7.4.07

Bukowskizm

Pour inaugurer cette deuxième saison de Randomizm, il me fallait du lourd, du gros, du consistant. De la vraie culture. Voire de la poésie. Tiens, ouais, de la poésie.
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Comme tout bon nerd post-adolescent qui se respecte (ou pas), je connaissais Milf Hunter et sa célèbre collection de vidéos de 30 secondes dédiées aux femmes mûres. Depuis peu, je connais Poem Hunter, une base de données assez impressionnante de poésie. Je m'y suis retrouvé un peu par hasard en googlant ce bon vieux Bukowski. Et j'ai déniché quelques perles de l'ami Hank. Permettez-moi de vous les faire partager.


My First Affair With That Older Woman
when I look back now
at the abuse I took from her
I feel shame that I was so innocent,
but I must sayshe did match me drink for drink,
and I realized that her life
her feelings for things
had been ruined
along the way
and that I was no more than a
temporary companion;
she was ten years older
and mortally hurt by the past
and the present;
she treated me badly:
desertion, other men;
she brought me immense pain,
continually;
she lied, stole;
there was desertion,
other men,
yet we had our moments; and
our little soap opera ended
with her in a coma
in the hospital,
and I sat at her bed
for hours
talking to her,and then she opened her eyes
and saw me:
"I knew it would be you,"she said.
Then she closed her eyes.
The next day she was dead.
I drank alone
for two years
after that.


Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window
Sunday, I am eating a grapefruit,
church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the west.

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God.

2 commentaires:

Christian a dit…

Il y a un vrai petit miracle dans les écrits de Bukowski, que ce soit en prose ou en rimes.
Comment cette écriture simple, brutale, désenchantée, descriptive, narrant une vie incroyablement vide, peuplée de femmes et d'alcools, de bagarres, disputes et saouleries, et de lendemains de cuite et de baise ; comment cette écriture donc peut-elle autant déboucher, au delà de l'humour, sur des moments de pure émotion ?
Peut-être l'art de la chute chez Bukowski. Il est souvent vital de s'arrêter sur la dernière phrase de ses nouvelles ou poèmes, et de respirer un grand coup avant de replonger...

"I drank alone
for two years
after that"

"she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God."

Damien a dit…

Je ne l'aurais pas dis aussi bien mon cher Christian.