In Spring
Approximate spring
(21 March + or - x days
(x variable if x approaches 365 we say
" ain't no more seasons!"
or we say
" lousy spring!"))
approximate spring, I said
the trees
no longer dressed
only in sparrows
leaves
are coming back to the trees
or else the trees
are picking up leaves
they're turning green
for some time we saw them
hesitate, finger the air,
scrutinize the clouds
watch their neighbors out of the corner of an eye
then suddenly there they go
they take the plunge
approximate spring
(it's the ones with " caducous" leaves that go for it
the English call them deciduous
because of their decisiveness
" persistent leaved" evergreens with
nothing left to decide
pull a long face
dirt-coated
from years of urban
soot)
on the trees
baby leaves shiver
little leaves feel their way, fragile, slowly
unfolding their buds
the breeze holds them tenderly on their stems
as saith the po-wet
yes!
the leaves go for it, proliferate
profusely
trees spread, mirror themselves in fountains
windows
puddles
the blue of the sky
that's it
spring's here
so it happened
this year (nineteen hundred ninety-four)
in Paris
in the Tuileries
in the Luxembourg Gardens
in Park Montsouris
in the Square des Blancs-Manteaux
at the foot of Sacre-Coeur in the Square Saint-Pierre
I checked
and have no reason to think
it was otherwise
elsewhere
Boulevard Pereire
between Boulevard Pereire
north side
and Boulevard Pereire
south side
bowers
bulging with red
roses and pink
roses and
white roses
rain down petals wet
with the rain of a Pentecost Monday in June
if I were fifty years younger
they would come down tongues like as of
fireI would understand all dialects
and would speak to the roses
red roses, pink roses, white roses
in the original tongue.
A Couple in Unison
Rue Rambuteau
Sunday
at eleven
he and she
she and he
in unison
dip their heels in the gutter
that drains
the fish store slush
then
carefully
scrape them
against the sharp edge of the sidewalk
having tread some ripe shit
whatcha know
I say to myself
here's a couple in real unison
alas!
not the case the one and the other
off on their separate shitty way
Autumn in Rue du Printemps
The foliage on Boulevard Pereire (looking south)
Is already turning
red
Shocking.
They should block off that resolute-
Ly drab street from Spring Street with
A big tick curtain and not draw it
Until spring.
November
You'd only catch an allergy
if you tried too hard to face
the Arc de Triomphe on the Place
de Coudenhove-Kalergi
We are alone, me and a cat
come to piss below the plaque
of this Austrian diplomat
(Advocate of European unity, founder of the Council of Europe 1894-1972)
November! For what retreat could we go pack!
When
When will the wind have taken all of you
Water washed your every image away
Emptied out fold by fold of my brain
The camphor reek of your death day
When will my tongue attacking you
Grown pallid, finish its attack
Your scape completely stripped
Of sky's blue and of dirt's black
When will ceasing cease, cease
From unceasing pressure, the press
Of your cold eye across my rods and cones
When will earth, the earth between
Bark and sap, assume the weight
Of your sedentary bones
Queneau in November
I see him walk along the Seine
Color of sky color of water
He's dreaming of a world well dreamed
Where numbers tend to give in better
To machinations of the poem
I can see how the leaves are fallen
In puddles of low fading light
Is it December? or November?
And as soon as the leaves have fallen
One takes one's notebook out for poems
Walking the bank along the Seine
It's evening now: the poor sunlight
Is getting weaker. He'd do better
To let his shadow take to water
Under the showers of November
Dreaming meanwhile the number dreamed
Shadows in fall soak up the water
Our pumps don't do it any better
Gummed up with all those dead leaves fallen
Into the gutters of November
The evening now directs its light
To the tablet reserved for poems
Where is inscribed the number dreamed
While walking here along the Seine
Here exigencies of the poem
Can be read in the clearest light
So must it all fall in the water
The whole scaffolding he has dreamed
For his octogrammic November?
Alas it could have been far better
In April. All along the Seine
The leaves of all the trees have fallen
Alas it would have been far better
In April rather than November
Shorter would have been the poem
Pleasant the banks along the Seine
In April. Month so often dreamed
So clear the sky, fountain of light
Up fly the leaves already fallen
Back to the trees down by the water
O puddles of so sad a light!
Nevertheless, the number dreamed
Four by four who could do better
So many images have fallen:
Oyez, ahoy, rudds of the Seine
Oy, good oysters of November
Night's negative ignites the water
Plenty material for a poem
Was it December or November
I see him walk along the Seine
Holding his page up to the light
Blackened with figures, damped with water
He walks upon leaves that have fallen
He's dreaming now of the world dreamed
Where words and numbers in the poem
Take to each other, blending better
I write here once more the word 'dreamed'
I write the words here: 'number,' 'water'
I ask myself: well why November?
Why on earth oyster, and why poem?
The leaves have all already fallen
Along the sad banks of the Seine
It's raining now. For trees that's better
Even and gradual the light.
Envoi
Fall of a dream in some November
I've watered this pome in the Seine
The best I'm able, by my light.
translated by Keith & Rosmarie Waldrop
_____________
The book is forthcoming from Dalkey Archive Press in fall 2006