De "la cueillettes des mûres" de Pierre Tanguy à "Blackberrying" de Sylvia Plath

Le rayon "poésies" de Dialogues est mon lieu de perdition préféré en ce moment..

Hier, "la cueillette des mûres" de Pierre Tanguy a attiré irrésistiblement ma main.

Ce titre évoque tant de souvenirs d'enfance, que j'ouvre aussitôt le petit recueil :

On cueille les mûres avant la rentrée.

La rentrée des classes.

Cueillir des mûres,

c'est admettre la fin de l'été,

des vacances sous les grands nuages blancs.

On a le cœur un peu serré.

extrait : page 29 - Éditions la Part Commune

Bien sûr, je ne peux reposer le recueil et repars en sa compagnie, chargée d'autres ouvrages.

Arrivée à la maison, je le lis d'une traite, l'avale goulûment et découvre au fil des pages, les auteurs qu'il a convoqués dans cette cueillette.

Ce matin "Blackberrying" de Sylvia Plath que j'ai trouvé en version originale.

Beauté de la langue anglaise qui crée un mot unique, là où nous devons en combiner plusieurs.. Cela devient même un mot-clé pour trouver des illustrations pour ce post...

Blackberrying - By Sylvia Plath

Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,   
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.   
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,   
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me   
To the hills’ northern face, and the face is orange rock   
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space   
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths   
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

Notes:

NOTE: The third line of the third stanza has been corrected to read "Slapping its phantom laundry in my face" instead of "Gapping its phantom laundry in my face." [2/23/11]
Copyright Credit: Sylvia Plath, “Blackberrying” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1960, 1965, 1971, 1981 by the Estate of Sylvia Plath. Editorial matter copyright © 1981 by Ted Hughes. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)