Occitan poetry

Occitan poetry 980-2006

by Joan-Frederic Brun

Estève SALENDRES (1978)

Medieval poetry: the kingdom of love

XVI-XVIII century: tasty baroque antiliteratures

XIX th century: toward a renaissance

XIX th century (1854-1914): spreading and sclerosis of the Provençal miracle

XX th century (1920-1965): the anguish of no future

XX th century (1965-1981): "un país que vòl viure" (a coutry that just wants to live)

XX th century (1981-2000): postoccitanisme

XXI th century: just a living literature among many other ones?

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Born in Chalons sus Marne in northern France. Now living in Cubiereta besides the Mont Lozère. Since 2002 has contributed poems, essays and stories to the journal Oc.

Fond of the Occitan poets Alan Pelhon, Aubin Bonnet, Joan-Pau Creissac, Joan Bodon, Max Roqueta, Silvia Berger, Joan-Frederic Brun, Florian Vernet.

A revelation of the last years, demonstrating that Occitan poetry is still alive and going on at the beginning of the XXIth century.

He will soon publish a first book of poems.

Motejaire,

Aquel matin de la vida mieuna, me soi levat per prene rota. Aviài dins l’idèa d’anar vèire la sòrga de las autras lengas. Ai fach la saqueta per prene lo camin, cabridar de mòt en mòt, descobrir, lo còr dintre las dents, los solelhs novèls dels pòbles oblidats. Soi partit dins lo negre terrible del jorn escanat, per l’ivèrn fresqueiron. Ai caminat, caminat, de linha en linha, de poësia en poësia, totjorn sul fil estrech de l’estrambòrd. Ai begut de libres per copar ma set. Ai manjat de pròsas per tapar lo trauc de mon ventre, atalentat. Ai aimat aqueles repas amistoses, a las taulas d’autres amics. Me soi assadolat d’aqueles topins comolats de bonas causas. Ai begut mai d’un còp lo vin docet del fruch de las paginas negrejadas, a me far virar la tèsta. Aquò fa de ben d’aver lo cap versant, per far passar la dolença d’una vida que fa mau. Sul camin, cada taula sembla un present, la man de l’amic per rescalorir lo còr, embarbastat pel frèsc del temps que passa.

N’ai tastat de camins espectacloses, gostoses e precioses, bastits de las pèiras finas de la poësia dau mond. Ai aimat tot aquò, l’ai aimat, mas soi totjorn revengut a nòstra taula, per manjar e beure a la santat dels fargaires d’eternitat.

Pantaissadas pebradas

Encambar lo camin
Per veire l'autre costat de la tèrra
Las pichòtas odors
Polsas infinidas
Pantaissadas pebradas
Al solelh de l'alhors
Mirar l'ombra
Serpatejar
Sus la flor desconeguda
Tocar amb dets tremolaires
Un autre bonaür
Autre matin
E los far sieus
Per l'eternitat.
Soi un viatjaire enrasigat.

Paure asuèlh

I

Paure asuèlh
Que los bartasses engaunhaires
Grafinhan d'una man leugièra,
Baug tressaut
D'una natura enfuocada
Per las prigondas fendasclas del temps,
Cantam ben naut
L'etèrna nèu
Imne menganós
D'un buf fresc,
Imatge desmalmorit
D'un jorn que vòl pas crebar,
Salvatja badadissa
De las trèvas enlodadas
Sus lo camin fangós
Del jorn tròp lèst.

II
Polits remembres
De las corbaduras blanquinosas
Que las mans cadavericas
Esquichan d'un vam unenc
Los sègles d'istòria,
Moment raubat
Encloscat per totjorn
Al pus secret
De las esmogudas,
Caminarem amassa
Sus l'imatge jalat
De nòstras ombras passidas
Fins a la fin dels temps,
Sensa alenar
Passarem nòstres jorns
A pastejar las nuèches
Per escopir la vida.

Word Maker

That morning of my life, I got up to get on the way. I had in mind to go and see what other languages talked like. I made my bag and off I went, to jump from word to word and, my heart on my tongue, discover the new suns of the forgotten peoples. I left by a ghastly day, dark and stifled by a wintry cold air. I made my way, made my way, from line to line, from poem to poem, always on the edge of intense joy. I drank books to quench my thirst. I ate prose to fill in the hole of my starving stomach. Yes, I loved those friendly meals, at the table of different friends. I ate my fill with some good food from the pot. I more than once drank to giddiness the sweet wine from the fruit of darkened pages. How good it is to be giddy, to soothe the pain of a life that hurts. On the way, each table is a present, the friend’s hand to warm one's heart, frosted by the wintry cold of time that passes.

Yes, I tasted spectacular roads, how juicy and precious they were. Yes, I created precious pearls of poems of the world. Yes, I loved it all, I loved it, but I have always been back to our table, to eat and toast to eternity makers.

Spicy daydreams

Striding the path / to discover the other side of the earth / the delicate odours / infinite dust / spicy daydreams / in the sun of beyond / to observe the shadow / to slither / on the unknown flower / and touch with hesitant fingers / some other happiness / some other morning / and make them our own/ for eternity. / I am a deeply rooted traveller.

Poor horizon

Poor horizon
That mocking bushes
Scratch with gentle hand,
Mad jump
Of a nature emblazoned
By the deep crevices of time,
Let us sing out loud
To the eternal snow
A hymn of praise
With fresh breath,
In an unfair image
Of a resilient day,
Wild roaring
Of ghosts enmired
In the muddy paths
Of a day too nimble.

Beautiful memories
With pale curves
Whose deathly hands
Suffocate ceaselessly
The history of centuries,
Stolen moment
Held for eternity in memory
In the most secret of emotions,
We will make our way together
On the frozen image
Of our faded shadow,
Until the end of time
Breathlessly
We will spend our days
To massage out nights

So that we may spit out life.

Camin de vida

Per Isabèl e Uc.

Camin pantaisat dempuèi jorns, dins lo bosin pesugás del temps etèrn. Rota, viatge estranh al pus prigond de la vida. Viradors serpentoses, Losèra…país d’aiga, Ardecha de vinhas e solelh. Las pòrtas se dobrisson sus un mond desconegut….pendut a la clau d’un ostal balhat. Alucar la lutz, passejar dedins e defòra per prene marcas d’aquel jorn novèl, d’aquel mond mòrt, clavelat al còr del temps. Fotòs escampadas per las parets, coma testimònis d’un passat rapugaire. Lièch, sòl, taula e colors, tot s’es arrestat de viure fa un brieu, tot s’es arrestat de viure dins un darrièr buf delanhat. Manca pas qu’un tic-tac palandrejaire d’una pendula escofida dins un canton abandonat. Manca pas qu’una femna vièlha, assetada al canton d’un fuòc a mitat estofat, un topin dins la man e l’esquina plegada. Ai pantaisat, mai d’un còp aquelas entrevistas inagantablas, cargadas del mistèri, d’un ligam sacrat que lo sòmi es sol de conéisser. Un molon de trèvas se passejan dins aquel luòc…un molon de trèvas me parlan dins l’aurèlha, me contan d’istòrias espectaclosas de la vida passada. Parli d’un jorn sensa vida. Parli d’un luòc que tuteja l’arma, d’èrbas baujas que grafinhan las cambas, d’una ringoleta al solelh sus quauques pèiras d’una paret estarfilada. Los imatges dins la tèsta se butan, se mesclan, se marchan dessús, coma mots, a la boca, per parlar d’aquí, se capinhan.

D’aver tròp begut mon còr es embriac, d’aver tròp begut, las idèas s’envòlan, virolejan a l’entorn de la vida, per n’en tirar aquel polit tròç e l’espandir fins a travèrs del camin.

Path of life

path dreamt for so many days, in the heavy uproar of eternal time. / Road, strange journey to the deepest of life. / Sinuous roads, Lozère… land of water, Ardèche of vineyards and sunshine. / Doors open up on an unknown world, hanging from the key of a house that offers itself. / Switch on the light, and walk in and out to mark this new day, this dead world, nailed in the heart of time. / Photos discarded on the walls, witnesses of a grappling past. / Bed, floor, table and colours, everything stopped living long ago … everything stopped living in a last appeased breath. / All you need is the swinging tick-tock of an old faded clock in an abandoned nook. / All you need is an old woman, sitting by a dying fire, a stew-pot in her hand, her shoulders bent. / I so often dreamt of these elusive encounters full of mystery, and of that holy tie that only dreams know. / So many ghosts are strolling in this place… so many ghosts are whispering in my ears, they are telling me prodigious stories of life bygone. / I am talking of a day with no life, I am talking of a place that knows one's soul, and of wild grass scratching one's legs, of a lizard in the sun on a cracked stone wall. / In my head images are buzzing ; they are blurring away and treading on words to speak of this place, and they quarrel.

From having drunk too much my heart is giddy, from having drunk too much ideas are flying away, wheeling around life, to draw that lovely piece and spread it out to the middle of the path.

Lo vam de la vida

Sès vièlh
D'aver plorat
Un solelh estofat.
Lo camin negre
D'una mar umana.
Lo mond
Que s'escapa
Pel matin
Que tornarà pas pus.
Coma l'arena
Que passa
Dintre tos dets,
Esquichas la vida
Sensa poder arrestar son vam.
Sès l'amic
Del ser d'estiu
E de la fuèlha del castanhièr.
Pantaissas.
Tos matins son rudes
De tant de nuèches
A arrapar
Tos espèrs
Als nívols.

The zest of life

You are old
To have cried
A stifled sun.
The dark path
Of a human sea.
The world that escapes
By the morning
That will not come again.
Like the sand
Slipping
Through your fingers
You take hold on life
Yet you would not impede its liveliness.
You are the friend
Of the summer evening
And the chesnut leaf.

You dream.
Your mornings are hard
From so many nights
To hang
Your hopes
On clouds.

Sòm

A Max Roqueta.

Lo causse grand
Se's emmantelat
D'un freg ponchut
Encastelat
Dins l'etèrna nuèch,
Los aucèls
Entristats
Cantan pas pus
Los mots, la vida
Lo buf amistós,
Las pèiras de las casèlas
Ploran
Lo silenci pesuc
Daissat
Per l'etèrn motejaire.

Sleepiness

The grand causse / has put on its mantle of sharp cold / barricaded in the eternal night. / Birds are so sad / they do not sing anylonger. / Words, life / a friendly breath, / the stones of the shepherd sheds / are mourning /for the heavy silence / left by the eternal words maker.

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