Littérature

"Song of Myself"

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"Song of Myself"
Abderianle 20 janvier 2019 à 14:13

Non je ne vais pas parler de moi, encore une fois... 😛
Juste un petit partage rapide, puisque beaucoup de francophones, même s'ils parlent la langue de Shakespeare, ne connaissent guère Walt Whitman.
Voilà de quoi montrer son poème le plus célèbre.
Et en plus, il parle de lui-même (il aurait adoré les forums !)... et on peut franchement le lire à l'aune de nos propres dispositions.

I

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

II

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes.... the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume.... it has no taste of the distillation.... it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever.... I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers.... loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration.... the beating of my heart.... the passing of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,
The sound of the belched words of my voice.... words loosed to the eddies of the wind,

A few light kisses.... a few embraces.... reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,
The feeling of health.... the full-noon trill.... the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?
Have you practiced so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left,
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.

VI

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess if is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive then the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mothers' laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Sanjurole 20 janvier 2019 à 20:21

Je ne sais pas si j'ai bien compris, et en plus j'ai pas tout lu.
Mais je n'ose pas expliquer le peu que j'ai compris car on va me tomber dessus..
J'le fais ? J'le fais ?
Allez..

- La vie n'a pas de sens, se donner la mort est certainement la plus grande marque de curiosité.. (Dans le cas où tu crois en ce que tu vois)
- Ou les suicidés sont les enfants de dieu (donc toi-même). En gros t'as fait un tour de manège maintenant tu t'en vas (pour ceux qui voient ce qu'ils croient)

Mais ma préféré serait, oui t'as raison tout ceci est une grande farce et tu t'es bien fait avoir, ta déculpabilisation est légitime, suicide toi ça vaudra mieux que de vivre dans ce monde pourri par ceux qui ont compris qu'il était illusoire. Que la conscience du cerveau est illusoire plus exactement.. (pour ceux qui ont un oeil dans le vrai et un oeil dans la réalité)

LibertEchEriele 20 janvier 2019 à 21:24

Et ben! Ça vaut le coup d'aller voir les traductions. Merci Abderian

Abderianle 20 janvier 2019 à 21:47

Non Sanjuro, Whitman parle en effet de la mort, mais c'est une célébration de la vie, de l'autre, de soi, de son corps et de ses émotions, de son vécu et de ses sentiments. Le poème indiqué d'ailleurs est extrêmement long, et à part Jankélévitch, on ne saurait pas faire si long sur la seule mort (même D'Aubigné met de l'eau dans ses zombies).

Relisez ceci :

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes.... the shelves are crowded with perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume.... it has no taste of the distillation.... it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever.... I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.


Ou la première partie, où il s'aime sans s'aduler.

@LibertEchErie : heureux réflexe, mais la poésie et la traduction, c'est comme Abderian en polonais : ça ne veut plus dire grand-chose (déjà qu'en V.O....). Mais je serais curieux de voir ce que tu en penses en VF, et pourquoi !

LibertEchEriele 21 janvier 2019 à 20:58

J'en pense que Walt Whitman me plaît beaucoup, beaucoup! Et que si je n'étais pas si débordée et fatiguée, je me plairais à me gorger de son verbe délectable (j'aurais bien dit délectant). Que j'ai trouvé un nouveau grand frère de pensée, ce qui est délicieusement comblant, une âme-soeur à certains égards. (Oui, l'amour de lui-même, donc de la vie, et donc de tout.) Que c'est toujours très bon de ressentir une lecture comme une embrassade aussi sincère qu'inattendue. Et que nous en reparlerons peut-être, quand j'aurais approfondi la lecture de ce sacré bonhomme. En tous cas merci!

Abderianle 21 janvier 2019 à 22:48

Je t'en prie, et me réjouis ouvertement d'une telle embrassade ! C'est dans le pur esprit whitmanien, en effet.
Au plaisir en effet d'en converser après en avoir bu le nectar !


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