Marcela Delpastre |
Bernat Manciet |
Bernat Manciet
from LITURGY: The Mystery of Glory
ASSUMPTA EST
Uzeste, August 1998
I
horse
steps through stone
silences
in the stone
clams
& knives
&
ferns & frost flowers
fires
in the holy stone
deep
glory within the rock
fire
frozen in the lithostrata
fire
safe fire that speaks
boulder
heart Our Lady
you
kept it all to yourself
they
burn in your heart
you
sleep & cannot sleep
temblored
by springs
immaculatest
architecture
impatience
of live dew
of
constrained power
cloistered
fire enisles you
to
sing exacts you
to
nighten disperses you
to
humble yourself exalts you
&
you reach like a branch
II
Edifice
appended
oaks
of flaming cushatsyou are but a moan
you are but a cushat
stripped maiden edifice
a naked word
dying from dawn to dawn
at sunrise at plum moon
moan & stone
of love
umbrage
of moan to those who groan
shade
them with fire & stonefor you yourself fire & fresh shade
refreshing thickets of fire
the flame clothes you in softness
soft bare stone
like fresh ewe’s cheese
harp pities you abandoned
like a betrothed
naked like fulgurant
loving
III
moon
chunk at river’s rim
moonlight
you call& the moon howls you to the heights
your springs spurt & spread
toward the springs night’s springs
your gardens rise like lettuces
chunk of fire grows stems & columns
like burdock
your gladiolas throw shadows on heaven’s peaks
whose gardens you unveil
bodies of stone they carry away
your cravings: Azael & Rafael & Renel
&
Rehel with Gabriel & Michael the seven torches
&
the seven tulips all Uriel“& may the stone rise!” they flame together
& the stone blazed
clothed in song
& fire & light & song are but one & the same stone
that holds all stones at once
all night the willow on the eyes integral
the Vision
NOTE: Bernat
Manciet (1923-2005) one of the, if not the, major Occitan poets of the second
part of the 20th century. Assumpta Est is a
section from a strange, near-blasphemous “liturgy” speaking to the landscape
that anchored both man & work, las
Lanas de Gasconha, the Landes of Gascony. Translating Manciet poses the
complex problem of translating from a minoritized language, a problem
intensified by the poet’s decision to write in a specific regional variation of
Occitan, namely the Gascon spoken in the Landes region, & in a version — he
is proud to claim — “only forty people understand,” while specifying elsewhere:
“My language is black Gascon, which is a dialect of great harshness and with a
kind of internal contempt for the other languages.” The work thus presents an
opaque, near impenetrable surface, whose rhythms & abrupt music do however
help the reader through its semantic clottedness. Not that this is new to
modern (or even older) poetry, to the contrary. Thus his quasi-contemporary,
the German language poet Paul Celan spoke of “the darkness of the poem today,
of a darkness of the poem qua poem, a constitutive, thus a congenital darkness.
In other words: the poem is born dark; it comes, as the result of a radical
individuation, into the world as a language fragment, thus, as far as language
manages to be world, freighted with world.” Manciet’s poems come indeed
freighted with the darkness of a threatened culture, landscape & language.
Marcela Delpastre
I don’t know if they bleed, the stones. Or if they scream, if they howl
under the wheel & the mace, or if the knife’s blade wounds them, deep in
their flesh, slicing through them.
I know that the loam that sometimes runs from them, no matter how red,
is not blood.
And I’ll say nothing of their tenderness, from stone to stone, from
water to air.
But what I know is that our blood comes from the stone. And our flesh
comes from nowhere else, come from stone we are stone, we are dust and wind’s
smoke.
That our blood is blood of the stone, and our heat is of the sun, and
our wail the howl of the stone, through which our soul passes full-bodied, that
we are the soul of the stone — but tell me, the stone, who is the stone — where
does she come from?
The scream
of the stones
When the stones start to howl, to howl like a sick dog,
like a child lost in the night,
like the dogs at the moon,
like a woman in her pains,
have you heard them, the stones?
When the stones howl under the hammer and under the mace,
when the stones wail under the steel’s edge,
have you heard them lament?
— Have you heard them sing?
When you hear it blow, the wind that goes & whips the
stone,
& that passes its hands through its hair, its fingers
over the stone’s soft cheek,
listen to it sing...
Listen to it sleep, the stone. For so much time inside the blackness of time
and of the stone.
Listen to it breathe.
So bravely, such a long and deep breath that never ends,
you’ll listen to its respiration...
One on top of the other, one behind the other, one against
the other, sand above, sand below, the earth is deep and the stones sleep
inside of it.
Don’t you hear them sleep?
NOTE. Marcela Delpastre (1925-1998) was
an immense poet from the Limousin
region who proudly gave her profession as “peasant.” Though she studied
philosophy & literature in high school & then decorative arts in Limoges , she gave it all
up in 1945 to return home & run the family farm. Writing both in Occitan & in French, she
is the author of a massive oeuvre still in the process of being published (by
Jan dau Melhau at Editions du Chamin de Sant Jaume). As one commentator put it:
“She is as much of a literary genius as Manciet or Rouquette and yet in France she is
accorded much less recognition, being considered a less-valued ‘peasant-poet.’
A witness of the profound upheavals of the post-WW2 era, she cultivates an
ongoing absolute relationship to the — her — land & to her language(s),
through conscious & reactive writing & persistent anger, both nourished
by ethnography & a deep knowledge of ecosystems & of the human soul.”
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