mardi 1 novembre 2011


Des cendres récupérés dans le poêle, mélangés à l'encre de Chine. C'est l'automne. Dans la série des maladies voici la maladie d'Alzheimer. Pour accompagner un poème de Sylvia Plath.

The Manor Garden

The fountains are dry and the roses over.
Incense of death. Your day approaches.
The pears fatten like little buddhas.
A blue mist is dragging the lake.

You move through the era of fishes,
The smug centuroies of the pig -
Head, toe and finger
Come clear of the shadow. History

Nourishes these broken flutings,
These crowns of acanthus,
And the crow settles her garments.
You inherit white heather, a bee's wing.

Two suicides, the family wolves,
Hours of blackness. Some hard stars
Already yellow the heavens.
The spider on its own string

Crosses the lake. The worms
Quit their usual habitations.
The small birds converge, converge
With their gifts to a difficult burning.

(dans le recueil: The Colossus)

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