The Ten Poems Of Solitude I

Poem By Hugues C. Pernath

In the loveless landscape of my solitude
No movement prevails that calms me, no rest
That consoles or dispatches me like a firstborn.
Proudly my blood translates the signs,
My translates the signs,
The flashes across the wry water of the past,
And bear the qualities of him
Who shuns even the pains of November.
Wretched, body and dream denying, I retreat
To the underworld of my unbelief.

No limits, no beacons, no horizon.
And descending, like a nomad with a goal,
The falcon begins its dreadful flight.
And from the last remnants of my hope
I gather the strange fragments of my decay,
First addicted and then cured, I hide
In the shameful disaster that consumes me.

I shall do no harm, or wreak havoc
No sacred mountain is unknown to me.
I shall bid myself get well, and peacefully
Follow the lifelines of memory
To the ruins of my past still just smouldering,
And in death's throes in my uprooted landscape
I will stretch out a hand to the veil of deep sleep
Softly enough not scratch hate, or pain
In the pregnant absence of her word of refusal.

Translation Paul Vincent

Comments about The Ten Poems Of Solitude I

The poem creates an atmosphere of sadness, despair and despondency. Thanks. I quote: the shameful disaster that consumes me. In the pregnant absence of her word of refusal.


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Other poems of PERNATH

I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me

I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me,
No body will ever be able to feel mine
No other ear my confusion, my unease
In the speechless torment of language.

I no longer belong but control the trembling

I no longer belong but control the trembling
Ablaze and senile, sleepless in the past
In the things that have happened, the things
Of the days, I conjugate the pledges of pain

I dwelt in the corridors of come and go

I dwelt in the corridors of come and go
In the boundless dismay of tacky colours
Nothing's still true, no sun splits open.
No son will ever speak in this handful of life

In the loveless landscape of my solitude

In the loveless landscape of my solitude
No movement prevails that calms me, no rest
That consoles or dispatches me like a firstborn.
Proudly my blood translates the signs,

As a relative, I have hope in common with no one

As a relative, I have hope in common with no one
With no one the choice of love
With which I live alone, with which I stagger
Moving but subdued by the boundless landscape

In my strange sorrow I suspect petrifaction

In my strange sorrow I suspect petrifaction
Of many lives, sometimes the foulness of the source
The lily or the shady foliage.
Sometimes I suspect the trembling of your hands