Papagrebou, born in sixty-two (tempo tempo)
and in righteous Alsace grew, a layman (heathen!)
Beneath the eye of god the father, preparing
his own invasion: first Paris, then Nantes, Bordeaux, now Brieuil:
the wild heart is everywhere.
Papagrebou! This is not how one holds his pen,
nor how art, the fine sort, is done,
and your psycho Mickeys do no amuse us,
have you learned nothing?”
“Au contraire,” says Papa, older, wiser, smacking
his lips at the delectation of his own citation,
“I unlearned in order to learn. A far more efficient means
for extracting the unadulterated juice
of each little death of the tortured artist.”
Papa goes to his workshop – to paint, of course –
and there our eastern savage taunts and tests
and makes his mess until
little by little appears, amid the threads and tatters,
a figure, a chimera, the wild heart. Catch her, quick!,
for sometimes she slips away, and sometime he loses her,
erases her by the simple wish of revealing her,
when instead he can only search for her.
Get a grip, papa, get going, papa, scratch and dig,
through the barren humus, the maddened marl,
where nothing grows where it is sown, nothing.
Papa cries, the wine is spilt,
before the canvas, the sudden storm… until
at last the pulp, the pap sloughs off and there
there she is, the happy stroke.
As for the work ? Only time, that dirty painter,
may speak of this.
GRAND MERCI à MICKEY COHEN pour la traduction-adaptation