Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Jacques Roubaud

OF MANY POEMS

Of many poems
There was one
I could no longer remember
Except that I’d composed it
Once
While going down this street
Down the even side of this street
Bathed in a limpid morning
A street of small stubborn shops
Between the sullied Seine and the hospital
A poem written with my feet
As all my poems are composed
In silence and in my head and walking
But I can remember nothing
Except the street the light the chance
Which had me put in the poem
The word ‘respect’
One I rarely make glisten
In the mental pages of poetry
But there’s nothing left apart from it
And this word this motionless word
Stands at the end of the street
Like a tree forgotten in the middle of nowhere

PARMI BEAUCOUP DE POÈMES

PARMI BEAUCOUP DE POÈMES

Parmi beaucoup de poèmes
Il y en avait un
Dont je ne parvenais pas à me souvenir
Sinon que je l’avais composé
Autrefois
En descendant cette rue
Du côté des numéros pairs de cette rue
Baignée d’une matinée limpide
Une rue de petites boutiques persistantes
Entre la Seine sinistrée et l’hôpital
Un poème écrit avec mes pieds
Comme je compose toujours les poèmes
En silence et dans ma tête et en marchant
Mais je ne me souviens de rien
Que de la rue de la lumière et du hasard
Qui avait fait entrer dans ce poème
Le mot ‘respect’
Que je n’ai pas l’habitude de faire vibrer
Dans les pages mentales de la poésie
Au delà de lui il n’y a rien
Et ce mot ce mot qui ne bouge pas
Atteste la cessation de la rue
Comme un arbre oublié de l’espace
Close

OF MANY POEMS

Of many poems
There was one
I could no longer remember
Except that I’d composed it
Once
While going down this street
Down the even side of this street
Bathed in a limpid morning
A street of small stubborn shops
Between the sullied Seine and the hospital
A poem written with my feet
As all my poems are composed
In silence and in my head and walking
But I can remember nothing
Except the street the light the chance
Which had me put in the poem
The word ‘respect’
One I rarely make glisten
In the mental pages of poetry
But there’s nothing left apart from it
And this word this motionless word
Stands at the end of the street
Like a tree forgotten in the middle of nowhere

OF MANY POEMS

Of many poems
There was one
I could no longer remember
Except that I’d composed it
Once
While going down this street
Down the even side of this street
Bathed in a limpid morning
A street of small stubborn shops
Between the sullied Seine and the hospital
A poem written with my feet
As all my poems are composed
In silence and in my head and walking
But I can remember nothing
Except the street the light the chance
Which had me put in the poem
The word ‘respect’
One I rarely make glisten
In the mental pages of poetry
But there’s nothing left apart from it
And this word this motionless word
Stands at the end of the street
Like a tree forgotten in the middle of nowhere
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère