Sunday, November 29, 2015

Jean-Roger Caussimon - Girls like that


Original Title: "Des filles comm'ça"
There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island

No need to be beautiful, don't put your Sunday's clothes
Go foward into the sea, lie down on your back
Let yourself drift placid and float on your back
Shout I am the drunken boat of Arthur Rimbaud
I amn ot a happy person, life is a problem
Happiness is so far away, I have looked for it so much
I become an orphan if noone loves me
And a girl like that will come to fish you out

There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island
With sweet beaches
Some rocks of sort
To make everyone believe
That it's difficult
That it's difficult
To approach them

At her home a woodfire as soon as september ends
Sunshine in spring and shadow in summer
You'll be like a King in your dressrobe
That many before you have worn no doubt
You'll be pampered without having anything to say
Only love phrases or her first name sings
You'll have to prove her how much you desire her
And a girl like that will never saw no.

There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island
With sweet beaches
Some rocks of sort
To make everyone believe
That it's difficult
That it's difficult
To approach them

That daily love and of every second
Will give you the idea that there must exist
Some girls to love at every corners of the world
So you'll go away enamoured of freedom
Then another guy will come to live with her
But for how long? Maybe for ever
With each new lover the hope is new
And a girl like that dreams of a single love.

There are girls like that
Who have the heart like an island
With sweet beaches
Some rocks of sort
To make everyone believe
That it's difficult
That it's difficult
To approach them

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Jacques Bertin - The supervisor of the high school for girls



Original Title: "La pionne du lycée des filles"
The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

She is crazy indeed, she runs in the street
Cleaving through groups for fifty years
With the look of not seeing anything, covered head, bare head.
She rushes towards climaxes, towards returns, and her twenties

At the highschool, year nineteen hundred thirty eight, the look of a prince
A science graduate, gold-rimmed spectacles and blue eyes,
Has arrived, a match for the whole province.
All those girls of canons and egg merchants

The city is grey and the rain tells its breviary every day
As soon as seven o'clock rings we curl up in its walls
We change the flowers in the vases, we marry our daughter, we spare the light
We change nothing, the money oozes, the students have a tough gaze

In her bedroom over the canal, he was reading her Apollinaire for the other silence
And the music in his eyes, the pretty pupil of war from Montfort-over-Meu
Then, in september, it was the end of the holidays
He was so well in the blue uniform

Thifty years ago those days, the time passes only for those who count
He jumped over Norway, in may. Only mad love defies the time
The poet said "Why don't I have...." and "Remember that I am waiting for you"
As long as this city lasts, lasts life, I wait for you

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

Go in your despise of mankind, of the reasonable people
Black and blue flower, dead-living flower which casts itself in the azures
"The streets are narrowing" He said, the drift of the continents is unavoidable
You spray rains of stars over the walls

The little hat with a veil
The black suit and the white gloves
A brooch that shines, a violet
The supervisor of the high school for girls
She is crazy for a while, a while

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Jacques Brel - Song without words


Original Title: "Chanson sans paroles"

I'd have liked my beauty
To write you a song
On this melody
Met one night
I'd have liked my beauty
Just at the Alençon lace
To write you a long poem
To write you a long I love you

I'd have told you "love"
I'd have told you "always"
But of a thousand ways
But through a thousand detours
I'd have told you "Let's leave"
I'd have told you "Let's burn
Let's burn from day to day
From season to season"

But the time for the idea
To lit up on the paper
The time to take a quillpen
The time to sharpen it
But the time to tell myself
How am I going to write it
And the time arrived
When you did not love me anymore

Friday, November 13, 2015

Monique Morelli - Villon - Poor I am


This is an extract of the great will of Villon.
Original Title: "Pauvre je suis"
In the thirtieh year of my age
That all my shames I'd have drunk
Nor completely crazy, nor completely wise
In spite of many sorrows I had

Which I all received
Under the hand of Thibaut d'Aussigny...
If Bishop he is, lording the streets,
That he is mine I deny him!

My lord he is not, nor my bishop
Under him nothing holds if not lieing fallow
Faith owes him no tribute
I am not his serf nor his doe
Fed with a small loaf
and of cold water a whole summer
Broad or narrow, a lot has been meagre to me
Let God be to him like he was to me.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

And if someone wants to reprimand me
And say that I curse him
Not done, if one can well understand
In no way do I speak ill of him

Here is all the bad that I have to say:
If he has been mercifull to me
Jesus, the king of paradise
Let him be alike to the soul and body!

If he has been tough and cruel to me
Much more than here is told
I want that the eternal God
Is to him then alike to that account

And if the church tells us and relates
That we should pray for our enemies
I would tell you: "I am wrong and ashamed
Whatever he did to, commited it to God"

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Over poverty bemoaning
Many times the heart tells me:
"Man, do not be so upset
And do not exert such pain,

If you do not have as much heart as Jack:
Better to live under big clog
Poor, than having been lord
And rot under rich tomb!"

If I am not, well considered,
Son of angel wearing tiara
of Stars nor stagger others.
My father is dead, God have his soul!

As to the body, it lies under the blade
I understand that my mother will die
And she knows it well the poor woman,
And the son will not resurect.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

I know that poors and richs,
Wise and mad, priests and ugly ones,
Nobles, vilains, big and meager,
Small and tall, and beautiful and ugly,

Ladies with rolled up short capes,
Of any condition,
Wearing attires and rolls,
Death grabs without exception.

Death make them shudder and go pale,
The nose to curve, the veins to stretch,
The neck to swell, the flesh to go soft,
Joints and nerves to grow and spread.

Feminine body, which is so tender,
Polished, silky, so precious
Will you have to wait for those ills?
Yes, or all alive go to heavens.

Poor I am since my youth
Of poor and humble origin
My father never had big wealth
Nor his grandfather named Horace

Poverty follows and tracks us
On the tombs of my ancesters
The souls as soon as they embrace God
Are seen on them no crowns or scepters

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

Jean Ferrat - Louis Aragon - When comes the evening


Original title: "Lorsque s'en vient le soir"

When comes the evening which turns through the door
To live suddenly has the depth of a wheat field
I find you back, love, with my trembled hands
Which make the tender soil between the dead leaves
And we get rid of our stolen clothes

Nothing calmed those hands that I have to know you
Keeping from the first evening that turmoil of touching you
I find you back, love, sought for a long time
As if suddenly a window were to open
And if you gave up to always hide yourself

I am forever your scene and your theatre
Where the curtain of loving takes off anywhere
The star snows in me its eternal month of August
Nothing calmed that heart to beat when seeing you
It ends up hurting me and nothing is as sweet to me

Yet you are still to me the furtive passer-by
Who we hold back miraculously at the bend of a moment
Nothing calmed my fear, I doubt and I wait for you
God lose the steps he makes when you are absent to me
A look is sufficient for you to make a beautiful weather

When comes the evening which turns through the door
To live suddenly has the depth of a wheat field
I find you back love with my trembled hands
Which make the tender soil between the dead leaves
And we get rid of our stolen clothes


all poems written by Louis Aragon

Mouloudji - We have to live

Original Title: " Faut vivre " Despite the big eyes of the void "It's to better eat you, child" And the silence...