There are no perfect waves - William Carlos William

There are no perfect waves--
Your writings are a sea
full of misspellings and
faulty sentences. Level. Troubled.
A center distant from the land
touched by the wings of nearly
silent birds that never seem
to rest, yet it bears me
seriously--to land, but without
you.
This is the sadness of the sea--
waves like words all broken--
a sameness of lifting and falling mood.

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/s_z/williams/descent.htm

Il n'y a pas d'ondes parfaites

Vos écrits sont une mer

plein de fautes d'orthographe et

phrases défectueuses. Niveau. Troublé.

Un centre éloigné de la terre

touché par les ailes de presque

oiseaux silencieux qui ne semblent jamais

se reposer, pourtant il me porte

sérieusement - atterrir, mais sans

vous.

C'est la tristesse de la mer--

des vagues comme des mots tous cassés--

une similitude de lever et de tomber humeur.

http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/s_z/williams/descent.htm

ASPHODEL, THAT GREENY FLOWER - William Carlos Williams

ASPHODEL, THAT GREENY FLOWER (Book I, excerpt)

Give me time,
                   time.
When I was a boy
                   I kept a book
                                       to which, from time
to time, 
                   I added pressed flowers
                                       until, after a time,
I had a good collection.
                   The asphodel,
                                       forebodingly,
among them.
                   I bring you,
                                       reawakened,
a memory of those flowers.
                   They were sweet
                                       when I pressed them
and retained
                   something of their sweetness
                                       a long time.
It is a curious odor,
                   a moral odor,
                                       that brings me
near to you.
                   The color
                                       was the first to go.
There had come to me
                   a challenge,
                                       your dear self,
mortal as I was,
                   the lily’s throat
                                       to the hummingbird !
Endless wealth,
                   I thought,
                                       held out its arms to me.
A thousand topics
                   in an apple blossom.
                                       The generous earth itself
gave us lief.
                   The whole world
                                       became my garden ! […]

ASPHODÈLE (Livre I, extrait)

Laisse-moi le temps,
                   le temps.
Quand j’étais petit garçon
                   je conservais un livre
                                       dans lequel, de temps
à autre,
                   je pressais des fleurs
                                       jusqu’au jour où
j’eus une belle collection.
                   L’asphodèle,
                                       comme un présage,
en faisait partie.
                   Je t’apporte,
                                       ressuscité,
un souvenir de ces fleurs.
                   Elles étaient suaves
                                       quand je les pressais
et conservaient
                   longtemps
                                       de leur suavité.
C’est un parfum curieux,
                   un parfum moral,
                                       qui m’amène
auprès de toi.
                   La couleur
                                       disparut la première.
Je dus relever 
                   un défi,
                                       ta chère personne,
moi, simple mortel,
                   gorge de lys
                                       à l’oiseau-mouche !
Une richesse infinie,
                   pensai-je,
                                       me tendait les bras.
Un millier de thèmes
                   dans une fleur de pommier.
                                       La terre, en sa prodigalité,
ne nous refusait rien.
                   Le monde entier
                                       devint mon jardin ! […]

William Carlos Williams, Asphodèle, suivi de Tableaux d’après Bruegel, édition bilingue, Éditions Points, 2007, pp. 32-37. Traduit de l’anglais (États-Unis) et présenté par Alain Pailler.

Tiré de ce blog : http://terresdefemmes.blogs.com/mon_weblog/2011/05/william-carlos-williams-asphod%C3%A8le.html