THE BURNT OTHER SIDE
The rose of burning and the spirit’s wind
Have bartered snow
Dove in the distance is this flake of light
Which becomes tear or dream
This side of day where she who sleeps
Awakes a bride to fire
And all these woods of long desire their backs to rain
Our shaping tears –
This country has in me its lamp of shade
In the heart’s labyrinths a going to sleep
As a tear is child to another tear
At the end, the unheard of, a pure dragonfly
Escapes at the point of being, trembling there
Keep me by air bound to the edge of trees
And the spirit’s blue
Where suffering is naked in its nails
For a real morning of unnatural dew
The country red and clear
And broken up beneath the doves of clouds
Ah ! Kill then these doves
On the anvil beating out their shadow
She who desires with the geraniums
White the knots leave by night
To set up snares in the invisible
Keep me by claws and roses
Within the water’s arms
My slow garden, my rose garden, my rose
Where soon the fruit shall form
Under the mothering cloud
In this clear country
Doomed to dragonflies
Keep me within the star’s geometries .
As the dune’s angel keeps his wing
Between the sky and the sky’s emptying
Thanks to my friend the archer breathing in
The smell of water
Soon the fruit
In the bowl ofthis eye-lash garden
Where is undone before the marble wind
His living love
Above the rose-bushes falling to the sea
In their salt dream
Dark and wind-golden is the dead child
Ô pierced by a sword
His tree-tear eyes
His eyes of nesting tears
Purer was his death than tender life
In the burning of the star-spirit
Purer was his death than life
Like a dew-statue that became a flame
And what a life or lamp that of the sleeper ?
The heart, the heart gathers about its crystal
In the perfection of this nocturnal garden
Of finger-nails together with the moon
This spirit child
I wanted him more naked than the river
In which the lovers sleep
Among the dewy grasses of their limbs
To where beyond the river – a red place
Their exiled colour pure and alone
Sheds light on all
A pair of lovers that the clouds desire
That wait as matter till it is their hour
This spirit child
His coming to us here and then again
Amidst a sun of tears
Behind the trees one sees him then he’s lost then he returns and dies
Then comes again through by – ways of the heart
Even to where as here we ‘re held by drought
Our fingers’ crumbling rains
The face’s ship sailing before childhood
The heart circumcised, at a fasting table
Keep me within the circus of the leaves
In that invisible
Where the hand touches the cold lamp
In naïve surprise
At its own shining
Keep me through the wily foxes
That sleep among the roses
For here come the rousing angels
Frightening the clouds
In this country where the light is judge
And traces the dove’s dark sign
On the women’s eyes
The rain is mixed in with the ivy ‘s substance
Caught under beauty’s being and the rain
Loved country of the image’s still life
In which the spirit on the snows’ network
Watches its own unease
Ô pure country
Such depths, left with the trees
Gone to the territories of fire
So beautiful, great trees in their green cry
Purer than pure, their cry, a snow poppy
By nightly vigil beside the snow water
A flare-path in the spirit’s burning day
To every mother must be given a silence
Within the golden fingers of her sons
In ellipse and lightening
The moon having banished sight
Stitching the eye-lids once and then again
To every mother grasses and a lyre
Through prophecy and the face’s cry
Which shines again with a near childhood water
In hidden hollows where the dove will drink
A passing vision with a naked breast
Behind the curtain of trees
There is a lamp’s load
Borne by fragility
And the men of dream
Carry the lamp tressed with their tears
Into a dusty wood
Their fingers suddenly prudent
About a star of shade
Where falls a dry fountain
The trees in the trees in the trees
Under the cold clouds
Suspended lovingly in the word
Like a chandelier of tears
The wing at one with its shining
In the reality of real night
By transparency obscurely obscure
The stenciled moon
Like a balcony of black water
Above the lovers and their limpid angels
With the hunt ail around
In the dark country where the rose is sick
Ah ! ail gone under the snow, horses and time…
Sword in our hearts and the cupped blood
Gave light to the lamps’ beauty
The tears’ sword burns in the spirit
Like a live pearl
In the nuptial castle of its burning
A burning it is, a castle
To burn man in his ropes of living water
The lamp is there : is it
A black prophet to speak a black language
When the fruit is rotting
And out of enigma the heart makes itself
Clear to be dowsed in quick lime
Where mumbling – barely asleep – death
Is disturbed by a torrid sky ?
In this country of unshed tears
Is the beauty of the dead, their eye-lashes
Are a lamp of sharp cold and live
Is the tear torn from their body
A burning tear alive
In the sleepless night ô tear
Thinking of the body so black and pure
That there comes another tear in transparency
The idea still obscure, the earth
Dreaming this and its white river
The field with its curling corn stalks
Flows to the clear house
That sleeps in snow
For there the snow grape has fallen
Offered in secret to the nightingale
Who drinks the summer wine
And speaks with the lion
In the dear wood of summer’s nightingales
Because of the snow
The dark woman in her shawl of water
Has gone deprived of death
With at her throat the clear sword of tears
… and all was of earth here and of trees
In the light with its elusive name
On this side of day that’s near to death
With, so fresh, the river calling her name
On this side of day newly asleep
Who wakes and her face is dark
And her hair is a woman’s and they sleep
And his face is dark and he smiles
Then we have been seized by images
Then left the seized again
Near the great throbbing trees so pure of earth
That the night – alive only in them
Round itself living to a living source
As a rose is lost with the wind
It is again snow summer and it is
The bare grapes’cold sorrow
translated by Heather Dohollau
NEEDLE
Stangers chatting without words
on all the balconies of night
Death waits in every needle’s eye
But the cautious roses withdrew
from this circus act
In their long lasting truth
Thoughts without angels
Here I am with my pierced back
screwed onto chairs
The sharpened eye in my burst head
Face and body
under the harsh dictations of rain
Traduction de Carina Barone
Publications en anglais
Lire aussi 
Cold Water Shielded