Mugison sur une chanson de Tom Waits
thanks to StonefieldJim4
Little Trip To Heaven (On The Wings Of Your Love)
Lazy trip to heaven on the wings of your love
Banana moon is shining in the sky,
Feel like I'm in heaven when you're with me
Know that I'm in heaven when you smile,
Though we're stuck here on the ground, I got something that I've found
And it's you.
And I don't have to take no trip to outer space
All I have to do is look at your face,
And before I know it, I'm in orbit around you
Thanking my lucky stars that I've found you,
When I see your constellation, honey, you're my inspiration, and it's you.
You're my north star when I'm lost and feeling blue,
The sun is breaking through the clouds don't you, don't you know it's true?
Honey, all the other stars seem dim around you
Thanking my lucky stars that I've found you,
When I see your smiling face, honey,
I know nothing ever going to take your place, and it's you.
And it's you, and it's you, and it's you, and it's you, and it's you
And it's you, and it's you, shoo-be-doo, ba-da-da.
vendredi 29 février 2008
jeudi 28 février 2008
mardi 19 février 2008
Sunflower Sutra by Allen Ginsberg
I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—
modern—all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown—
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos—all these
entangled in your mummied roots—and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
—We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.
(1955)
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust—
—I rushed up enchanted—it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake—my visions—Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past—
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye—
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt—industrial—
modern—all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown—
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos—all these
entangled in your mummied roots—and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
—We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.
(1955)
lundi 18 février 2008
Douce Folie - Le loup
Le loup me regardait
‘‘Il scrutait mon âme".
Il était calme,
Immobile dans sa fourrure de nacre
Qui souffrait à peine de la brise.
Son regard intense
Faisait l'effet d'un aimant,
Mon regard ne pouvait se défaire du sien,
Je me mis à avancer vers lui
Sans crainte aucune.
Quand je fus assez près de lui
Il se mit debout et me prit dans ses bras
Pour m'entraîner dans la danse
Tout en continuant son aventure
Au fin fond de mon esprit.
Mes démons se mirent alors à reculer lentement,
Loups et démons ne font pas bon ménage.
Jusqu'à présent
C’était en leur compagnie
Que j'entrais dans une danse proche de la folie.
Deux funambules dansaient
Sur le bord d'une falaise découpée
Ils avaient pour orchestre
Le vent qui venait de se lever
Accompagné par le fracas des vagues sur les rochers.
Comme si cela était écrit, je ne fus pas surprise
Lorsque
Le loup me renvoya l'image de mon âme
Avec les couleurs qui la caractérisent
Je vis aussi les couleurs
Indéfinissables
Que l'on n’ose regarder
Par crainte de se voir tel que nous sommes
Ou par peur de les réveiller
Mais qui sont là à jamais.
Je pris cette image et je me mis à l'observer
Bien la connaître permet de s'accepter.
Quelques jours passèrent
Avant que l'image finisse par disparaître
Signe que je n'en avais plus besoin
Car me connaître, je le fis bien.
Le loup vient me rendre visite régulièrement
Pour boire le thé (oui j’adore ça)
Nous discutons parfois
Du fonctionnement de l'esprit
Ainsi que celui de la folie.
Parfois nous jouons même
Aux échecs en prenant
Pour pions
Ces pauvres égarés que sont mes démons.
--------------------------
The wolf was looking at me
Or should I say:
" searching my soul ".
He was quiet,
standing still, in his nacreous fur
barely suffering from the breeze.
His intense glance
seemed like a magnet
and my glance couldn't avert from his,
I began moving towards him
Without any fear.
When I was close enough to him
He stood up and took me in his arms
for me to join in the dance
While carrying on his journey
through the depths of my spirit.
Then, my demons began to recede slowly,
for wolves and demons don’t get on well.
and alongside them
I embraced a dance leading me on the verge of madness.
Two tightrope walkers were dancing
On the edge of a ragged cliff
They had, as an orchestra,
The wind, which had just got up
along with the crashing of waves on rocks.
As if this was meant to occur, I was not surprised,
When
The wolf revealed my soul’s reflection
displaying all of its colours
the ones we do not dare to look at
for fear of facing our real selves
Or by fear to make ’em arise
Still, they’re here forever.
I took the image and watched,
By learning about it, one learns about oneself
A few days passed
Before the picture eventually vanished
I had no need of it any longer
for I finally found myself
The wolf comes to visit me regularly
To drink Green tea (yes I’m fond of that).
Sometimes we discuss
how both the soul and
madness operate
Sometimes we even play chess
using,
as pawns,
These poor wanderers of my dreams
Whom are my demons.
Thanks a lot to Laurent for his help with the translation,
merci to have taken at your time for an unknown.
Bisous
Poème © Liz - 04 février 2008
Crédit photos : Getty Images
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