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Poetry

In All Magnitude

By James Noël
Translated from French by Antoine Bargel & Alexis Pernsteiner
James Noël pens a visceral emotional poetic expression in response to the 2010 earthquake to Haiti.

I give thanks to the earth, not the same, not mine—my stormy, radiant illiterate—I give thanks to the earth, not my island, that terrible girl, who learned, with her silent “S,” to play Russian roulette morning and night.

Thanks, I give thanks to the foreign woman, to the virgin, the all indigo one who fainted and risked losing her heart in a leak of water, a sudden tear of compassion. I give thanks to the earth of men and of humanities. But I abhor…

I abhor humanitarianism. Humanitarianism, I abhor and untwine it. I declare it a crime against humanity!

My mouth is full of spit, of dull and viscous anger. My mouth is full of automatic kisses, and of artificial respiration to exorcize the world’s polluted lungs. I give you my word, this mouth is a silent weapon headed straight, ever straight to the goal. It is a mouth with serial thoughts and silences. Be silent, dead people. I ask you to silence the hollow in your bones. Silence the holes that whistle in your improvised heads of immeasurable deaths. The walls have fallen. Death is free.

From the earthquake, I did not draw great lessons, aside from the earth and a certain sense of quaking. I did not learn anything from my city, except that there are cities down here that disappear, without hesitation. Cities that disappear in just one breath like an orgasm.

From death, I did not draw great lessons. I am a man of flood and turbulent turbine. To progress and eventually reach the pliant skyline, must think of canalizing death.

I did not learn anything from life, except that there are other ways to die. The walls have fallen.

Girls and boys, it is in vain that you share a family resemblance with the wind.  Let my blood unfurl as a red carpet under your feet. Fill your heart from the moment you wake, drink the sun whole with its yolk inside. In vain, girls and boys from around here, do you and the wind share a similar air.

If you do not keep the day upon your navels, boys and girls, this air will never make you light.

I did not learn anything from death. Nothing from the earth. Nor from the sea. Nor from the wind. Nor from the waves. Nor from hats, whatever their origin. From Panama to other hat-making cities, my head remains hard like an obsession drawn from unbreakable hope.

My whole being longs to have a paraseismic soul. Thanks to the sun, the rain, and the divine blue of the clouds.

“En toute magnitude!” © James Noel. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Alexis Pernsteiner and Antoine Bargel. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

I give thanks to the earth, not the same, not mine—my stormy, radiant illiterate—I give thanks to the earth, not my island, that terrible girl, who learned, with her silent “S,” to play Russian roulette morning and night.

Thanks, I give thanks to the foreign woman, to the virgin, the all indigo one who fainted and risked losing her heart in a leak of water, a sudden tear of compassion. I give thanks to the earth of men and of humanities. But I abhor…

I abhor humanitarianism. Humanitarianism, I abhor and untwine it. I declare it a crime against humanity!

My mouth is full of spit, of dull and viscous anger. My mouth is full of automatic kisses, and of artificial respiration to exorcize the world’s polluted lungs. I give you my word, this mouth is a silent weapon headed straight, ever straight to the goal. It is a mouth with serial thoughts and silences. Be silent, dead people. I ask you to silence the hollow in your bones. Silence the holes that whistle in your improvised heads of immeasurable deaths. The walls have fallen. Death is free.

From the earthquake, I did not draw great lessons, aside from the earth and a certain sense of quaking. I did not learn anything from my city, except that there are cities down here that disappear, without hesitation. Cities that disappear in just one breath like an orgasm.

From death, I did not draw great lessons. I am a man of flood and turbulent turbine. To progress and eventually reach the pliant skyline, must think of canalizing death.

I did not learn anything from life, except that there are other ways to die. The walls have fallen.

Girls and boys, it is in vain that you share a family resemblance with the wind.  Let my blood unfurl as a red carpet under your feet. Fill your heart from the moment you wake, drink the sun whole with its yolk inside. In vain, girls and boys from around here, do you and the wind share a similar air.

If you do not keep the day upon your navels, boys and girls, this air will never make you light.

I did not learn anything from death. Nothing from the earth. Nor from the sea. Nor from the wind. Nor from the waves. Nor from hats, whatever their origin. From Panama to other hat-making cities, my head remains hard like an obsession drawn from unbreakable hope.

My whole being longs to have a paraseismic soul. Thanks to the sun, the rain, and the divine blue of the clouds.

“En toute magnitude!” © James Noel. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2013 by Alexis Pernsteiner and Antoine Bargel. All rights reserved.

En toute magnitude!

Je rends grâce à la terre, non pas la même, non pas la mienne – mon orageuse, ma lumineuse analphabète – je rends grâce à la terre, non pas mon  île, la fille terrible, ayant appris, avec son accent circonflexe, à jouer à la roulette russe matin et soir. 

Grâce, je rends grâce à l’étrangère, à la vierge, celle tout indigo qui a tourné de l’œil au risque de perdre son cœur dans une fuite d’eau, de larme de compassion subite. Je rends grâce à la terre des hommes et des humanités. Mais, j’abomine… 

J’abomine l’humanitaire. Cet humanitaire, je l’abomine et le débobine. Le déclare crime contre l’humanité !   

Ma bouche est pleine de crachat, de colère sourde et visqueuse. Ma bouche est pleine de baisers automatiques, et de respirations artificielles pour exorciser les poumons pollués du monde. Je vous donne ma parole, cette bouche est une arme silencieuse allant droite et toujours droite au but. C’est une bouche avec des pensées, des silences en série. Taisez-vous les morts. Je vous demande de vous taire par le creux de vos fémurs. Taisez-vous par les trous qui sifflent dans vos têtes improvisées de morts incalculables. Les murs sont tombés. La mort est libre. 

Du tremblement de terre, je n’ai pas tiré de grandes leçons, à part la terre et une certaine idée du tremblement. Je n’ai rien  appris de ma ville, si ce n’est qu’il y a ici bas des villes qui partent, sans état d’âme. Des villes qui partent dans un seul souffle comme un orgasme. 

De la mort, je n’ai pas tiré de grandes leçons. Je suis homme de grande crue et de turbulente turbine. Pour avancer et atteindre au fil du temps la ligne souple de l’horizon, faudrait penser à canaliser la mort. 

Je n’ai rien appris de la vie, si ce n’est qu’il existe d’autres façons de mourir. Les murs sont tombés. 

Filles et garçons qui partagez en vain un air de famille avec le vent. Laissez passer mon sang en tapis rouge sous vos pieds. Emplissez-vous le cœur dès le réveil, buvez tout le soleil avec son jaune d’œuf à l’intérieur. C’est en vain filles et garçons d’ici que vous ayez un air en commun avec le vent. 

Si vous ne maintenez pas le jour sur vos nombrils, garçons et filles, jamais cet air ne vous rendra légers. 

Je n’ai rien appris de la mort. Rien de la terre. Ni de la mer. Ni du vent. Ni des vagues. Ni des chapeaux, d’où qu’ils viennent d’ailleurs. De Panama à d’autres villes de chapeliers, ma tête reste dure comme une obsession puisée d’un  incassable espoir. 

Mon être en bloc aspire à une âme parasismique. Grâce au soleil, à la pluie et au divin bleu des nuages.

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