The Ten Poems Of Solitude VI

Poem By Hugues C. Pernath

Perhaps my choice, my eternity
That lasts no longer than recommencing,
Than banishing, petrifying of the roots.
Sometimes I look at you, sometimes at you.
Sometimes you fields are full, sometimes wrinkled,
And while this year evaporates, I forfeit
The five bloody circles and elsewhere my love.
Like a vista I forget the thumb-marked wall
Behind which so many peepers glowed.

You defy the drumming days, the new night,
Created but tarnished by your chilly dress.
Your skin becomes a clattering gown, a sojourn
Amid the scents of grassy grounds.
Your eyes shiver and shine, discolour my pity
To a shadow that fades what has gone.
That sinks and gives birth. And freezes.

But huntable, the hunt begins for you too
Expressing seeing and hearing, inhabiting
The evil fog, time desperate and precise
In which flight becomes bold and superfluous
The digging, the stiffening and the peaceful bobbing
After the estrangement, the cleansing of the needle.
No organ will play, no bow will protect you
When the seedless abyss of pain
Covers you beauty with splendour.

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