i HAVE RECENTLY MOVED BACK TO LODEVE IN THE LANGUEDOC REGION OF FRANCE. i LIVED HERE FOR 10 YEARS UNTO 2008 AND THEN LIVED IN BOLTON FOR 5 YEARS WHERE I ATTENDED WRITE OUT LOUD SESSIONS IRREGULARLY.  In Lodve we have a bif poetry fest. every July - Voices of the Mediterranean which features poets from every mediterranean country. I actually now live facing the festival office. Obviously there is little or none English poetry.  Because of this I decided to try to translate some of my own stuff into french. My French is crap but - in an odd way this produces interesting results.  Here is my first effort in English & then French. 

At twilight by Lake Salagou

I saw the firebird

In the folds between the red hillocks

Feeding on meteor seeds

Suddenly he took off,

his voice, "Click, click, click!"

A geiger counter.

 

Au crépuscule au bord du Salagou,

J'ai vu l'oiseau de feu,

Dans les plis, entre les ruffes rouges,

Manger des grains de météore,

Tout à coup!  Il a décollé,

Sa voix, "Clic, clic, clic!"

Un compteur geiger.

 

Actually the French is much better than the English version and I was sort of subconsciously translating before I finished the original. Unfortunately the poem requires some local knowledge of the Lake salagou and its environs and the proximity of a uranium mine. "Ruffes" is a local word not very well rendered as "Hillocks."  Also I suspect that it would be better to leave the name, "Firebird" in English.

My second attempt is more ambitious and i find that I am rewriting as well as translating because I am seduced by the language which is taking over from any straightforward narrative so I'm actually writing a fresh poem.

Sur les collines le vent ebbouriffe

les feuilles d'olivier

transformant aux ailes des anges.

dans le bleu une plume argentée

tente de devenir un nuage.

mais elle réduit, réduit, réduit à neant,

mais, peut-être, une intimation d'un orage,

la crise terminale de la canicule/

Le bruit blanc des cigales cesse, pause,

et recommence.

J'entends seulement leurs silences.

Gouses acanthe explosent et tirer

leurs balles, PING, sur le toit du fer

de notre terrasse

Cloches de chèvre tintent, quelque part, quelque part?

Dans les arbres une tronçonneuse crie, crie, et s'arrete.

Une avion parasseux bourdonant

 

That's enough. I think the aim has to be to produce something which is a poem in the other language. Getting a meaning across is more important than grammar - as it is in any language - but how does one know if its not just gibberish and scrambled eggs?  I'm looking for a French poet to tell me.

 

Courage   - Graham Chadwick