Pierre Reverdy (1889-1960)
Le monde plate-forme
La moitié de tout ce qu’on pouvait voir glissait.
Il y avait des danseurs près des phares et des pas de lumière. Tout le monde
dormait. D’une masse d’arbres dont
on ne distinguait que l’ombre — l’ombre qui marchait en se séparant des feuilles, une aile
se dégagea, peu à peu, secouant la lune dans un battement rapide et mou. L’air se tenait tout entier. Le pavé glissant ne supportait plus aucune
audace et pourtant c’était en pleine ville, en
plein nuit — le ciel se rattachant à la terre aux maisons du
faubourg. Les passants avaient escaladé un autre monde qu’ils regardaient en souriant. Mais on ne savait pas s’ils resteraient plus longtemps là ou s’ils iraient
tomber enfin dans l’autre sens de la ruelle.
Half of what was visible was sliding. There were
dancers near the beacons and footsteps of light. Everyone was asleep. Out from
a mass of trees where nothing could be seen but shadow—the shadow that was
walking, detaching itself from the leaves—little by little a wing flew free,
shaking off the moon with a quick and muffled beat. The air kept completely
still. The slippery pavement would bear no more audacity, but it was right in
the middle of town, in the dead of night, the sky fastening itself to the earth
with its rows of houses. Passersby had scaled another world that they gazed at
with a smile. But there was no way of knowing whether they would stay there any
longer or go fall at last into the other direction of the little street.
translated from French by Dan Bellm
Poetry such as this attempts not just a new syntax of
the word. Its revolution is aimed at the syntax of the mind itself.
