The Ten Poems Of Solitude III

Poem By Hugues C. Pernath

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
That will never repeat themselves in the running line
Of the infectious ordeal.
Because I realise how, sleepless, I maim myself
Into a useless tool, while my tissues die off
In the clammy cold fear of every new night.

And I move toward my image, nameless
More fearful than before, and exchange my gallows for
For the rattling rains of ritual
That will slaughter descendants and livestock, purge
On the old way to the newly-built city.
Till all is lost and founders ignominiously
In a darkness where no sun ever germinates seeds.

As if true. As if lies.
Speaking: one languages, the same word of disquiet
In the surf raised above all bonds.
I feel the absence as a difficult revelation.
As shards of relics, of worlds, untrue
And outside time. Thus I became a witness
Against the one who interpreted my tenderness.
No sleep will ever unite us, no waking
Free us. For my shadow will be a shadow.

Translation Paul Vincent

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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