Wales

Nothing in November
but dark days
of black seas raging
pounding the broken shore,
blinding spray
and the foam roaring,
pouring
through the red teeth
of the red raw rock
scarred by the buffeting
of endless storms
and the wild sea lashing.
Dark days merge into sights
when the sea of my heart
refuses rest.

When the biting cold
chills the bone,
and the endless
roar and motion,
and the cry
of the storm-crossed gulls
singing, ringing in the air,
when the howl
of the salt-laden wind,
sharp as a knife,
cuts into the soul,
until the unbearable
endless night
meets the dawn…
and the gentle rain.

David Hodges (frère David Hodges)

Traduction francaise de Jean-Marie Flémal

 

Rien en novembre

Rien en novembre
hormis les sombres journées
des flots noirs qui font rage
et battent le rivage brisé,
les embruns aveuglants
et l’écume rugissante,
le déferlement des eaux
par les dents rouges
des rouges et rudes rochers
que lacèrent les coups répétés
des tempêtes interminables
et ceux de la mer sauvage.
De sombres journées
se fondent en visions
lorsque la mer de mon cœur
refuse le repos.

Quand le froid mordant
glace les os,
et le grondement infini
et le mouvement sans fin,
et le cri modulé
et sonore dans le ciel
des goélands traversés par la tempête,
quand le hurlement
du vent chargé de sel,
affûté comme une lame,
taille dans l’âme,
jusqu’à ce que l’insupportable
et interminable nuit
rencontre enfin l’aurore…
et la pluie paisible.

rocks
Île de Caldey – Plus des photos ici

David Hodges (frère David Hodges) est un moine cistercien de l’abbaye de Caldey, sur l’île de Caldey, au large de la côte galloise, au Royaume-Uni. La poésie du frère David reflète la vie monastique de prière dans un décor insulaire. Les paysages marins, la faune et la flore de l’île, le vol des oiseaux, la liturgie, la mémoire et les questions contemporaines : c’est là que se trouve le matériel qui alimente la plume du poète.

Vous en découvrirez plus à son propos ici :
http://www.davidhodgespoetry.co.uk/

 

(Original)

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night,

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night,

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 Dylan Thomas 1914 – 1953 

***

Traduction de Rolland Pauzin, conservant la forme de la villanelle :

Ne vas pas gentiment dans cette douce nuit
L’âge devrait brûler ou briser sa clôture
Rage, rage et combats la mort du soir qui luit

Bien qu’un sage vieillard sait que le trou noir suit,
Ses mots étant sans lux, aucune créature
Ne va docilement dans cette douce nuit.

Bonhomme prés du but, pleurant pour ce vert buis
Brillant, où danseraient ses dernières mesures,
Rage, rage et combat la mort du soir qui luit.

L’excité qui chantait le vol d’un soleil cuit
Et qui apprend trop tard le deuil de ses brûlures,
Ne va docilement dans cette douce nuit.

L’homme grave et mourant, dont les yeux, tels des puits,
Peuvent de joie briller avant leurs fermetures,
Rage, rage et combat la mort du soir qui luit.

Et toi père en ce corps qui tristement s’enfuit,
En pleurs fiers, maudis-moi, bénis-moi, je t’adjure,
Ne vas pas gentiment dans cette douce nuit
Rage, rage et combats la mort du soir qui luit.

 

http://ecritsaai.blogspot.de/

 

La maison de Thomas à Laugharne, appelée le Boat House
La maison de Thomas à Laugharne, appelée le Boat House

 

we crossed the mountains
with the rising of the sun
the dawn racing ahead of us
like a mad horse

on the other side
the valley
the river
the trees
a whole landscape
bathed
in early sunlight
still shivering
with the breathing of night

I wondered
why the weights
had gone from my shoulders
why the guns and knives
had rusted in my belt

our eyes were laughing
our mouths were singing

and as we descended
the withered grass
became green and full
crowning in stalks
with a multitude of flowers

©Peter Finch from ”Selected Poems” Page 13, Poetry Wales Press 1987

What mysteries
lie hidden here?
Leaning spire, grey stone walls,
tower, pond and rushes;
heavy doors and cobbled floors,
stone steps spiral
to a loft and tower above;
below, the choir,
the chant now silent;
sanctuary with its barrelled ceiling;
Ogham stone with its Cross
and ancient script;
old gatehouse, dovecote,
cloister, kitchen with its oven,
monks’ living quarters
with battlements above;
an ancient well,
stepped ponds,
walled gardens in the valley;
the old mill
with its broken stone,
beds of cress
and running stream.

What history it tells
of holy monks,
Samson, Illtud, Dyfrig,
David, Gildas, Paul of Leon;
of pirates, pilgrims,
Viking raiders,
and lesser men now dead.
Why does the Black Monk
still make his lonely passage
in the night?
And that well, was Pyro
really drunk,
and did he drown there?

Where was that monk bricked up
with the Glastonbury jewels?
Does Paul Jones lie buried
in the bay?
And is there treasure sunk?
What else lies buried deep?
What other secrets
does the Priory keep?

David Hodges

With the kind permisson of the author David Hodges

David Hodges is a monk at the Cistercian Abbey on Caldey Island, off the south coast of Wales. In his collections of poetry he reflects the monastic life of prayer in an island setting. The Islands beauty, woodlands, birds, wild life, flowers, seascape and more are also reflected in his poems. Caldey Island has its own facebook page.