUISEMENT MA CARCASSE D'AVANT EN ARRIERE ET D'ARRIERE EN AVANT, DE MES TALONS A MES ORTEILS ET VICE VERSA."

(in Denis Roche, "Louve basse", Seuil, 1976)