Philippe Jaccottet
from Cahier de Verdure
Rose, sudden as a rose
appearing in the cold season.
There is no snow
but much water streaming boldly down the rocks
and violets full in my path.
Green water coloured by the grass.
Rose, open door of the year.
Like the secret rose on cheeks,
snow vanishing before it touches ground,
beneficent.
This green combe hangs suspended, without flower or bird. It is a green terrace, the clouds hurry over it, they rise like flocks from a cold and invisible cavern dug out somewhere behind. It is a pasture where for a long time now no sheep have grazed.
In the brilliance that grows hazy against the light, it is a sort of grassy hammock, the air keen up above but soft near the earth, a sheepfold the colour of old ivory, like a lamp left burning in daylight, like the moon in fact, the moon
you feel appearing, the milky breast.
Go back to those mountain lakes, those meadows metamorphosed into emeralds. Perhaps nothing will drink from them ever again, perhaps that is why they are visible now. Mountain emeralds, just as you might surprise a beast in
flight. And the spring is a luminous dust.
*
The rain has returned on leaves that in a few days have multiplied and thickened. As though a shade were imprisoned in that fragile cage.
The happy increase of the leaves, under the rain. In a few days, what grottoes and pavilions! Or sombre wardrobes, and dresses in them, shining dimly.
As when a scrap of mist dawdles over a spring that has taken the colour of the plants that shelter it: a misted turmoil. The veil that dulls and sharpens the violence risen from the depths.
Beings never seen, as though seated under clouds lined silver by the moon.
Before you cross once and for all into the company of shades, write that there is no higher heaven than this spring of water the colour of grasses.
appearing in the cold season.
There is no snow
but much water streaming boldly down the rocks
and violets full in my path.
Green water coloured by the grass.
Rose, open door of the year.
Like the secret rose on cheeks,
snow vanishing before it touches ground,
beneficent.
This green combe hangs suspended, without flower or bird. It is a green terrace, the clouds hurry over it, they rise like flocks from a cold and invisible cavern dug out somewhere behind. It is a pasture where for a long time now no sheep have grazed.
In the brilliance that grows hazy against the light, it is a sort of grassy hammock, the air keen up above but soft near the earth, a sheepfold the colour of old ivory, like a lamp left burning in daylight, like the moon in fact, the moon
you feel appearing, the milky breast.
Go back to those mountain lakes, those meadows metamorphosed into emeralds. Perhaps nothing will drink from them ever again, perhaps that is why they are visible now. Mountain emeralds, just as you might surprise a beast in
flight. And the spring is a luminous dust.
*
The rain has returned on leaves that in a few days have multiplied and thickened. As though a shade were imprisoned in that fragile cage.
The happy increase of the leaves, under the rain. In a few days, what grottoes and pavilions! Or sombre wardrobes, and dresses in them, shining dimly.
As when a scrap of mist dawdles over a spring that has taken the colour of the plants that shelter it: a misted turmoil. The veil that dulls and sharpens the violence risen from the depths.
Beings never seen, as though seated under clouds lined silver by the moon.
Before you cross once and for all into the company of shades, write that there is no higher heaven than this spring of water the colour of grasses.
Translated by Helen ConstatineDavid Constatine
Page(s) 71-72
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