Meeting the Beloved (René Char)

Three translations of poems by the enigmatic French poet René Char, much loved in France not only for his writing but also for his bravery in the French Resistance. The originals may be found following the title links. The painting right is "Mimosa" by the Italian, Nicola Simbari.

Parting Of The Wind

Camped out on the village hillsides are orchards of mimosa. During the gathering season, it may happen that far from this place you have an extremely fragrant meeting with a girl whose arms have been busy through the day in its fragile branches. Like a lamp whose bright halo is perfume, she wends her way, her back to the setting sun.

To speak to her would be sacrilege.

Sandal crushing the grass, let her pass on the footpath. You may chance to make out the glimmer on her lips of Night's elixir.

To —

You have been my love for so many years, 


My giddiness before so much waiting, 


Which nothing can age or cool; 


Even that which awaited our death, 


Or slowly learned how to fight us, 


Even that which is foreign to us, 


Both my eclipses and my returns. 



Closed like a box-wood shutter,
Compact and extreme,


Chance is our mountain-range, 


Our supercharged splendour.



I say chance, oh my finely wrought love; 


Either of us can receive 


The mysterious part of the other 


Without spilling its secret;


And the pain that comes from elsewhere 

Finds its shedding at last
In the flesh of our unity, 


Finds its solar orbit at last 


At the centre of our dark cloud
Which it severs and renews. 





I say chance, just as I feel it. 


You have raised up the summit 


Which my waiting will have to clear 


When tomorrow disappears.


Allegiance

In the streets of the town there is my love. It matters not where (s)he goes in the divided time. It is no more my love, anyone may speak to it. It remembers no longer; who exactly loved it?

It seeks a match in eyes of longing. The space it traverses is my faithfulness. It draws hope and lightly discards it, prevailing without taking part.

I live at its heart like a happy wretch. Unknown to it, my solitude is its treasure. My freedom burrows deep in the great meridian where it inscribes itself in flight.

In the streets of the town there is my love. It matters not where (s)he goes in the divided time. It is no more my love, anyone may speak to it. It remembers no longer; who exactly loved it and lights it from afar so that (s)he does not fall?