René Charles
rené char
June 14, 1907 - February 19, 1988.
French poet. Born in Isle, southern France. In 1924 he studied at the Marseille Business School, and after graduation he served two years in the military, where he came into contact with the Surrealists. In 1928, he published his first collection of poems, The Bell Floating Through the Atrium. The subsequent ** Library (1929) was praised by Éluard and Breton. He went to Paris, where he co-wrote Slow Down (1930) with Breton and Éluard, and co-edited the twelfth issue of The Surrealist Revolution, becoming an active figure in the Surrealist group. In 1934, he published a collection of poems, The Hammer Without a Master, which showed that he parted ways with Surrealism. Enlisted in World War II. After the defeat of the French army, he led his hometown guerrillas to be active in the Alps and carry out resistance movements. The publication of the 1938-1945 poetry collection "The Pages of Ipnos" after the war marked a glimmer of light in his mind after the victory of the war. However, he was soon disappointed by the status quo, and he agreed with the existentialist thesis that "the world is absurd", but did not advocate action with a little optimism and remained a fighter. The poems written when he lived in seclusion in his hometown after the war, lashing out and ridiculing all kinds of irrational phenomena in society, although they have an idyllic style, still contain profound meanings and political overtones, and are full of philosophy. Other collections of poems include The Early People (1950), Serenity to Enraged (aphoristic poem, 1951), Anger and Mystery (1948), The Sun of Water (1949), In Search of a Base and a Mountain (1955), Conversation on the Archipelago (1962) and Co-Appearance (1965). There are also theatrical poems "Claire" (1949), among others.
Sorg River. A song for Yvonne.
Leap up too early to set off, the river without companions, give your passionate face to the children of my hometown.
The river where the lightning ended and where my house began, the river that rolled the gravel of my reason to the border of oblivion.
O river, the earth trembles with you, and the sun restless, let every poor man harvest thy bread in his night.
Often punished, often lonely river.
The river of our ruthless apprentices, there is no wind that does not bend over the crest of your awakened waves.
The empty soul, the tattered and the doubtful, the unfolding of the ancient misfortune, the elm, the compassion of the river of this book is also too good. Impettuous, feverish, slaughterer, the sun plunges its plough into the river of lies.
The river of those who are better than us, the river of clear mist, the river of lamps that freeze the shadows around it.
Respect the rivers of dreams, the rivers that rust iron, the rivers where the stars keep their shadows from the sea.
The rivers that generate electricity, the rivers that scream into their watery entrances, the rivers that nibble on grapes and announce the hurricanes of new wine.
In this crazy prison world there is a river of indestructible hearts that keeps us violent and keeps us friends with those bees on the horizon.
Swifts. A swift with too wide wings, swirling around the house and screaming its joyful swifts. Heart, so are you.
It depletes the thunder. It is sown in the calm sky. If it touches the ground, it shatters.
Its counterpart is the house swallow, the familiar thing it loaths. What is the value of the lace of the tower?
Its silence reaches the darkest of deep caverns. No one lives in a cramped space than it is.
In the long light of summer, it will flash in the shadows, through the midnight curtains.
No gaze can hold on to it. It screams for its only existence.
A lanky gun was about to shoot it down. Heart, so are you.
Loyalty. There was my lover walking on the streets of the city. She had been at different times, and it didn't matter which direction she was going. She's no longer my lover, anyone can talk to her. She no longer remembers: who really loved her?
She made a promise as she glanced for someone worthy of her. The space she stepped on was my loyalty. She follows hope and then discardes it thoughtlessly. She dominates and does not participate.
I live in her depths, a joyful shipwreck. Unbeknownst to her, my loneliness was her treasure. On that great meridian of her ascension, my freedom protrudes into her depths.
There was my lover walking on the streets of the city. She had been at different times, and it didn't matter which direction she was going. She's no longer my lover, anyone can talk to her. She no longer remembers: who did love her, and shone her from afar, lest she fall?
Advice from the guards.
The fruit that bursts under the knife, the beauty that is most evocative when someone reacts, the dawn that bites like pincers, the lover of a man seeking to break up, the woman in an apron, the fingernails that scratch through the walls:
Run! Fast!
In despair. This freshwater well that tastes like a wild fowl is an ocean or nothing.
I no longer expect you to be open to me, or to the trembling waters beneath your deep surface.
Coming up to me, joyful and sweet, dense and dark.
A thick splash of water went straight to my mouth, where the tears were so absolutely victorious), the well of memory, the heart in retreat and battle. ”
Let your anchor sleep in my sand, and beneath the storm of salt that your head reigns, O poet of chaos And rejoice, for I still care about your preparations for the crossing! ”
Tincture. When the harvest is etched on the copperplate of the sun, a lark sings about the end of youth on the fault of the gale. The autumn dawn, adorned with pieces of lenses shattered by bullets, will echo in three months.
Restore their ......”
Restoring what was no longer in them, they would see the harvest again contained in the stalk and swayed on the grass.
Teach them to understand the twelve months of their face from fall to ascension, and they will cherish their emptiness until they reach their next wish;
For in the ashes there is nothing to destroy or to delight in;
And to those who can see the fruitful fruits at the end of the earth.
Failure is nothing, even if everything is lost.
Adolescence with a slap in the face.
The same slaps that threw him to the ground projected him far ahead of his life, towards the days to come, when his bleeding would no longer be caused by a single act of cruelty. Like a shrub comforted by its rhizome, struggling to reach out of its wounded branches from its strong trunk, he will retreat back into the silence and innocence of this realization. Finally he will loosen, flee, and attain supreme happiness. He will arrive at the meadows and the reed hedges, and he will listen to their soft mud with a good voice, and their dull rustling he will listen to. It seemed that the noblest and most enduring things created by the earth had received him, as if to compensate him.
So he will start again and again until he no longer has to flee and can be in the crowd: upright, understands the needs of others, is more vulnerable, and is stronger.
Translated by Huang Canran