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PAROLES
In the years immediately following World War II, Jacques Prévert spoke directly to and for the French who had come of age during the German Occupation. First published in 1946 by Les Editions de Minuit, a press with its origins in the Underground, Paroles met with enormous success, and there were several hundred thousand copies in print by the time these first translations in English were published by City Lights in 1958. Today Prévert speaks out in a voice still attuned to our times, for the human condition (which is always his focus) has not changed. In fact, man's inhumanity to man would seem to have intensified, making these poems ever more touching, ever more prescient.
320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1946
226 people are currently reading
6115 people want to read
About the author
Jacques Prévert
306 books362 followersJacques Prévert est un poète et scénariste français, né le 4 février 1900 à Neuilly-sur-Seine, et mort le 11 avril 1977 à Omonville-la-Petite (Manche). Auteur d'un premier succès, le recueil de poèmes, Paroles, il devint un poète populaire grâce à son langage familier et à ses jeux sur les mots. Ses poèmes sont depuis lors célèbres dans le monde francophone et massivement appris dans les écoles françaises. Il a également écrit des scénarios pour le cinéma où il est un des artisans du réalisme poétique.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 302 reviews
June 15, 2024
Like the little black dress that needs only perfume, these poems show restraint but are playful. Worth opening this book for one alone. "Alicante" keeps to essentials. I only wish the book had more love poems. This one teases me to ask for more. Five stars for all the joy packed into its few words. Here it is in its English translation and original French.
"Alicante"
An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet present of the present
Cool of night
Warmth of my life.
"Alicante"
Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux present du present
Fraicheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie.
"Alicante"
An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet present of the present
Cool of night
Warmth of my life.
"Alicante"
Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux present du present
Fraicheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie.
January 7, 2019
This is Jacques Prévert's first collection of poems, published in 1946, and yet we can already appreciate the whole range of his fully developed skills and interests, perfectly displayed in this amazing masterpiece.
Because Prévert achieved in poetry what Picasso achieved in art: the perfection of polymorphism.
As the Spanish genius mastered any conceivable style and technique in visual art, Prévert ws able to explore any possible dimension of poetry: from his well-known politically committed realism (the grotesque description of a presidential dinner, in which intellectuals, politicians and wealthy industrialists are portayed as macabre puppets or masks reminding of J. Ensor's) to his famous odes to love, both physical ("Alicante", one of my faves) and lyrically pure ("Cet Amour", This Love); from his funny puns with erotic undertones to the merciless 'j'accuse' denouncing the hypocrisy of the social, political and religious institutions of his - our - time (the ferocious, hilarious tale of the French worker who goes to Rome and meets the Pope).
"Paroles" is the beginning of an intense relationship with the inner truth of Life, the naive curiosity of a man walking around and looking at the people, the houses, the changing landscape of a city he identifies with the whole world in an almost pantheistic sense of empathy.
War was over in 1946, after having scattered its load of material and human debris all over the world... layer upon layer.
The city was being enthusiastically rebuilt, but the spiritual wounds of the people were still bleeding: loss, disenchantment, self-abasement, bewilderment. The poet perceives the latent violence permeating the world, a violence that goes far beyond the war and takes the shape of numberless abuses and acts of injustice. "L'Effort humain", Human Effort, is an elegy to the humble people of any time and nationality, men and women struggling to (re)build the world... and dying to be forgotten and replaced ("Chanson dans le sang", Song in Blood).
Prévert's social commitment is not merely part of a political agenda: it's urgent and honest, an impulse from the depth of his soul as well as a declaration of his rational mind. It's not political, it's moral. Human.
The poet is often classified as an atheist: quite unjustly so. Well, Prévert is certainly not a fervent believer - least of all a devoted follower of the Church, seen as anachronistic, superstitious and overtly repressive, walking hand in hand with so many evil powers of this world. But there's so much more than that in his so-called blasphemous attitude, something different and almost moving: the poet's atheism is indeed a tension toward a true spirituality, although entangled with his earthly affection for mankind (take his "Pater noster", for instance...); it's a dream of peace, a new childhood of the heart that he claims for in these wonderful poems of hope and sorrow.
As always in Prévert, love is the only way out, the path leading to our redemption. Love in all its forms and intensity: body and soul. A love so shameless and pure that it transcends the boundaries of the individual, so that "Cet amour" culminates in what can be considered the ultimate (atheistic?) prayer of mankind:
(...)
'I beg you
For you for me for all who love each other
And who loved each other
Yes I cry out to it
For you for me and for all the others
That I don't know
Stay here
There where you are
There where you were in the past
Stay here
Don't move
Don't go away
We who loved each other
We've forgotten you
Don't forget us
We had only you on the earth
Don't let us become cold
Always so much farther away
And anywhere
Give us a sign of life
Much later on a dark night
In the forest of memory
Appear suddenly
Hold your hand out to us
And save us.'
Our relationships - their delights, regrets, expectations, disappointments; our bursts of passion, desire, tenderness... this is all that remains when grief, anger, selfishness, fear are wiped away and our eyes finally start seeing through the fog.
That's the true community of mankind. Once again, poetry opens the door and lets us in.
Because Prévert achieved in poetry what Picasso achieved in art: the perfection of polymorphism.
As the Spanish genius mastered any conceivable style and technique in visual art, Prévert ws able to explore any possible dimension of poetry: from his well-known politically committed realism (the grotesque description of a presidential dinner, in which intellectuals, politicians and wealthy industrialists are portayed as macabre puppets or masks reminding of J. Ensor's) to his famous odes to love, both physical ("Alicante", one of my faves) and lyrically pure ("Cet Amour", This Love); from his funny puns with erotic undertones to the merciless 'j'accuse' denouncing the hypocrisy of the social, political and religious institutions of his - our - time (the ferocious, hilarious tale of the French worker who goes to Rome and meets the Pope).
"Paroles" is the beginning of an intense relationship with the inner truth of Life, the naive curiosity of a man walking around and looking at the people, the houses, the changing landscape of a city he identifies with the whole world in an almost pantheistic sense of empathy.
War was over in 1946, after having scattered its load of material and human debris all over the world... layer upon layer.
The city was being enthusiastically rebuilt, but the spiritual wounds of the people were still bleeding: loss, disenchantment, self-abasement, bewilderment. The poet perceives the latent violence permeating the world, a violence that goes far beyond the war and takes the shape of numberless abuses and acts of injustice. "L'Effort humain", Human Effort, is an elegy to the humble people of any time and nationality, men and women struggling to (re)build the world... and dying to be forgotten and replaced ("Chanson dans le sang", Song in Blood).
Prévert's social commitment is not merely part of a political agenda: it's urgent and honest, an impulse from the depth of his soul as well as a declaration of his rational mind. It's not political, it's moral. Human.
The poet is often classified as an atheist: quite unjustly so. Well, Prévert is certainly not a fervent believer - least of all a devoted follower of the Church, seen as anachronistic, superstitious and overtly repressive, walking hand in hand with so many evil powers of this world. But there's so much more than that in his so-called blasphemous attitude, something different and almost moving: the poet's atheism is indeed a tension toward a true spirituality, although entangled with his earthly affection for mankind (take his "Pater noster", for instance...); it's a dream of peace, a new childhood of the heart that he claims for in these wonderful poems of hope and sorrow.
As always in Prévert, love is the only way out, the path leading to our redemption. Love in all its forms and intensity: body and soul. A love so shameless and pure that it transcends the boundaries of the individual, so that "Cet amour" culminates in what can be considered the ultimate (atheistic?) prayer of mankind:
(...)
'I beg you
For you for me for all who love each other
And who loved each other
Yes I cry out to it
For you for me and for all the others
That I don't know
Stay here
There where you are
There where you were in the past
Stay here
Don't move
Don't go away
We who loved each other
We've forgotten you
Don't forget us
We had only you on the earth
Don't let us become cold
Always so much farther away
And anywhere
Give us a sign of life
Much later on a dark night
In the forest of memory
Appear suddenly
Hold your hand out to us
And save us.'
Our relationships - their delights, regrets, expectations, disappointments; our bursts of passion, desire, tenderness... this is all that remains when grief, anger, selfishness, fear are wiped away and our eyes finally start seeing through the fog.
That's the true community of mankind. Once again, poetry opens the door and lets us in.
November 24, 2019
در پر شکوه ترین فقرها
پدرم مادرم
زندگی را به این کودک آموختند
که زندگی کند همان گونه که خواب میبیند
تا آن هنگام که مرگ فرا رسد. ص 17 کتاب
شعر همان چیزی ست که به رؤیا میآید، چیزی ست که به خیال و تصور میآید، شعر همان چیزی ست که خواسته میشود و همان چیزی ست که پیش میآید. شعر مثل خداست که همه جا هست و هیچ جا نیست. شعر واقعیترین نام زندگی است. ص 53 کتاب
امروز چه روزی هستیم ما
ما تمام روزها هستیم
یار من
تمام زندگی هستیم
عشق من
عاشق هم هستیم و زندگی میکنیم
زندگی میکنیم و عاشق هم هستیم
و نمیدانیم زندگی چیست
و نمیدانیم روز چیست
و نمیدانیم عشق چیست. ص 216 کتاب
از میان ردیف درختان خیابان گوبلن
مجسمهی مرمرین به من علامت میدهد
یکشنبه است امروز، و سینماها شلوغ
پرندگان بر شاخسار درختان
نگاهشان به آدمهاست
و مجسمه مرا میبوسد
ولی کسی ما را نمیبیند
جز کودکی نابینا
که با انگشت ما را نشان میدهد. ص 237 کتاب
سه چوب کبریت
یکی یکی روشن در شب
اولی برای دیدن تمام رویت
دومی
برای دیدن دو چشمانت
آخری
برای دیدن لب و دهانت
و تاریکی مطلق
تا این همه را به یاد آرم
وقتی در آغوش منی. ص240 کتاب
پدرم مادرم
زندگی را به این کودک آموختند
که زندگی کند همان گونه که خواب میبیند
تا آن هنگام که مرگ فرا رسد. ص 17 کتاب
شعر همان چیزی ست که به رؤیا میآید، چیزی ست که به خیال و تصور میآید، شعر همان چیزی ست که خواسته میشود و همان چیزی ست که پیش میآید. شعر مثل خداست که همه جا هست و هیچ جا نیست. شعر واقعیترین نام زندگی است. ص 53 کتاب
امروز چه روزی هستیم ما
ما تمام روزها هستیم
یار من
تمام زندگی هستیم
عشق من
عاشق هم هستیم و زندگی میکنیم
زندگی میکنیم و عاشق هم هستیم
و نمیدانیم زندگی چیست
و نمیدانیم روز چیست
و نمیدانیم عشق چیست. ص 216 کتاب
از میان ردیف درختان خیابان گوبلن
مجسمهی مرمرین به من علامت میدهد
یکشنبه است امروز، و سینماها شلوغ
پرندگان بر شاخسار درختان
نگاهشان به آدمهاست
و مجسمه مرا میبوسد
ولی کسی ما را نمیبیند
جز کودکی نابینا
که با انگشت ما را نشان میدهد. ص 237 کتاب
سه چوب کبریت
یکی یکی روشن در شب
اولی برای دیدن تمام رویت
دومی
برای دیدن دو چشمانت
آخری
برای دیدن لب و دهانت
و تاریکی مطلق
تا این همه را به یاد آرم
وقتی در آغوش منی. ص240 کتاب
December 9, 2023
ولین مواجهه من با شعر فرانسه ترم دوم دانشگاه موقع شنیدنِ «Déjeuner du matin»ـه ژک پرور بود. کلا هر وقت پای شعر میومد وسط، یکی از نوشتههای پرور رو میذاشتن جلومون: پرور بخون، پرور ترجمه کن، پرور تحلیل کن. حتی خواننده آهنگ فرانسویای که روش قفلی زده بودم هم تو گوشم مدام اسم پرور رو زمزمه میکرد. همین شد که، چون با طبق طبق ادعام جز «Petit Nicolas» کتاب فرانسویای نخونده بودم، وقتی یه تکونی به خودم دادم و رفتم کتابفروشی یه کتاب درست و حسابی انتخاب کنم، تا چشمم به «Paroles» خورد یه لحظه هم تردد نکردم برای خریدنش.
بزرگترین خصوصیت پرور اینه که با کلمات ساده و روزمره، قدرت قلمش رو به رخ میکشه. بعضی از شعرهاش اونقدر "شعر"ن که اصلاً زبان من قاصره. از همین الان هم انتخاب کردم که کدوم شعرهای پرور رو بذارم جلوی شاگردام که شاید یه روزی یکیشون بره سراغ کتاب شعر ژک پرور و یه جایی به یکی بگه که فلانی انقدر موقع خوندن شعرای این یارو بهبه و چهچه کرد که گفتم برم ببینم کی هست اصلاً... ولی الحق که چه شاعریه!
بزرگترین خصوصیت پرور اینه که با کلمات ساده و روزمره، قدرت قلمش رو به رخ میکشه. بعضی از شعرهاش اونقدر "شعر"ن که اصلاً زبان من قاصره. از همین الان هم انتخاب کردم که کدوم شعرهای پرور رو بذارم جلوی شاگردام که شاید یه روزی یکیشون بره سراغ کتاب شعر ژک پرور و یه جایی به یکی بگه که فلانی انقدر موقع خوندن شعرای این یارو بهبه و چهچه کرد که گفتم برم ببینم کی هست اصلاً... ولی الحق که چه شاعریه!
April 9, 2015
Pater noster
Notre Père qui êtes aux cieux
Restez-y
Et nous nous resterons sur la terre
Qui est quelquefois si jolie
Avec ses mystères de New York
Et puis ses mystères de Paris
Qui valent bien celui de la Trinité
Avec son petit canal de l'Ourcq
Sa grande muraille de Chine
Sa rivière de Morlaix
Ses bêtises de Cambrai
Avec son Océan Pacifique
Et ses deux bassins aux Tuileries
Avec ses bons enfants et ses mauvais sujets
Avec toutes les merveilles du monde
Qui sont là
Simplement sur la terre
Offertes à tout le monde
Éparpillées
Émerveillées elles-même d'être de telles merveilles
Et qui n'osent se l'avouer
Comme une jolie fille nue qui n'ose se montrer
Avec les épouvantables malheurs du monde
Qui sont légion
Avec leurs légionnaires
Avec leur tortionnaires
Avec les maîtres de ce monde
Les maîtres avec leurs prêtres leurs traîtres et leurs reîtres
Avec les saisons
Avec les années
Avec les jolies filles et avec les vieux cons
Avec la paille de la misère pourrissant dans l'acier des canons.
Notre Père qui êtes aux cieux
Restez-y
Et nous nous resterons sur la terre
Qui est quelquefois si jolie
Avec ses mystères de New York
Et puis ses mystères de Paris
Qui valent bien celui de la Trinité
Avec son petit canal de l'Ourcq
Sa grande muraille de Chine
Sa rivière de Morlaix
Ses bêtises de Cambrai
Avec son Océan Pacifique
Et ses deux bassins aux Tuileries
Avec ses bons enfants et ses mauvais sujets
Avec toutes les merveilles du monde
Qui sont là
Simplement sur la terre
Offertes à tout le monde
Éparpillées
Émerveillées elles-même d'être de telles merveilles
Et qui n'osent se l'avouer
Comme une jolie fille nue qui n'ose se montrer
Avec les épouvantables malheurs du monde
Qui sont légion
Avec leurs légionnaires
Avec leur tortionnaires
Avec les maîtres de ce monde
Les maîtres avec leurs prêtres leurs traîtres et leurs reîtres
Avec les saisons
Avec les années
Avec les jolies filles et avec les vieux cons
Avec la paille de la misère pourrissant dans l'acier des canons.
April 11, 2025
Beautiful poems that speak of what has been lost - what should stay lost - and what should be found after the war. There is a melancholy that permeates the poems; an understanding that things have changed...and the change must be dealt with both intrinsically and extrinsically. A friend of mine who speaks French told me this is even more pronounced in French.
August 7, 2021
"Dove vai bel carceriere
Con quella chiave macchiata di sangue
Vado a liberare la mia amata
Se sono ancora in tempo
L'avevo chiusa dentro
Teneramente crudelmente
Nella cella del mio desiderio
Nel più profondo del mio tormento
Nelle menzogne dell'avvenire
Nelle sciocchezze del giuramento
Voglio liberarla
Voglio che sia libera
E anche di dimenticarmi
E anche di lasciarmi
E anche di tornare
E di amarmi ancora
O di amare un altro
Se un giorno le va a genio
E se resto solo
E lei sarà andata via
Io serberò soltanto
Serberò tuttavia
Nel cavo delle mani
Fino alle ultime mie ore
La dolcezza dei suoi seni plasmati dall'amore."
(La canzone del carceriere)
Un inno alla libertà! Un urlo contro il senso di possesso che porta ad uccidere la persona amata quando le strade vorrebbero dividersi.
Con quella chiave macchiata di sangue
Vado a liberare la mia amata
Se sono ancora in tempo
L'avevo chiusa dentro
Teneramente crudelmente
Nella cella del mio desiderio
Nel più profondo del mio tormento
Nelle menzogne dell'avvenire
Nelle sciocchezze del giuramento
Voglio liberarla
Voglio che sia libera
E anche di dimenticarmi
E anche di lasciarmi
E anche di tornare
E di amarmi ancora
O di amare un altro
Se un giorno le va a genio
E se resto solo
E lei sarà andata via
Io serberò soltanto
Serberò tuttavia
Nel cavo delle mani
Fino alle ultime mie ore
La dolcezza dei suoi seni plasmati dall'amore."
(La canzone del carceriere)
Un inno alla libertà! Un urlo contro il senso di possesso che porta ad uccidere la persona amata quando le strade vorrebbero dividersi.
September 11, 2024
Le cancre
Il dit non avec la tête
mais il dit oui avec le coeur
il dit oui à ce qu’il aime
il dit non au professeur
il est debout
on le questionne
et tous les problèmes sont posés
soudain le fou rire le prend
et il efface tout
les chiffres et les mots
les dates et les noms
les phrases et les pièges
et malgré les menaces du maître
sous les huées des enfants prodiges
avec les craies de toutes les couleurs
sur le tableau noir du malheur
il dessine le visage du bonheur.
-----------------------------
Το στουρνάρι
Λέει όχι με το κεφάλι
Μα λέει ναι με την καρδιά
Λέει ναι σ' ό,τι αγαπά
Λέει όχι στον καθηγητή
Είναι όρθιος
Τον εξετάζουν
Και όλα τα προβλήματα εντοπίζονται
Νευρικό γέλιο τον πιάνει
Κι όλα τα σβήνει
Τους αριθμούς και τις λέξεις
Τις ημερομηνίες και τα ονόματα
Τις προτάσεις και τις παγίδες
Και παρά τις απειλές του δασκάλου
Μπρος στα γιουχαΐσματα των παιδιών-θαυμάτων
Με όλα τα χρώματα τις κιμωλίες
Στον μαυροπίνακα της δυστυχίας
Ζωγραφίζει το πρόσωπο της ευτυχίας.
(μετάφραση δική μου, της ντροπής..)
Il dit non avec la tête
mais il dit oui avec le coeur
il dit oui à ce qu’il aime
il dit non au professeur
il est debout
on le questionne
et tous les problèmes sont posés
soudain le fou rire le prend
et il efface tout
les chiffres et les mots
les dates et les noms
les phrases et les pièges
et malgré les menaces du maître
sous les huées des enfants prodiges
avec les craies de toutes les couleurs
sur le tableau noir du malheur
il dessine le visage du bonheur.
-----------------------------
Το στουρνάρι
Λέει όχι με το κεφάλι
Μα λέει ναι με την καρδιά
Λέει ναι σ' ό,τι αγαπά
Λέει όχι στον καθηγητή
Είναι όρθιος
Τον εξετάζουν
Και όλα τα προβλήματα εντοπίζονται
Νευρικό γέλιο τον πιάνει
Κι όλα τα σβήνει
Τους αριθμούς και τις λέξεις
Τις ημερομηνίες και τα ονόματα
Τις προτάσεις και τις παγίδες
Και παρά τις απειλές του δασκάλου
Μπρος στα γιουχαΐσματα των παιδιών-θαυμάτων
Με όλα τα χρώματα τις κιμωλίες
Στον μαυροπίνακα της δυστυχίας
Ζωγραφίζει το πρόσωπο της ευτυχίας.
(μετάφραση δική μου, της ντροπής..)
September 25, 2016
نشانهی دستوری
:معلم
!دانشآموز هملت-
:دانشآموز هملت
(از جایش میپرد)
...هان... چی... ببخشید... چه خبر است؟... چیست... چی شده؟-
:معلم
(ناراضی)
شما نمیتوانید مانند دیگران بگویید "حاضر"؟-
.غیرممکن است، شما هنوز در هپروت هستید
:دانشآموز هملت
!بودن یا نبودن در هپروت-
:معلم
.کافیست. اینقدر ادا درنیاورید. فعل بودن را صرف کنید. مانند دیگران، فقط همین را از شما میخواهم-
:دانشآموز هملت
To be... -
:معلم
.به فرانسه لطفن، مثل بقیه-
:دانشآموز هملت
(:چشم آقا.(صرف میکند-
من هستم یا من نیستم
تو هستی یا تو نیستی
او هست یا او نیست
...ما هستیم یا ما نیستیم
:معلم
(بیش از اندازه ناراحت)
!ولی این شما هستید که از مرحله پرت هستید، پسر جان-
:دانشآموز هملت
درست است آقا معلم-
من هستم "جایی که" من نیستم
و در واقع، بعد از فکر زیاد
باشی "جایی" که نباشی
.باز هم شاید مساله این است
:معلم
!دانشآموز هملت-
:دانشآموز هملت
(از جایش میپرد)
...هان... چی... ببخشید... چه خبر است؟... چیست... چی شده؟-
:معلم
(ناراضی)
شما نمیتوانید مانند دیگران بگویید "حاضر"؟-
.غیرممکن است، شما هنوز در هپروت هستید
:دانشآموز هملت
!بودن یا نبودن در هپروت-
:معلم
.کافیست. اینقدر ادا درنیاورید. فعل بودن را صرف کنید. مانند دیگران، فقط همین را از شما میخواهم-
:دانشآموز هملت
To be... -
:معلم
.به فرانسه لطفن، مثل بقیه-
:دانشآموز هملت
(:چشم آقا.(صرف میکند-
من هستم یا من نیستم
تو هستی یا تو نیستی
او هست یا او نیست
...ما هستیم یا ما نیستیم
:معلم
(بیش از اندازه ناراحت)
!ولی این شما هستید که از مرحله پرت هستید، پسر جان-
:دانشآموز هملت
درست است آقا معلم-
من هستم "جایی که" من نیستم
و در واقع، بعد از فکر زیاد
باشی "جایی" که نباشی
.باز هم شاید مساله این است
June 19, 2020
Fell in love with these poems right from the off and that feeling continued right through until the end! An easy 5/5 for me.
March 7, 2009
If you don't own the City Lights Paroles, do yourself a favor and pick it up.
He's right about Prevert's excesses and failures, and about his genius and relevance too.
Ferlinghetti's translations are for the most part as lucent and as loosey-goosey as the originals in most cases.
When Prevert chooses to be obtuse or clunky, Ferlinghetti respectfully follows.
If you don't understand I'm not being bitchy with what I just wrote, you probably haven't read much Prevert.
It's really the charm of the style; when he chooses to shoot himself in the foot, he does so.
And the reader enjoys it.
There really is no analogous poet in American poetry to Prevert.
You could create a Frankenstein's monster Prevert by synthesizing several American poets (probably a concoction of several early New York School Poets and certainly a brew including Kenneth Koch) I suppose, but it still wouldn't be Prevert.
I would tend to think of painters who remind me of Prevert sooner than other writers and even these would probably be French: Leger, Chagall (okay not originally French but...) and possibly somebody like Foujita.
A painter with an open Parisian heart.
I'm sure animals like that don't exist anymore. They were one of the consolations of the early and mid-twentieth century for all the other horrors it inflicted on the planet.
Usually Prevert is speaking to the entire world, but sometimes he speaks just to the French.
It's not an ignoble thing. They went through a lot together.
Ferlinghetti does a great job of contextualizing how much of this came out of the War, the Resistance and the postwar milieu.
Here's a poem I was rereadin today after quite a few years and admiring again, with Ferlinghetti's translation.
It's a very workable, rather literal translation but I want to argue with Ferlinghetti's choice of the literal translation of the last line, and particularly the last word, of the poem.
"Victor" doesn't really keep the poem dancing in the place between war and love, tournament and horserace, the way "vainqueur" does in the original poem, a mon avis.
I tend to want to translate it as something like "I await he who claims the prize."
That's probably still too stiff and not colloquial enough, but it's closer.
Perhaps the more succinct "I wait to be taken."
Something is needed which brings out the grim humor of the poem the way Prevert does with the closing line.
"I await the victor" is too sincere and sober-faced because of how it reads in English--even though in other contexts that could be a good literal translation of the line.
Just not in Prevert's poem.
Something is needed which makes it quite clear how strange and pregnant the poem is with waiting and how it needs to function in both the realms of les guerres and les amours.
It is an empathetic poem and a cautionary one for women. It's more than a little kick in the ass for anybody who wants to sit at the Penelope loom, man or woman.
This poem so reminds me of Steinarr's poem with the man on the beach, where life is similarly laid out in quick flashes like this. It's on this blog in Icelandic and English; if you want to read it, use the Search feature. And I should have had Steinarr on my list of 100 Books I realized too late!
Le Bouquet
Que faites-vous la petite fille
Avec ces fleurs fraichement coupees
Que faites-vous la jeune fille
Avec ces fleurs sechees
Que faites-vous la jolie femme
Avec ces fleurs qui se fanent
Que faites-vous la vieille femme
Avec ces fleurs quie meurent
J'attends le vainqueur.
And Ferlinghetti's translation from Paroles...
The Bouquet
What you are doing little girl
With those freshcut flowers
What are you doing there young girl
With those flowers dried flowers
What are you doing pretty woman
With those fading flowers
What are you doing there old dame
With those dying flowers
I await the victor.
He's right about Prevert's excesses and failures, and about his genius and relevance too.
Ferlinghetti's translations are for the most part as lucent and as loosey-goosey as the originals in most cases.
When Prevert chooses to be obtuse or clunky, Ferlinghetti respectfully follows.
If you don't understand I'm not being bitchy with what I just wrote, you probably haven't read much Prevert.
It's really the charm of the style; when he chooses to shoot himself in the foot, he does so.
And the reader enjoys it.
There really is no analogous poet in American poetry to Prevert.
You could create a Frankenstein's monster Prevert by synthesizing several American poets (probably a concoction of several early New York School Poets and certainly a brew including Kenneth Koch) I suppose, but it still wouldn't be Prevert.
I would tend to think of painters who remind me of Prevert sooner than other writers and even these would probably be French: Leger, Chagall (okay not originally French but...) and possibly somebody like Foujita.
A painter with an open Parisian heart.
I'm sure animals like that don't exist anymore. They were one of the consolations of the early and mid-twentieth century for all the other horrors it inflicted on the planet.
Usually Prevert is speaking to the entire world, but sometimes he speaks just to the French.
It's not an ignoble thing. They went through a lot together.
Ferlinghetti does a great job of contextualizing how much of this came out of the War, the Resistance and the postwar milieu.
Here's a poem I was rereadin today after quite a few years and admiring again, with Ferlinghetti's translation.
It's a very workable, rather literal translation but I want to argue with Ferlinghetti's choice of the literal translation of the last line, and particularly the last word, of the poem.
"Victor" doesn't really keep the poem dancing in the place between war and love, tournament and horserace, the way "vainqueur" does in the original poem, a mon avis.
I tend to want to translate it as something like "I await he who claims the prize."
That's probably still too stiff and not colloquial enough, but it's closer.
Perhaps the more succinct "I wait to be taken."
Something is needed which brings out the grim humor of the poem the way Prevert does with the closing line.
"I await the victor" is too sincere and sober-faced because of how it reads in English--even though in other contexts that could be a good literal translation of the line.
Just not in Prevert's poem.
Something is needed which makes it quite clear how strange and pregnant the poem is with waiting and how it needs to function in both the realms of les guerres and les amours.
It is an empathetic poem and a cautionary one for women. It's more than a little kick in the ass for anybody who wants to sit at the Penelope loom, man or woman.
This poem so reminds me of Steinarr's poem with the man on the beach, where life is similarly laid out in quick flashes like this. It's on this blog in Icelandic and English; if you want to read it, use the Search feature. And I should have had Steinarr on my list of 100 Books I realized too late!
Le Bouquet
Que faites-vous la petite fille
Avec ces fleurs fraichement coupees
Que faites-vous la jeune fille
Avec ces fleurs sechees
Que faites-vous la jolie femme
Avec ces fleurs qui se fanent
Que faites-vous la vieille femme
Avec ces fleurs quie meurent
J'attends le vainqueur.
And Ferlinghetti's translation from Paroles...
The Bouquet
What you are doing little girl
With those freshcut flowers
What are you doing there young girl
With those flowers dried flowers
What are you doing pretty woman
With those fading flowers
What are you doing there old dame
With those dying flowers
I await the victor.
August 30, 2015
Jacques Prévert, poeta e argumentista francês, nasceu em 1900 e morreu em 1977.
Palavras foi o seu primeiro livro de poemas o qual obteve grande sucesso, apesar, ou, por não se enquadrar nas regras "normais" deste género literário.
Recorrendo a trocadilhos e aliterações, Prévert faz das palavras música; joga com elas e tece, com ironia mordaz, críticas à igreja, à guerra, à família, ao Homem...
A maioria dos poemas são muito longos, ocupando várias páginas. Seleccionei dois pequenos, de que gostei muito. E uma canção...
1. "PARA TI MEU AMOR
Fui à feira dos pássaros
E comprei pássaros
Para ti
meu amor
Fui à feira das flores
E comprei flores
Para ti
meu amor
Fui à feira da sucata
E comprei correntes
Pesadas correntes
Para ti
meu amor
E depois fui à feira dos escravos
E procurei-te
Mas não te encontrei
meu amor"
2. "VIDA EM FAMÍLIA
A mãe faz tricô
O filho faz a guerra
A mãe acha isso natural
E o pai? O que faz o pai?
Faz negócios
A mulher faz tricô
O filho a guerra
E ele negócios
O pai acha isso natural
E o filho e o filho
O que é que o filho acha?
Não acha nada absolutamente nada
Acha que a mãe faz tricô que o pai faz negócios e que ele faz a guerra
Depois de fazer a guerra
Fará negócios com o pai
A guerra continua a mãe continua a tricotar
O pai continua a fazer negócios
O filho foi morto já não continua
O pai e a mãe vão ao cemitério
O pai e a mãe acham isso natural
A vida continua a vida com o tricô, com a guerra, com os negócios
Os negócios a guerra o tricô a guerra
Os negócios os negócios e os negócios
A vida com o cemitério."
3. Poema de Prévert (que não está em Palavras) na voz de Edith Piaf: Les Feuilles Mortes
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=8SJ1QSr...
Palavras foi o seu primeiro livro de poemas o qual obteve grande sucesso, apesar, ou, por não se enquadrar nas regras "normais" deste género literário.
Recorrendo a trocadilhos e aliterações, Prévert faz das palavras música; joga com elas e tece, com ironia mordaz, críticas à igreja, à guerra, à família, ao Homem...
A maioria dos poemas são muito longos, ocupando várias páginas. Seleccionei dois pequenos, de que gostei muito. E uma canção...
1. "PARA TI MEU AMOR
Fui à feira dos pássaros
E comprei pássaros
Para ti
meu amor
Fui à feira das flores
E comprei flores
Para ti
meu amor
Fui à feira da sucata
E comprei correntes
Pesadas correntes
Para ti
meu amor
E depois fui à feira dos escravos
E procurei-te
Mas não te encontrei
meu amor"
2. "VIDA EM FAMÍLIA
A mãe faz tricô
O filho faz a guerra
A mãe acha isso natural
E o pai? O que faz o pai?
Faz negócios
A mulher faz tricô
O filho a guerra
E ele negócios
O pai acha isso natural
E o filho e o filho
O que é que o filho acha?
Não acha nada absolutamente nada
Acha que a mãe faz tricô que o pai faz negócios e que ele faz a guerra
Depois de fazer a guerra
Fará negócios com o pai
A guerra continua a mãe continua a tricotar
O pai continua a fazer negócios
O filho foi morto já não continua
O pai e a mãe vão ao cemitério
O pai e a mãe acham isso natural
A vida continua a vida com o tricô, com a guerra, com os negócios
Os negócios a guerra o tricô a guerra
Os negócios os negócios e os negócios
A vida com o cemitério."
3. Poema de Prévert (que não está em Palavras) na voz de Edith Piaf: Les Feuilles Mortes
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=8SJ1QSr...
June 23, 2019
Tu es la lumière qui éclaire mes nuits quand il n'y a aucun sens de la vie. Que ferais-je sans toi, Jacques? Que ferions-nous sans tes mots doux qui nous consolent? Je reviens et reviendrai toujours vers toi à chaque fois que je me sens bouleversée, et là, soudainement, c'est comme tu voulais que je sois épanouie, c'est fait, et je suis soignée. Je me perds et me retrouve au fil de tes mots et je te remercie et te dois pour cela. Hélas, mon cher Jacques! Si j'avais pu te donner quelques années de mon temps sur la Terre afin que tu puisse écrire plus, je l'aurais fait de tout mon cœur. Je lis et relirai tes mots, sans aucun doute, encore et à jamais. Tu es le fidèle compagnon unique, celui qui ne disparaît jamais dans l'ombre et qui ne tombe jamais dans l'oubli. "Reste là..."
April 16, 2025
ovo je zapanjujuće loše.
da je živ, možda bi ga trebalo poslati na radionicu kreativnog pisanja kod Zvonka, da posle izda knjigu Parole iz Enklave ili kod Ognjenke Lakićević, pa da objavi knjigu: Vodič kroz parole i požare gugla.
Ne znam, možda je Francuskoj tog doba, odmah nakon Drugog svetskog rata, trebalo nešto tako sladunjavo...ali mislim da će ova knjiga sa protokom vremena samo gubiti na relevatnosti.
Posebno loša pesma:
GLUPE OPKLADE
Izvesni Blez Paskal
itd..itd...
da je živ, možda bi ga trebalo poslati na radionicu kreativnog pisanja kod Zvonka, da posle izda knjigu Parole iz Enklave ili kod Ognjenke Lakićević, pa da objavi knjigu: Vodič kroz parole i požare gugla.
Ne znam, možda je Francuskoj tog doba, odmah nakon Drugog svetskog rata, trebalo nešto tako sladunjavo...ali mislim da će ova knjiga sa protokom vremena samo gubiti na relevatnosti.
Posebno loša pesma:
GLUPE OPKLADE
Izvesni Blez Paskal
itd..itd...
April 10, 2018
love the poems
les mi feuilleton-mi nouvelle-mi poeme, pas trop
les mi feuilleton-mi nouvelle-mi poeme, pas trop
August 16, 2014
I had been seeking out Prévert’s Paroles for the past several years, but I never found it on the shelves of any of my favorite used bookstores. Occasionally, out of desperation, I might purchase a book on Amazon, but that is rare and typically only the case if it is a book that I intend to read for work (i.e., there is some sort of deadline by which I need to read a particular book) or my to-read shelf is running low on choices. But, as neither of these scenarios was the case, I simply did what I often do when seeking out a book (or for that matter an album or film): I waited until I found the book; or perhaps until the book found me, as I feel has sometimes been the case. Anyhow, I finally came across this one in the small poetry section of my new favorite used bookstore and did not hesitate for a moment to buy it, adding it to my handful of Russian classics.
I hesitated even less to read the book, and here's why: (1) I had waited a few years to find it, so it deserved to be pushed up in the to-read queue; (2) I feel that I have read considerably less poetry this year than I have in the past; (3) It is part of the City Lights Pocket Poets Series and any work that is part of that series is likely in some way – great or small – to speak to me and to re-instill in me a way of seeing the world again anew, for “the sad whip of reality” (to borrow a phrase from this book) always seems to beat out of us this way of looking at the world with fresh, innocent eyes; (4) The work is translated by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and even if something is lost in translation (as is always the case) I’d rather it be lost through a poet I greatly admire, like Ferlinghetti, rather than anyone else, for being familiar with his poetry and his worldviews I feel that I can trust him to deliver me some stunning truths and images, which are at least close to Prévert’s intention; (5) When glancing at the book I was thrilled with having the French text parallel to Ferlinghetti’s English translation; and (6) I already admired Prévert, as a humanist and a film writer (of one of the great works of cinema, Les Enfants du Paradis, nonetheless), even if I had not previously been all that well acquainted with his work as a poet.
As I drove away from the bookstore, the very poetic cover art drew me in. The book whispered for me to open it. So when I was stopped at a red light I cracked it open and started reading the translator’s note. And I was drawn in completely:
I first came upon the poetry of Jacques Prévert written on a paper tablecloth in St. Brieuc in 1944. This so romantic, sentimental circumstance is no doubt at the root of my effort to perpetrate Prévert upon England and America. Bits and pieces of Prévert’s poetry have been published in anthologies and periodicals in English, and I have surveyed most of them with a watering eye. Generally, he has suffered atrociously from constipated translation and trivial choice of poems. And the poem on the paper tablecloth is perhaps as typical of the way Prévert got around in France in the mid-forties as it is of his poetry itself – a poetry (his worst critics will tell you) which is perfectly suited to paper tablecloths, and existing always on as fine a line between sentiment and sentimentality as any that Charlie Chaplin ever teetered on.
What Prévert means to us is naturally quite a different thing than what he has meant to the French. Many of the poems in PAROLES grew out of World War II and the Occupation of France, and it is plain that ‘paroles’ means both Words and Passwords. Prévert spoke particularly to the French youth immediately after the War, especially those who grew up during the Occupation and felt totally estranged from Church and State. . . . . At his best he simply shows you something and lets you draw your own conclusions. At his worst he draws them for you with too maudlin a touch. . . .
I had these images by way of Ferlinghetti in my head before I embarked on Prévert and I read the intro and re-read it at least three times, thrilled with phrases like “constipated translation” (particularly as I’ve been very interested lately in the art of translation, reading many articles over the past few weeks on the translators of Tolstoy) and later with passages like “Man is destined for joy but there’s a permanent conspiracy against it. Prévert always denounces the conspiracy.”
Indeed there is a marvelous humanism found in these poems and there is also merit to the claims made by some critics that Prévert is a “Surrealist clown” and “the Picasso of modern French poetry” (though Ferlinghetti argues that these critics’ reasons for making such claims are often ‘superficial’). Prévert’s surrealism comes through in so many poems, but perhaps none so much as “To Paint the Portrait of a Bird” or “Picasso’s Promenade.” True, Prévert’s poems can sometimes seem a bit clownish and, other times, overly sentimental, but at his best he made me laugh, wonder, imagine and, most importantly, feel.
There were too many favorite poems and phrases in this collection to list them all here, but I was particularly fond of “Pater Noster,” “Flowers and Wreathes,” “Vincent’s Lament” and “Picasso’s Magic Lantern” (which contained some of the poet's richest imagery). His imagery sprang to life in my mind and I was absolutely delighted with many of these images, albeit as delivered to me through Ferlinghetti’s hand. Some of my favorites include the following: “old men with closed faces”; “the sad whip of reality”; “A tall plumber/Dressed for sunday on monday”; “The line of chance lost and found broken and straightened/bedecked in the blue rags of necessity”; “A railroad ticket with all its baggage”; “the crimson couch of jealousy”; “A spider’s life suspended on a thread”; “The insomnia of a white doll with broken balance and its big glass eyes open forever and ever”; “The obsessive presence of a key hidden under a doormat”, etc., etc.
There was a wonderful dreamlike quality to so many of these poems, but there was also sadness, the sadness of a way of life that was dying if not already dead, the sadness of an object lost that one tries desperately to find again.
I don’t know how well Ferlinghetti captured the actual poetry of Prévert, but I enjoyed it – it certainly did not feel the least like “constipated translation.” I think there is a truth to the statement that Ferlinghetti makes at the end of his translator’s note: “A poem can be finished, a translation only abandoned. . . . We tend to forget that English is not a romance language. . . .”
There were times when I would compare aloud the words of Prévert to those of Ferlinghetti (translating Prévert) and I occasionally did stop and think to myself, “It doesn’t have the same feel, the same roll off the tongue quality and rhythm.” And in closing I will just point out one such case, the aptly titled, “Chanson”/”Song.”
Quel jour sommes-nous
Nous sommes tous les jours
Mon amie
Nous sommes toute la vie
Mon amour
Nous nous aimons et nous vivons
Nous vivons et nous nous aimons
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que la vie
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que le jour
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que l’amour.
What day is it
It’s everyday
My friend
It’s all of life
My love
We love each other and we live
We live and we love each other
And do not know what this life is
And do not know what this day is
And do not know what this love is.
It’s still marvelous, but it does not have quite the same feel. Maybe one day I can improve my French enough so that I can read it as it should be read, but if not I will probably return to Ferlinghetti’s interpretation of Prévert again somewhere down the road.
I hesitated even less to read the book, and here's why: (1) I had waited a few years to find it, so it deserved to be pushed up in the to-read queue; (2) I feel that I have read considerably less poetry this year than I have in the past; (3) It is part of the City Lights Pocket Poets Series and any work that is part of that series is likely in some way – great or small – to speak to me and to re-instill in me a way of seeing the world again anew, for “the sad whip of reality” (to borrow a phrase from this book) always seems to beat out of us this way of looking at the world with fresh, innocent eyes; (4) The work is translated by Lawrence Ferlinghetti and even if something is lost in translation (as is always the case) I’d rather it be lost through a poet I greatly admire, like Ferlinghetti, rather than anyone else, for being familiar with his poetry and his worldviews I feel that I can trust him to deliver me some stunning truths and images, which are at least close to Prévert’s intention; (5) When glancing at the book I was thrilled with having the French text parallel to Ferlinghetti’s English translation; and (6) I already admired Prévert, as a humanist and a film writer (of one of the great works of cinema, Les Enfants du Paradis, nonetheless), even if I had not previously been all that well acquainted with his work as a poet.
As I drove away from the bookstore, the very poetic cover art drew me in. The book whispered for me to open it. So when I was stopped at a red light I cracked it open and started reading the translator’s note. And I was drawn in completely:
I first came upon the poetry of Jacques Prévert written on a paper tablecloth in St. Brieuc in 1944. This so romantic, sentimental circumstance is no doubt at the root of my effort to perpetrate Prévert upon England and America. Bits and pieces of Prévert’s poetry have been published in anthologies and periodicals in English, and I have surveyed most of them with a watering eye. Generally, he has suffered atrociously from constipated translation and trivial choice of poems. And the poem on the paper tablecloth is perhaps as typical of the way Prévert got around in France in the mid-forties as it is of his poetry itself – a poetry (his worst critics will tell you) which is perfectly suited to paper tablecloths, and existing always on as fine a line between sentiment and sentimentality as any that Charlie Chaplin ever teetered on.
What Prévert means to us is naturally quite a different thing than what he has meant to the French. Many of the poems in PAROLES grew out of World War II and the Occupation of France, and it is plain that ‘paroles’ means both Words and Passwords. Prévert spoke particularly to the French youth immediately after the War, especially those who grew up during the Occupation and felt totally estranged from Church and State. . . . . At his best he simply shows you something and lets you draw your own conclusions. At his worst he draws them for you with too maudlin a touch. . . .
I had these images by way of Ferlinghetti in my head before I embarked on Prévert and I read the intro and re-read it at least three times, thrilled with phrases like “constipated translation” (particularly as I’ve been very interested lately in the art of translation, reading many articles over the past few weeks on the translators of Tolstoy) and later with passages like “Man is destined for joy but there’s a permanent conspiracy against it. Prévert always denounces the conspiracy.”
Indeed there is a marvelous humanism found in these poems and there is also merit to the claims made by some critics that Prévert is a “Surrealist clown” and “the Picasso of modern French poetry” (though Ferlinghetti argues that these critics’ reasons for making such claims are often ‘superficial’). Prévert’s surrealism comes through in so many poems, but perhaps none so much as “To Paint the Portrait of a Bird” or “Picasso’s Promenade.” True, Prévert’s poems can sometimes seem a bit clownish and, other times, overly sentimental, but at his best he made me laugh, wonder, imagine and, most importantly, feel.
There were too many favorite poems and phrases in this collection to list them all here, but I was particularly fond of “Pater Noster,” “Flowers and Wreathes,” “Vincent’s Lament” and “Picasso’s Magic Lantern” (which contained some of the poet's richest imagery). His imagery sprang to life in my mind and I was absolutely delighted with many of these images, albeit as delivered to me through Ferlinghetti’s hand. Some of my favorites include the following: “old men with closed faces”; “the sad whip of reality”; “A tall plumber/Dressed for sunday on monday”; “The line of chance lost and found broken and straightened/bedecked in the blue rags of necessity”; “A railroad ticket with all its baggage”; “the crimson couch of jealousy”; “A spider’s life suspended on a thread”; “The insomnia of a white doll with broken balance and its big glass eyes open forever and ever”; “The obsessive presence of a key hidden under a doormat”, etc., etc.
There was a wonderful dreamlike quality to so many of these poems, but there was also sadness, the sadness of a way of life that was dying if not already dead, the sadness of an object lost that one tries desperately to find again.
I don’t know how well Ferlinghetti captured the actual poetry of Prévert, but I enjoyed it – it certainly did not feel the least like “constipated translation.” I think there is a truth to the statement that Ferlinghetti makes at the end of his translator’s note: “A poem can be finished, a translation only abandoned. . . . We tend to forget that English is not a romance language. . . .”
There were times when I would compare aloud the words of Prévert to those of Ferlinghetti (translating Prévert) and I occasionally did stop and think to myself, “It doesn’t have the same feel, the same roll off the tongue quality and rhythm.” And in closing I will just point out one such case, the aptly titled, “Chanson”/”Song.”
Quel jour sommes-nous
Nous sommes tous les jours
Mon amie
Nous sommes toute la vie
Mon amour
Nous nous aimons et nous vivons
Nous vivons et nous nous aimons
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que la vie
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que le jour
Et nous ne savons pas ce que c’est que l’amour.
What day is it
It’s everyday
My friend
It’s all of life
My love
We love each other and we live
We live and we love each other
And do not know what this life is
And do not know what this day is
And do not know what this love is.
It’s still marvelous, but it does not have quite the same feel. Maybe one day I can improve my French enough so that I can read it as it should be read, but if not I will probably return to Ferlinghetti’s interpretation of Prévert again somewhere down the road.
March 20, 2008
One of my favorite poets, Prevert constructs simple lines with unforgettable images...
"Where are you going, handsome jailer with the key that's touched in blood?"
"In the merry-go-round of lies the red horse of your smile goes round"
If you like good poetry and you haven't read him yet you owe it to yourself to discover his work.
"Where are you going, handsome jailer with the key that's touched in blood?"
"In the merry-go-round of lies the red horse of your smile goes round"
If you like good poetry and you haven't read him yet you owe it to yourself to discover his work.
January 2, 2015
Ce sont magnifiques poèmes. C'est tout!
LE CANCRE
Il dit non avec la tête
mais il dit oui avec le cœur
il dit oui à ce qu'il aime
il dit non au professeur
il est debout
on le questionne
et tous les problèmes sont posés
soudain le fou rire le prend
et il efface tout
les chiffres et les mots
les dates et les noms
les phrases et les pièges
et malgré les menaces du maître
sous les huées des enfants prodiges
avec des craies de toutes les couleurs
sur le tableau noir du malheur
il dessine le visage du bonheur
-Jacques Prévert
LE CANCRE
Il dit non avec la tête
mais il dit oui avec le cœur
il dit oui à ce qu'il aime
il dit non au professeur
il est debout
on le questionne
et tous les problèmes sont posés
soudain le fou rire le prend
et il efface tout
les chiffres et les mots
les dates et les noms
les phrases et les pièges
et malgré les menaces du maître
sous les huées des enfants prodiges
avec des craies de toutes les couleurs
sur le tableau noir du malheur
il dessine le visage du bonheur
-Jacques Prévert
December 4, 2017
One of the best books of poems I've read in a while. Startling image after startling image, mixed with pith and wit.
June 13, 2018
Matching Soundtrack :
Les Feuilles Mortes - Yves Montand
Les Feuilles Mortes - Yves Montand
July 5, 2022
Horrible
Le but de l’art, à mon humble avis, c’est de s’émerveiller, de réflechir, de se comprendre et comprendre les autres, etc. Whatever.
Ici aucune piste de réflexion. Poésie de premier degré, presqu’aucune image, les calembours sont stupides, les répétitions insupportables et les thèmes ressassés sans cesse sont disséqués avec peu d’habileté.
Le sexe est rincé de son désir pour simplement être décrit en deux mots pratiquement tout le temps: femme nue et les crimes n’ont pas leur passion ou leur intrigue. La guerre n’est pas laide et ne me secoue pas comme d’habitude. Tout est traité en fait divers.
Fragments de pensés de Prévert peu intéressant .
Si la poésie mérite habituellement mon attention complète, une relecture, une lecture à voix haute, parfois une tentative d’apprendre par coeur afin de comprendre ce que le sens caché derrière les images et les belles tournures de phrase et apprécié le riche vocabulaire, les rimes (parfois) les jeux stylistiques et la maitrise de la langue, ici j’ai l’impression qu’une lecture en diagonale m’aurait permis de comprendre ce que j’avais à comprendre.
En gros, Jacques Prévert aime les femmes nues et les oiseaux.
Le but de l’art, à mon humble avis, c’est de s’émerveiller, de réflechir, de se comprendre et comprendre les autres, etc. Whatever.
Ici aucune piste de réflexion. Poésie de premier degré, presqu’aucune image, les calembours sont stupides, les répétitions insupportables et les thèmes ressassés sans cesse sont disséqués avec peu d’habileté.
Le sexe est rincé de son désir pour simplement être décrit en deux mots pratiquement tout le temps: femme nue et les crimes n’ont pas leur passion ou leur intrigue. La guerre n’est pas laide et ne me secoue pas comme d’habitude. Tout est traité en fait divers.
Fragments de pensés de Prévert peu intéressant .
Si la poésie mérite habituellement mon attention complète, une relecture, une lecture à voix haute, parfois une tentative d’apprendre par coeur afin de comprendre ce que le sens caché derrière les images et les belles tournures de phrase et apprécié le riche vocabulaire, les rimes (parfois) les jeux stylistiques et la maitrise de la langue, ici j’ai l’impression qu’une lecture en diagonale m’aurait permis de comprendre ce que j’avais à comprendre.
En gros, Jacques Prévert aime les femmes nues et les oiseaux.
Read
February 20, 2018A book of poetry might take a whole lifetime to read, bit by bit, line by line.
so far I've read about twenty of its poems, but I won't be "currently reading" it non-stop, I go back to it sometimes. So let it be shelved as read.
so far I've read about twenty of its poems, but I won't be "currently reading" it non-stop, I go back to it sometimes. So let it be shelved as read.
June 17, 2016
Το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο έχει μέσα μερικά αριστουργήματα, έχει και πολλά που είναι στα όρια του τι μπορεί να θεωρηθεί ποίηση.
April 22, 2018
An old classic and my favorite book of poetry ever :)
October 14, 2012
Recensire Prévert
sotto la pioggia
alla luce di una candela
fra gli effluvi degli olii essenziali
gemiti, pianti, urla e ghiaccio
fra fratelli che cadono,
dal nulla e per nulla,
come pere...
Bene ,direi che mi ha contagiata abbastanza. Prima che il poveretto si rivolti nella tomba per le mie ,evidentemente, scarse doti poetiche, meglio che passi a parlare di lui, che un poeta lo era e, sicuramente, migliore .
Che si può dire di una raccolta come paroles? Amavo Prévert già da prima, avendo letto una raccolta delle sue poesie , ma leggere determinate poesie nel contesto da cui sono effettivamente state tratte è stato completamente diverso...
Paroles è una raccolta figlia del suo tempo, e di certo Prévert non si astraeva dalla realtà che lo circondava scrivendola. Vi si respira esattamente l' aria che si poteva respirare a Parigi e in Francia nella seconda metà degli anni trenta (immediatamente prima della guerra ) e nella prima metà degli anni quaranta (durante e dopo di questa).Alcune poesie sono allusivamente ( ma mica tanto poi) critiche, al clima che c' era in quel periodo (e sono guarda caso le più lunghe) ciononostante, per alcuni temi ,ancora così terribilmente attuali.Altre ancora criticano la chiesa ,in maniera abbastanza esplicita, dipingendo perfettamente la corruzione che vigeva al Vaticano ( e mica solo in quel periodo). Altre ancora sono chiaramente d' impronta socialista :
-Tempo Perso
Sulla porta dell'officina
d'improvviso si ferma l'operaio
la bella giornata l'ha tirato per la giacca
e non appena volta lo sguardo
per osservare il sole
tutto rosso tutto tondo
sorridente nel suo cielo di piombo
fa l'occhiolino
familiarmente
Dimmi dunque compagno Sole
davvero non ti sembra
che sia un pò da coglione
regalare una giornata come questa
ad un padrone?
(Poesia che fra l' altro conoscevo da molto prima e che spesso recitavo fra me e me in quelle giornate che ritenevo inutile e tediose nella mia vita da studente liceale , sulla soglia dell' odiato edificio , quando fuori magari c' era un tempo da gitarella nei prati )
E altre fra cui anche le mie preferite che parlano di un sentimento che Prévert ,come tutti poeti, conosce molto bene. Se poi questo sentimento lo uniamo alla pioggia e alla guerra ,otteniamo una delle poesie più belle che io abbia mai letto: ( e ,che con la pioggia che cade proprio ora fuori dalla mia finestra ,mi è particolarmente caro rievocare)
-Barbara
Ricordati Barbara
Pioveva senza tregua quel giorno su Brest
E tu camminavi sorridente
Raggiante rapita grondante, sotto la pioggia
Ricordati Barbara
Pioveva senza tregua su Brest
E t'ho incontrata in rue de Siam
E tu sorridevi, e sorridevo anche io
Ricordati Barbara
Tu che io non conoscevo
Tu che non mi conoscevi
Ricordati, ricordati comunque di quel giorno
Non dimenticare
Un uomo si riparava sotto un portico
E ha gridato il tuo nome
Barbara
E tu sei corsa incontro a lui sotto la pioggia
Grondante rapita raggiante
Gettandoti tra le sue braccia
Ricordati di questo Barbara
E non volermene se ti do del tu
Io do del tu a tutti quelli che amo
Anche se non li ho visti che una sola volta
Io do del tu a tutti quelli che si amano
Anche se non li conosco
Ricordati Barbara, non dimenticare
Questa pioggia buona e felice
Sul tuo viso felice
Su questa città felice
Questa pioggia sul mare, sull'arsenale
Sul battello d' Ouessant
Oh barbara, che cazzata la guerra
E cosa sei diventata adesso
Sotto questa pioggia di ferro
Di fuoco acciaio e sangue
E lui che ti stringeva fra le braccia
Amorosamente
È forse morto disperso o invece vive ancora
Oh Barbara
Piove senza tregua su Brest
Come pioveva prima
Ma non è più cosi e tutto si è guastato
È una pioggia di morte desolata e crudele
Non è nemmeno più bufera
Di ferro acciaio sangue
Ma solamente nuvole
Che schiattano come cani
Come cani che spariscono
Seguendo la corrente su Brest
E scappano lontano a imputridire
Lontano lontano da Brest
Dove non c'è più niente
Vogliamo poi considerare quando si mette a parlare di amore a Parigi:
-Paris at night
Tre fiammiferi uno dopo l'altro accesi nella notte
Il primo per vedere intero il volto tuo
il secondo per vedere gli occhi tuoi
l'ultimo per vedere la tua bocca
e l'oscurità completa per ricordarmi queste immagini
Mentre ti stringo a me tra le mie braccia.
-Immenso e rosso
Immenso e rosso
Sopra il Grand Palais
Il sole d'inverno viene
E se ne va
Come lui il mio cuore sparirà
E tutto il mio sangue se ne andrà
Se ne andrà in cerca di te
Amore mio
Bellezza mia
E ti ritroverà
Là dove tu sarai.
-Il giardino
Mille anni e poi mille
Non possono bastare
Per dire
La microeternità
Di quando m'hai baciato
Di quando t'ho baciata
Un mattino nella luce dell'inverno
Al Parc Montsouris a Parigi
A Parigi
Sulla terra
Sulla terra che è un astro.
Ma ci sono anche poesie che parlano di una regione splendida quasi mitica , qual ' è la Bratagna come per esempio "Ritorno al Paese o la mia preferita sopra tutte (che riporto anche in francese, perché in lingua originale ha un suono inarrivabile):
-Sabbie mobili
Demoni e meraviglie
Venti e maree
Lontano di gia' si e' ritirato il mare
E tu
Come alga dolcemente accarezzata dal vento
Nella sabbia del tuo letto ti agiti sognando
Demoni e meraviglie
Venti e maree
Lontano di gia' si e' ritirato il mare
Ma nei tuoi occhi socchiusi
Due piccole onde son rimaste
Demoni e meraviglie
Venti e maree
Due piccole onde per annegarmi.
-Sables Mouvants
Démons et merveilles
Vents et marées
Au loin déjà la mer s'est retirée
Et toi
Comme une algue doucement caressée par le vent
Dans les sables du lit tu remues en rêvant
Démons et merveilles
Vents et marées
Au loin déjà la mer s'est retirée
Mais dans tes yeux entrouverts
Deux petites vagues sont restées
Démons et merveilles
Vents et marées
Deux petites vagues pour me noyer.
Insomma secondo me di questi tempi c' è troppa carenza di poesia, e anche chi legge ne legge poca, forse è per questo che siamo così grigi ... Bisogna rimediare....
sotto la pioggia
alla luce di una candela
fra gli effluvi degli olii essenziali
gemiti, pianti, urla e ghiaccio
fra fratelli che cadono,
dal nulla e per nulla,
come pere...
Bene ,direi che mi ha contagiata abbastanza. Prima che il poveretto si rivolti nella tomba per le mie ,evidentemente, scarse doti poetiche, meglio che passi a parlare di lui, che un poeta lo era e, sicuramente, migliore .
Che si può dire di una raccolta come paroles? Amavo Prévert già da prima, avendo letto una raccolta delle sue poesie , ma leggere determinate poesie nel contesto da cui sono effettivamente state tratte è stato completamente diverso...
Paroles è una raccolta figlia del suo tempo, e di certo Prévert non si astraeva dalla realtà che lo circondava scrivendola. Vi si respira esattamente l' aria che si poteva respirare a Parigi e in Francia nella seconda metà degli anni trenta (immediatamente prima della guerra ) e nella prima metà degli anni quaranta (durante e dopo di questa).Alcune poesie sono allusivamente ( ma mica tanto poi) critiche, al clima che c' era in quel periodo (e sono guarda caso le più lunghe) ciononostante, per alcuni temi ,ancora così terribilmente attuali.Altre ancora criticano la chiesa ,in maniera abbastanza esplicita, dipingendo perfettamente la corruzione che vigeva al Vaticano ( e mica solo in quel periodo). Altre ancora sono chiaramente d' impronta socialista :
-Tempo Perso
Sulla porta dell'officina
d'improvviso si ferma l'operaio
la bella giornata l'ha tirato per la giacca
e non appena volta lo sguardo
per osservare il sole
tutto rosso tutto tondo
sorridente nel suo cielo di piombo
fa l'occhiolino
familiarmente
Dimmi dunque compagno Sole
davvero non ti sembra
che sia un pò da coglione
regalare una giornata come questa
ad un padrone?
(Poesia che fra l' altro conoscevo da molto prima e che spesso recitavo fra me e me in quelle giornate che ritenevo inutile e tediose nella mia vita da studente liceale , sulla soglia dell' odiato edificio , quando fuori magari c' era un tempo da gitarella nei prati )
E altre fra cui anche le mie preferite che parlano di un sentimento che Prévert ,come tutti poeti, conosce molto bene. Se poi questo sentimento lo uniamo alla pioggia e alla guerra ,otteniamo una delle poesie più belle che io abbia mai letto: ( e ,che con la pioggia che cade proprio ora fuori dalla mia finestra ,mi è particolarmente caro rievocare)
-Barbara
Ricordati Barbara
Pioveva senza tregua quel giorno su Brest
E tu camminavi sorridente
Raggiante rapita grondante, sotto la pioggia
Ricordati Barbara
Pioveva senza tregua su Brest
E t'ho incontrata in rue de Siam
E tu sorridevi, e sorridevo anche io
Ricordati Barbara
Tu che io non conoscevo
Tu che non mi conoscevi
Ricordati, ricordati comunque di quel giorno
Non dimenticare
Un uomo si riparava sotto un portico
E ha gridato il tuo nome
Barbara
E tu sei corsa incontro a lui sotto la pioggia
Grondante rapita raggiante
Gettandoti tra le sue braccia
Ricordati di questo Barbara
E non volermene se ti do del tu
Io do del tu a tutti quelli che amo
Anche se non li ho visti che una sola volta
Io do del tu a tutti quelli che si amano
Anche se non li conosco
Ricordati Barbara, non dimenticare
Questa pioggia buona e felice
Sul tuo viso felice
Su questa città felice
Questa pioggia sul mare, sull'arsenale
Sul battello d' Ouessant
Oh barbara, che cazzata la guerra
E cosa sei diventata adesso
Sotto questa pioggia di ferro
Di fuoco acciaio e sangue
E lui che ti stringeva fra le braccia
Amorosamente
È forse morto disperso o invece vive ancora
Oh Barbara
Piove senza tregua su Brest
Come pioveva prima
Ma non è più cosi e tutto si è guastato
È una pioggia di morte desolata e crudele
Non è nemmeno più bufera
Di ferro acciaio sangue
Ma solamente nuvole
Che schiattano come cani
Come cani che spariscono
Seguendo la corrente su Brest
E scappano lontano a imputridire
Lontano lontano da Brest
Dove non c'è più niente
Vogliamo poi considerare quando si mette a parlare di amore a Parigi:
-Paris at night
Tre fiammiferi uno dopo l'altro accesi nella notte
Il primo per vedere intero il volto tuo
il secondo per vedere gli occhi tuoi
l'ultimo per vedere la tua bocca
e l'oscurità completa per ricordarmi queste immagini
Mentre ti stringo a me tra le mie braccia.
-Immenso e rosso
Immenso e rosso
Sopra il Grand Palais
Il sole d'inverno viene
E se ne va
Come lui il mio cuore sparirà
E tutto il mio sangue se ne andrà
Se ne andrà in cerca di te
Amore mio
Bellezza mia
E ti ritroverà
Là dove tu sarai.
-Il giardino
Mille anni e poi mille
Non possono bastare
Per dire
La microeternità
Di quando m'hai baciato
Di quando t'ho baciata
Un mattino nella luce dell'inverno
Al Parc Montsouris a Parigi
A Parigi
Sulla terra
Sulla terra che è un astro.
Ma ci sono anche poesie che parlano di una regione splendida quasi mitica , qual ' è la Bratagna come per esempio "Ritorno al Paese o la mia preferita sopra tutte (che riporto anche in francese, perché in lingua originale ha un suono inarrivabile):
-Sabbie mobili
Demoni e meraviglie
Venti e maree
Lontano di gia' si e' ritirato il mare
E tu
Come alga dolcemente accarezzata dal vento
Nella sabbia del tuo letto ti agiti sognando
Demoni e meraviglie
Venti e maree
Lontano di gia' si e' ritirato il mare
Ma nei tuoi occhi socchiusi
Due piccole onde son rimaste
Demoni e meraviglie
Venti e maree
Due piccole onde per annegarmi.
-Sables Mouvants
Démons et merveilles
Vents et marées
Au loin déjà la mer s'est retirée
Et toi
Comme une algue doucement caressée par le vent
Dans les sables du lit tu remues en rêvant
Démons et merveilles
Vents et marées
Au loin déjà la mer s'est retirée
Mais dans tes yeux entrouverts
Deux petites vagues sont restées
Démons et merveilles
Vents et marées
Deux petites vagues pour me noyer.
Insomma secondo me di questi tempi c' è troppa carenza di poesia, e anche chi legge ne legge poca, forse è per questo che siamo così grigi ... Bisogna rimediare....
April 3, 2013
I read this book of poems again and again every couple of years. They are so moving, both the original french and the English translations. I don't know if I can adequately describe it. The poems make me feel exhilaration like the world is mine to conquer, but at the same time that exhilaration turns into overwhelming grief and anxiety. Then when read in the context of children and teenagers coming to age in an occupied France, it's hard for me to stop reading it like I'm trying to breathe the words into my lungs.
January 23, 2018
2.5/5
باربارا
تذكري باربارا
كانت تمطر من دون توقّف في برست ذاك اليوم
وكنت تمشين باسمة
مُتفتّحة مبتهجة سائلة
تحت المطر
تذكري باربارا
كانت تمطر من دون توقف في برست
وأنا لاقيتك في شارع"سيام"
كنت تبتسمين
وأنا كنت أبتسم أيضا
تذكري باربارا
أنت التي لم أكن أعرفك
أنت التي لم تكوني تعرفينني
تذكري
تذكري ذاك اليوم رغم كل شيء
لا تنسي
كان ثمة رجل يحتمي تحت سقيفة من المطر
وصاح باسمك بابارا
وأنت ركضت نحوه تحت المطر
سائلة مبتهجة مُتفتّحة
وارتميت في أحضانه
تذكري ذلك باربارا
ولا تغتاضي مني إن أنا خاطبتك من دون كلفة ولا رسميّات
فأنا أفعل ذلك مع كلّ من أحبّ
حتى ولو أنني رأيتهم مرة واحدة
أفعل ذلك مع كل الذين يتبادلون الحب
حتى ولو أنني لا أعرفهم
تذكري باربارا
ذاك المطر الرصين والسعيد
على وجهك المشرق بالفرح
على تلك المدينة السعيدة
ذاك المطر على البحر
على الترسانة
على باخرة"أواسانت"
أوه باربارا
يا لها من حرب قذرة
ماذا أصبحت الآن
تحت هذا المطر الذي من حديد
من نار فولاذ من دم
والذي كان يضمك بأحضانه
عاشقا ولهانا
هل مات أم فقد أم لا يزال حيّا
اوه باربارا
تمطر على برست من دون توقف
مثلما كانت تمطر من قبل
لكن ليس بنفس الصورة وكل شيء يتلف ويفسد
إنه مطر حداد مرعب مدمّر
لم يعد حتى عاصفة
الحديد والفولاذ والدم
بكل بساطة سحب
تموت مثل كلاب
كلاب تختفي
في سياق الماء على برست
وستتعفن بعيدا
بعيدا بعيدا على برست
التي لم يتبق منها شيء.
Barbara
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là
Et tu marchais souriante
É panouie ravie ruisselante
Sous la pluie
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest
Et je t'ai croisée rue de Siam
Tu souriais
Et moi je souriais de même
Rappelle-toi Barbara
Toi que je ne connaissais pas
Toi qui ne me connaissais pas
Rappelle-toi
Rappelle-toi quand même ce jour-là
N'oublie pas
Un homme sous un porche s'abritait
Et il a crié ton nom
Barbara
Et tu as couru vers lui sous la pluie
Ruisselante ravie épanouie
Et tu t'es jetée dans ses bras
Rappelle-toi cela Barbara
Et ne m'en veux pas si je te tutoie
Je dis tu à tous ceux que j'aime
Même si je ne les ai vus qu'une seule fois
Je dis tu à tous ceux qui s'aiment
Même si je ne les connais pas
Rappelle-toi Barbara
N'oublie pas
Cette pluie sage et heureuse
Sur ton visage heureux
Sur cette ville heureuse
Cette pluie sur la mer
Sur l'arsenal
Sur le bateau d'Ouessant
Oh Barbara
Quelle connerie la guerre
Qu'es-tu devenue maintenant
Sous cette pluie de fer
De feu d'acier de sang
Et celui qui te serrait dans ses bras
Amoureusement
Est-il mort disparu ou bien encore vivant
Oh Barbara
Il pleut sans cesse sur Brest
Comme il pleuvait avant
Mais ce n'est plus pareil et tout est abimé
C'est une pluie de deuil terrible et désolée
Ce n'est même plus l'orage
De fer d'acier de sang
Tout simplement des nuages
Qui crèvent comme des chiens
Des chiens qui disparaissent
Au fil de l'eau sur Brest
Et vont pourrir au loin
Au loin très loin de Brest
Dont il ne reste rien.
لي ذكريات جميلة مع هذه القصيدة (في لغتها الأصلية) و أعتبرها من أولى القصائد التي جعلتني أقدر الكتابة الشعرية لذلك قررت مشاركتها معكم بنسختها الأصلية و المترجمة.
أما عن الديون ككل فقد كان مقبولا...القصائد القصيرة كانت "سهلة الهضم" فيما دخلت القصائد الطويلة بحر الكلمات و الفلسفة و لم أحط بمعانيها كما ينبغي
تمت
23/01/2018
March 8, 2023
L’un des meilleurs recueils de poèmes que j’ai lu. Bien que Barbara soit son poème le plus célèbre, Cet Amour m’a touché beaucoup plus et est donc mon poème préféré de cette collection. Prévert et ses jeux de mots sont absolument incroyables !
February 17, 2020
TO PAINT THE PORTRAIT OF A BIRD
First paint a cage
with an open door
then paint
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird
then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
without speaking
without moving...
Sometimes the bird comes quickly
but he can just as well spend long years
before deciding
Don't get discouraged
wait
wait years if necessary
the swiftness or slowness of the coming
of the bird having no rapport
with the success of the picture
When the bird comes
if he comes
observe the most profound silence
wait till the bird enters the cage
and when he has entered
gently close the door with a brush
then
paint out all the bars one by one
taking care not to touch any of the feathers of the bird
Then paint the portrait of the tree
choosing the most beautiful of its branches
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the wind's freshness
the dust of the sun
and the noise of insects in the summer heat
and then wait for the bird to decide to sing
If the bird doesn't sing
it's a bad sign
a sign that the painting is bad
but if he sings it's a good sign
a sign that you can sign
so then so gently you pull out
one of the feathers of the bird
and you write yours name in a corner of the picture.
- Jacques Prevert, translated by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
April 28, 2014
Poet and screenwriter Jacques Prévert wrote, “Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it.” These past weeks I’ve been reading Paroles: Selected Poems with translations by Lawrence Ferlinghetti from the City Lights Pocket Poets Series. Prévert’s poems are unadorned and vibrant and often talk about Paris just after Second World War and many of his titles make their own heady spring impression—“To Paint a Picture of a Bird,” “The Red Horse,” “Breakfast,”“The Return to the Country,” ”Birds, At Random,” and “Sleeping In.” In English or French, Prévert’s poems make for lovely company on a terrace or in a writer’s study or on a park bench.
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