jeudi 26 août 2010

De barbe à perruque = same difference (Ajout de Bon Jovi)

"The future is no more uncertain than the present."
-Walt Whitman

("Jon Bon Jovi" !)

Connaissez-vous l'Oncle Walt? Pour se présenter, il dirait sûrement qu'il vous contient et que vous le contenez, et ce, même si vous n'en êtes pas conscients et que vous capotez à l'idée de "contenir" quelque chose de vivant (ou de très mort depuis plus d'un siècle), autre qu'un yogourt bien sûr.

Parce que sans Whitman, il n'y a pas de modernité, et que sans modernité, il n'y a pas de terre fertile pour le futur, j'ose affirmer que nous devons tous un remerciement grandiose à ce poète Américain pour avoir pensé à nous il y a presque 150 ans de cela.

Voici un mini extrait du début de Crossing Brooklyn Ferry. Si vous ne le comprenez malheureusement pas dans sa langue originale, vous pouvez toujours chercher sa version traduite: "Sur le bac de Brooklyn".

FLOOD-TIDE below me! I watch you face to face;
Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face.
Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me!
On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose;
And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose.


Quoi? On demande un rappel?
Ok. Voici les meilleurs moments du très long poème Song of Myself:
I resist any thing better than my own diversity,
Breathe the air but leave plenty after me,
And am not stuck up, and am in my place.

(The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place,
The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place,
The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.)


These are really the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they
are not original with me,
If they are not yours as much as mine they are nothing, or next to nothing,
If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing,
If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing.

This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is,
This the common air that bathes the globe.



Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me,
If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me.

We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun,
We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach,
With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.

Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself,
It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically,
Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?

Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of
Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost,
The dirt receding before my prophetical screams,
I underlying causes to balance them at last,
My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things,
Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set out in search
of this day.)

My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am,
Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me,
I crowd your sleekest and best by simply looking toward you.

Writing and talk do not prove me,
I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face,
With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.


The past and present wilt--I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?


The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab
and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.


AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW !!!!!!! C'est tellement bon… Ça m'a "émouvi" solide!

Venez pas me dire que c'tait full dullong (dull et long, pour ceux qui viennent pas du coin): j'ai enlevé environ 40 pages de texte dans le rappel musical des mots écrits.

Wow, merci Poète Barbu. Pendant un instant, tout ce que tu disais était tellement fascinant que j'en oubliais ma récolte de petits pois sur Farmville.

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Le 22ième siècle vous remercie de votre présence, et espère que vous passez un agréable moment en compagnie de votre perruque.