![\"Macgleopomme\"](\"https:\/\/mloeudo7ye9b.i.optimole.com\/w:auto\/h:auto\/q:mauto\/f:best\/http:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/11\/Pomme.jpg\" "\\"Pomme\\"")
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Anjela Duval<\/em>, raconte dans Fleur de pommier<\/em> les fleurs des pommiers colorant les quatre coins de l\u2019horizon, les paysans disparus mais toujours pr\u00e9sents \u00e0 travers les arbres qu\u2019ils ont greff\u00e9s et le merveilleux travail des abeilles portant les pollens d\u2019une fleur \u00e0 l\u2019autre symbole de la vie toujours renouvel\u00e9e.<\/p>\n Bleu\u00f1v Avalo\u00f9<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n E pevar c\u2019horn an dremmwel<\/em><\/p>\n Avalenned e bleu\u00f1v<\/em><\/p>\n War an uhel war an izel<\/em><\/p>\n Strewet war gement kleuz.<\/em><\/p>\n Treid aval-red, bet imboudet<\/em><\/p>\n Gant kouerien brema\u00f1 er vered,<\/em><\/p>\n Marv pell \u2019zo lod anezhe<\/em><\/p>\n Met o labour bepred aze.<\/em><\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n O vleunia\u00f1 bep bloaz un drugar<\/em><\/p>\n Bokidi frondus war bep barr<\/em><\/p>\n Gwenan o frao\u00f1val da greisteiz<\/em><\/p>\n E kalon pep bleu\u00f1venn nevez<\/em><\/p>\n Ha kablus-bras \u2019velkent an den<\/em><\/p>\n Pa diskar, hep keuz, un avalenn<\/em><\/p>\n H\u00earezh kenedus e dado\u00f9<\/em><\/p>\n M\u2019o lezo d\u2019e vugaligo\u00f9.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Dylan Thomas<\/em>, barde gallois et grand alchimiste du verbe, nous rappelle dans Fern hill<\/em> (la colline des foug\u00e8res) <\/em>le paradis perdu, celui que nous avons tenu dans nos mains, mais n’avons su accepter, ni aimer. Cela commence \u00e9videmment par\u00a0:<\/p>\n Au temps o\u00f9 j\u2019\u00e9tais insouciant sous les pommiers en fleurs\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n Fern Hill<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs And as I was green and carefree, famous amoung the barns All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Le chilien Pablo Neruda<\/em> utilise lui le quotidien pour faire de la po\u00e9sie, si bien que son quotidien semble travers\u00e9 par des forces et des lumi\u00e8res qu\u2019il per\u00e7oit et qu\u2019il s\u2019efforce de r\u00e9v\u00e9ler aux autres dans ses textes. Il raconte dans cette ode \u00e0 la pomme<\/em>, une pomme qui fut objet de querelles et de d\u00e9saccord selon bien des croyances et qui prend une toute autre dimension sous sa plume.<\/p>\n oda a la manzana<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n A ti, manzana, Siempre Cuando mordemos Yo quiero <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n L\u2019\u0153uvre de l\u2019am\u00e9ricain Robert Frost<\/em> est un hommage \u00e0 la nature et \u00e0 la vie rurale. Il publie un livre tous les cinq ou six ans (soit seulement une dizaine en 40 ans), mais obtient quatre fois le prix Pullitzer<\/em>. Po\u00e8te de la solitude c\u2019est un louangeur de la nature, qui raconte\u00a0dans Apr\u00e8s la cueillette des pommes\u00a0<\/em>comment les choses nous reviennent le soir apr\u00e8s la journ\u00e9e.<\/p>\n J\u2019\u00e9tais d\u00e9j\u00e0 bien engag\u00e9, sur le chemin du sommeil, Et je pouvais dire quelle forme mon r\u00eave allait prendre. Des pommes g\u00e9antes apparaissent et disparaissent\u2026 \u2026 je sens aussi l\u2019\u00e9chelle qui tangue, pendant que les branches des pommiers plient.<\/em><\/p>\n After apple-picking<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n My long two-pointed ladder\u2019s sticking through a tree <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Note\u00a0: Que les francophones se rassurent, on trouve assez facilement les traductions fran\u00e7aises de ces textes (pas toujours tr\u00e8s justes car c\u2019est difficile de traduire de la po\u00e9sie) sur Internet, sauf peut-\u00eatre pour Anjela Duval.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Il n\u2019est pas forc\u00e9ment besoin d\u2019un crayon pour dessiner une pomme. Les po\u00e8tes y arrivent tr\u00e8s bien avec des mots, souvent tr\u00e8s simples. J\u2019en ai rassembl\u00e9 ici quelques uns\u00a0 de… Lire la suite »Raconte moi une pomme !<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"neve_meta_sidebar":"","neve_meta_container":"","neve_meta_enable_content_width":"","neve_meta_content_width":0,"neve_meta_title_alignment":"","neve_meta_author_avatar":"","neve_post_elements_order":"","neve_meta_disable_header":"","neve_meta_disable_footer":"","neve_meta_disable_title":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-308","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-contes"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/308","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=308"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/308\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":343,"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/308\/revisions\/343"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=308"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=308"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.macgleo.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=308"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}<\/a><\/p>\n
\nAbout the lilting house as the grass was green,
\nThe night above the dingle starry,
\nTime let me hail and climb
\nGolden in the heydays of his eyes,
\nAnd honoured amoung wagons I was prince of the apple towns
\nAnd once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
\nTrail with the daisies and barley
\nDown the rivers of the windfall light.<\/p>\n
\nAbout the happy yard ans singing as the farm was home,
\nIl the sun that is young once only,
\nTime let me play and be
\nGolden in the mercy of his means,
\nAnd green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
\nSang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
\nAnd the sabbath rang slowly
\nIn the pebbles of the holy streams.<\/p>\n
\nFields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
\nAnd playing, lovely and watery
\nAnd fire green as grass.
\nAnd nightly under the simple stars
\nAs I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
\nAll the moon long I heard, blessed amoung stables, the nightjars
\nFlying with the ricks, and the horses
\nFlashing into the dark.<\/p>\n
\nWith the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder : it was all
\nShining, it was Adam and maiden,
\nThe sky gathered again
\nAnd the sun grew round that very day.
\nSo it must have been after the birth of the simple light
\nIn the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
\nOut of the whinnying green stable
\nOn to the fields of praise.<\/p>\n
\nUnder the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
\nIn the sun born over et over,
\nI ran my heedless ways,
\nMy wishes raced through the house high hay
\nAnd nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
\nIn all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
\nBefore the children green and golden
\nFollow him out of grace.<\/p>\n
\nUp to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
\nIn the moon that is always rising,
\nNor that riding to sleep
\nI should hear him fly with the high fields
\nAnd wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
\nOh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
\nTime held me green and dying
\nThough I sang in my chains like the sea.<\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nquiero
\ncelebrarte
\nllen\u00e1ndome
\ncon tu nombre
\nla boca,
\ncomi\u00e9ndote.<\/em><\/p>\n
\neres nueva como nada
\no nadie,
\nsiempre
\nreci\u00e9n ca\u00edda
\ndel Para\u00edso:
\nplena
\ny pura
\nmejilla arrebolada
\nde la aurora!
\nQu\u00e9 dif\u00edciles
\nson
\ncomparados
\ncontigo
\nlos frutos de la tierra,
\nlas celulares uvas,
\nlos mangos
\ntenebrosos,
\nlas huesudas
\nciruelas, los higos
\nsubmarinos:
\nt\u00fa eres pomada pura,
\npan fragante,
\nqueso
\nde la vegetaci\u00f3n.<\/em><\/p>\n
\ntu redonda inocencia
\nvolvemos
\npor un instante
\na ser
\ntambi\u00e9n reci\u00e9n creadas criaturas:
\na\u00fan tenemos algo de manzana.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nuna abundancia
\ntotal, la multiplicaci\u00f3n
\nde tu familia,
\nquiero
\nuna ciudad,
\nuna rep\u00fablica,
\nun r\u00edo Mississipi
\nde manzanas,
\ny en sus orillas
\nquiero ver
\na toda
\nla poblaci\u00f3n
\ndel mundo
\nunida, reunida,
\nen el acto m\u00e1s simple de la tierra:
\nmordiendo una manzana.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\nToward heaven still,
\nAnd there\u2019s a barrel that I didn\u2019t fill
\nBeside it, and there may be two or three
\nApples I didn\u2019t pick upon some bough.
\nBut I am done with apple-picking now.
\nEssence of winter sleep is on the night,
\nThe scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
\nI cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
\nI got from looking through a pane of glass
\nI skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
\nAnd held against the world of hoary grass.
\nIt melted, and I let it fall and break.
\nBut I was well
\nUpon my way to sleep before it fell,
\nAnd I could tell
\nWhat form my dreaming was about to take.
\nMagnified apples appear and disappear,
\nStem end and blossom end,
\nAnd every fleck of russet showing clear.
\nMy instep arch not only keeps the ache,
\nIt keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
\nI feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
\nAnd I keep hearing from the cellar bin
\nThe rumbling sound
\nOf load on load of apples coming in.
\nFor I have had too much
\nOf apple-picking: I am overtired
\nOf the great harvest I myself desired.
\nThere were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
\nCherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
\nFor all
\nThat struck the earth,
\nNo matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
\nWent surely to the cider-apple heap
\nAs of no worth.
\nOne can see what will trouble
\nThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
\nWere he not gone,
\nThe woodchuck could say whether it\u2019s like his
\nLong sleep, as I describe its coming on,
\nOr just some human sleep.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n