Gesture / Spell
As for us, we go on, we go along
trudging like men, swearing we’re still human.
Men rété mas ka griyen, rété mas ka alé-vini nan rèv,
ka alé-vini nan syèk, kon vyé kabós brilé ka viré
kléré nan dèyè-jou ki pri difé.
Men rété mas ka griyen, rété mas ka alé-vini nan rèv,
ka alé-vini nan syèk, kon vyé kabós brilé ka viré
kléré nan dèyè-jou ki pri difé.
Mi sa ki fèt mi : Latè, barik, nèg ak bourik, yo
matché tout ak fè. Móso pa móso, pawól la tounen lachè,
mak andidan kó-a, tras nan mémwè-a.
Sé pa té chanté nonm lan ankó. Sé pa té an chaplé pétal flè ka
wouvè épi ka tonbé atè lamenm. Sé pa té an ti lang van ka
parèt lè kó-a ka déchiktayé, an lafimen, an souf, an lavi…
Mwen m’rélé pou an pèp doubout la, ant sé larèl wóch blan-an
èk adan achouvalman sé flèch sann lan,
m’rélé, mwen di, pou an pèp doubout adan rad alé-vini y, pou
li chanté chanté-y ki ta-y épi limen-y adan sèbi flanbwayanan…!
Jodi-jou, nonm lan pa ka palé ankó,
li pa ka tchenbé sèl bondyé-a-nan dwèt li ankó
ni dégrennen mayi, li pa ka póté gro solèy ankó
ni mas plen koulè. Latè-a ja ka bliyé mak pyé-y.
Li ja téré tèt-dlo y épi fèmen kabann
masiból li: la, rété zóti épi ratchet;
La, yo raché lachè-a jik nan zoklèt tif li.
Epi nou, nou ka alé, mou ka maché
maché nonm nou, èk nou ka sèmanté ba nonm lan!
D’autre masques encore, d’autres masques, errant par les
songes, errant par les siècles, comme de vieilles coques
calcinées s’illuminant à nouveau aux crépuscules écarlates.
Voici ce qui fut: Terre, barils, nègres et bourriques, tout
fut marqué au fer. Lettre par lettre, la parole se fit chair,
empreintes dans le corps, traces dans la mémoire.
Ce n’était plus le chant de l’homme. Ce n’était plus une coulée
de pétales s’ouvrant et tombant dans l’instant. Ce n’était plus
un filet d’air naissant dans la fragmentation de l’être, une
fumée, un souffle, une vie…
Qu’un peuple se lève en ce lieu, entre les rangées de pierres
blanches et dans le chevauchement des flèches cendrées,
qu’un peuple, dis-je, se lève dans sa livrée d’errance, qu’il
délivre son chant et qu’il l’allume aux torches des
flamboyants…!
Aujourd’hui, l’homme ne parle plus,
Il ne tient plus le sel invisible entre ses doigts
ni n’égrène le maïs, il ne porte plus de soleils ardents
ni de masques multicolores. La terre, déjà, oublie l’empreinte
de ses pas. Déjà, elle a enfoui sa source et refermé son lit
d’amante: là, elle n’a gardé que l’ortie et l’oponce;
là, la chair fut dépecée jusqu’à son squelette de tuf.
Et nous, nous allons, nous allons
notre pas d’homme, et nous jurons de l’humain!
Other masks again, other masks, coming-going through
dreams, wandering through centuries, like old calcified
shells lit once more in the kindled dusk.
See: Earth, barrels, black and mulish, all
scarred by iron. Letter by letter, speech turned to flesh,
marks in the body, trails in memory.
No longer man’s song. No longer a flow of
petals at once opening and falling. No longer a trickle
of air from a splintering body, a puff of smoke,
a breath, a life…
If only a people would rise up here, between rows of white
stone and in the crossing of cindered arrows.
if only a people, I say, would rise up ready for the journey,
set free its song, and light it with blazing torches…!
Today, man no longer speaks,
no longer holds god’s salt between his fingers
or shells corn. No longer wears bright suns
or multicolored masks. The earth already forgets his footprints.
Already, she has fled her source and sealed her lover’s
bed: where she kept nothing but nettle and prickly pear,
where flesh was torn to its tufa bones.
As for us, we go on, we go along
trudging like men, swearing we’re still human.
___
Monchoachi, “Zes/Kabouya – Geste/Sortilege” from Nostrom. Paris: L’Harmattan, 2004. Bilingual Creole/French edition, translated by the author. Originally published by Éditions Caribéennes (Paris), 1982.
Monchoachi was born in 1946, in Martinique. His writing is marked by the astonishing character of the Creole language, a language rich in its very poverty, having preserved a speech unaltered by Western rationality, which is reflected in particular in its articulations and the constant play that inhabits it with the invisible. There he finds a resource from which to draw: what the word as such has to say about our relation to the world, a world obstructed and deafened by its present course. Following a period of bilingual publication, Monchoachi transported Creole into the body of a writing that presents itself with a French surface, and there makes its own mark.
Eric Fishman is an educator, writer, and translator. His most recent translation is Outside: Poetry and Prose by André du Bouchet (Bitter Oleander Press). He is currently translating a selected volume of poetry by Monchoachi. Eric is also a founding editor of Young Radish, a magazine of poetry and art by kids and teens. (Photo credit: Arlette Pacquit)
