07/09/07
Métaphores d'un été (2)
Chaque fois que je montais travailler là haut, cette porte là me faisait comme rentrer chez Poe.
J'ai aimé la rupture, l'alternance, les bras qui soulèvent et toute l'eau qui s'en va, la saine fatigue, à alterner avec l'écran la nuit qui brille de toutes ces phrases qui se sont écrites avec peine et passion, insatisfaction de tout ce qui reste dans mes notes et ne sera pas lu, pas encore. C'est normal, bien sûr que c'est normal, l'insatisfaction, la frustration, les mémoires de fin d'étude sont fait pour ça. Et ça n'est même pas fini. 
Métaphores d'un été
The Diver
Sank through easeful
azure. Flower
creatures flashed and
shimmered there–
lost images
fadingly remembered.
Swiftly descended
into canyon of cold
nightgreen emptiness.
Freefalling, weightless
as in dreams of
wingless flight,
plunged through infra-
space and came to
the dead ship,
carcass that swarmed with
voracious life.
Angelfish, their
lively blue and
yellow prised from
darkness by the
flashlight’s beam,
thronged her portholds.
Moss of bryozoans
blurred, obscured her
metal. Snappers,
gold groups explored her,
fearless of bubbling
manfish. I entered
the wreck, awed by her silence,
feeling more keenly
the iron cold.
With flashlight probing
fogs of water
saw the sad slow
dance of gilded
chairs, the 
ectoplasmic
swirl of garments,
drowned instruments
of buoyancy,
drunken shoes. Then
livid gesturings,
eldritch hide and
seek of laughing
faces. I yearned to
find those hidden
ones, to fling aside
the mask and call to them,
yield to rapturous
whisperings, have
done with self and
every dinning
vain complexity.
Yet in languid
frenzy strove, as
one freezing fights off
sleep desiring sleep;
strove against the
cancelling arms that
suddenly surrounded
me, fled the numbing
kisses that I craved.
Reflex of life-wish?
Respirator’s brittle
belling? Swam from
the ship somehow;
somehow began the
measured rise.
Robert Hayden (1962)