Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Pierre Alferi

YOU ARE INVITED

The day advances masked
The strongest subtlest feeling
Of the day
The night
Lays its mechanisms bare
The burden of time
Water’s coming in, we’re heading straight
For the iceberg.


So the day advances masked
On very narrow rails. Oh no,
It doesn’t look its age, which doesn’t mean      
It’s older. Were it enough to hold
A mirror to the overbearing light
To read back to front across it – what? Not the truth
All the same. Just that the kilo of tomatoes
Weighs a bit more or a bit less. The hum
Of the town directs the boom from one minute to the next
Following the day’s chorus, frail-sounding
Through riffs of oiled brass. The rendition            
Smells of sweat and the big band in ragged tails
Mocks a classical orchestra. – No, no, that coat of mail
Couldn’t suit you better, I swear.  – I’m not saying
It clashes, but what if we dance? The man next to you
Doesn’t find the music modern enough, he’s a magazine
Reader. – So in three years you’ll no longer love
The things you love today. – No
It’s not that simple. I like, says your neighbor, things that give me
The strongest subtlest feeling
Like a perfume crossing the room on stiletto
Heels, of the day. Later
When I pop the cork I know
(And this adds spice to my pleasure
A bit bland as yet) that it’ll be there
Vintage. – I see. That sort of thing never happens
To me I’m afraid, or only thanks to desperately
Vaporous creatures. Water that boils just
Before rising in the coffee pot, the sun
When it spills over the stained carpet
The fork clinking against the pewter
Of a plate of scraps for the cat drives him nuts.
For example. And that, you see, doesn’t have much to do
With culture. I no longer read. Well
No longer hoping to feel – what? To feel
Quite simply. Some people put their polaroids
In the freezer; they age badly, that’s obvious, but
Don’t mistake the desire to postpone effacement
For that of unreal colours. Iceberg, aurora borealis.
Time only flows colorless at room
Temperature. As soon as the atmosphere coagulates
It stinks of cooking oil. The dishwasher has made
Thin scales as strange as fragments of meteorite
With more human remains. There are days
Like that. That’ll be enough for this one
OK? Anyway the light is falling suddenly
In the bar, signalling a change of tariff
And daylight saving time, what a con, launders
Evenings loot by taxing morning sleep.
– Good night, sleep well my love. – If that’s an order
Rest assured I’ll mutiny. The captain’s at the back of the hold.
A cat couldn’t find her kittens in this murk
And neither the port we left nor the one we’re heading for
Is visible. Yesterday stood me up. Tomorrow
Tomorrow (Gone with the wind)
Is another day. Night-time, what unexpected
Violence, don’t you think? You’re sleeping.
Not that it evokes death, the haunted solitude
Of children – these thoughts will populate insomnia –
But it lays yesterdays mechanisms bare
On the deck the whole ocean transforms itself
Into a machine room and at each lookout post
The amorphous discontinuity of hours tortures
The ships boy. If only he’d known! Not an interesting
Angst, Heidegger-style, as
That sleep-deprived friend says: a shambles, a sadistic medley
Of the worst songs on Golden Oldies AM,
The burden of time. Do you see that someone
Longs to wake you, my love, to grasp
Your shoulders to show you the dreadful things going on?
– What is it? – There’s water coming in, we’re heading straight
For the iceberg, and no, there’s nothing on the horizon, that’s just
The horror of it. Some say the Titanic
Never sank, but another
Almost identical ship, that its corrupt owner
Sold its name, counting on a shipwreck with no dead
To cash in on the insurance. The Titanic – the real one –
Would still be anchored in some peaceful harbour
No-one knows where. A postcard exists
Showing a half-sunk steamship – the Cabiria
Or perhaps the Carribbean – with this caption in bold:
‘You are invited.’ It had something to do with the inauguration
Of a restaurant. I wondered who to send it to for ages,
Definitely a woman. I admit that I feel quite an affinity
With this renamed boat stripped of its big band
That sank, sinks still in our minds and
Never sank. Most often in the evening: evenings
Are so sentimental. I still have that card.
You’ve earned it through the toil of your sleep.

VOUS ÊTES INVITÉS

VOUS ÊTES INVITÉS

La journée s’avance masquée
La sensation, la plus forte et la plus subtile
De l’aujourd’hui
La nuit
On y voit nus les rouages
L’encombrement du temps
On fait eau, on va droit
Sur l’iceberg.


Et la journée s’avance masquée
Sur des rails trop étroits. Décidément
Elle ne fait pas son âge, ce qui ne veut pas dire
Qu’elle est plus vieille. S’il suffisait de tendre
Une petite glace en direction de la lumière trop forte
Pour y lire à l’envers – quoi ? Pas la vérité
Tout de même. Simplement le kilo de tomates
Pèse un peu plus ou un peu moins. La rumeur
De la ville tend la perche de minute en minute
À la journée dans son chorus qui paraît frêle
Par des riffs de cuivres huilés. L’arrangement
Sent la sueur et le big band en smokings pathétiques
Imite un orchestre classique. – Si si, cette cotte de mailles
Vous va, je vous jure, à ravir. – Je ne dis pas
Qu’elle jure, mais si on danse ? Votre voisin de table
Trouve la musique pas assez actuelle, il lit
Les magazines. – Alors dans trois ans tu n’aimeras
Plus ce que tu aimes aujourd’hui. – Non
Ce n’est pas si simple. J’aime, dit le voisin, ce qui me donne
La sensation, la plus forte et la plus subtile,
Comme un parfum traverse la salle sur des talons
Aiguilles, de l’aujourd’hui. Plus tard
Quand je ferai sauter le bouchon je sais
(Et ce savoir ajoute une tuile à mon plaisir
Un peu vert pour l’instant) qu’elle sera là
Millésimée. – Je vois. Ce genre de chose ne m’arrive
Jamais, j’en ai peur, ou par la grâce de créatures
Désespérément vaporeuses. L’eau qui bout juste
Avant son ascension dans la cafetière, le soleil
Quand il s’épand sur la moquette d’une propreté douteuse
La fourchette qui tintant contre l’étain
D’une boîte d’abats pour le chat le rend dingue.
Par exemple. Et cela, vous voyez, n’a pas grand-chose à voir
Avec la culture. Je ne lis plus. En tout cas
Plus dans l’espoir de me sentir – comment ? sentir
Tout court. Il y a des gens qui mettent leurs polaroïds
Au freezer ; ils vieillissent mal, c’est notoire, mais
Ne prenez pas pour un désir de retarder l’effacement
Celui de couleurs irréelles. Iceberg, aurores boréales.
Le temps ne coule incolore qu’à température
Ambiante. Dès que l’atmosphère coagule
Ça pue l’huile de cuisson. Le lave-vaisselle a fait
De fines croûtes étranges comme des fragments de météore
Avec des restes plus humains. Il y a des jours
Comme ça. Pour celui-ci ce sera tout
D’accord ? D’ailleurs la lumière soudain baisse
Dans le bar, signal du changement de tarif
Et l’heure d’été, une belle arnaque, blanchit
Le larcin du soir en taxant le sommeil du matin.
– Bonne nuit, dors bien mon amour. – Si c’est un ordre
Sache que je vais me mutiner. Le capitaine est à fond de cale.
Dans cette mélasse une chatte ne retrouverait pas ses petits
Et le port de départ ni celui vers quoi nous voguons
N’est en vue. Hier m’a posé un lapin. Demain
Demain (Autant en emporte le vent)
Est un autre jour. La nuit, quelle violence
Inouïe, tu ne trouves pas ? Tu dors.
Non qu’elle évoque la mort, la solitude hantée
Des enfants – ces pensées peupleraient l’insomnie –
Mais on y voit nus les rouages de la veille.
Sur le pont l’océan tout entier se change
En salle des machines et dans chaque tour de garde
La discontinuité amorphe des heures soumet
Le mousse à la torture. S’il avait su ! Pas une angoisse
Intéressante, une à la Heidegger, comme dit
Cet ami qui ne dort plus : un bazar, un medley sadique
Des plus mauvaises chansons sur Radio Nostalgie,
L’encombrement du temps. Comprends-tu que l’on ait
Bien envie de te réveiller, mon amour, de secouer
Tes épaules pour te montrer ce qui se passe d’affreux ?
– Qu’est-ce qu’il y a ? – On fait eau, on va droit
Sur l’iceberg, et non, il n’y a rien à l’horizon, c’est bien
Ce qui affole. Le Titanic, selon certaines sources,
N’aurait jamais coulé mais un autre navire
presque identique auquel des armateurs véreux
Auraient donné son nom, comptant sur un naufrage sans morts
Pour encaisser la prime. Le Titanic – le vrai –
Mouillerait encore dans une rade paisible
On ne sait où. Il existe une carte postale
Montrant un paquebot à demi englouti – le Cabiria
Ou bien le Caribbean – et cette légende en gras :
« Vous êtes invités. » Il s’agissait de l’inauguration
D’un restaurant. Longtemps j’ai cherché à qui l’envoyer,
Une femme certainement. J’avoue que je m’identifie
Assez à ce bateau débaptisé privé de son big band
Qui a coulé, coule encore dans nos têtes et
N’a pas coulé. Surtout le soir : le soir
Est si sentimental. J’ai toujours cette carte.
Tu l’as gagnée à la sueur de ton sommeil.
Close

YOU ARE INVITED

The day advances masked
The strongest subtlest feeling
Of the day
The night
Lays its mechanisms bare
The burden of time
Water’s coming in, we’re heading straight
For the iceberg.


So the day advances masked
On very narrow rails. Oh no,
It doesn’t look its age, which doesn’t mean      
It’s older. Were it enough to hold
A mirror to the overbearing light
To read back to front across it – what? Not the truth
All the same. Just that the kilo of tomatoes
Weighs a bit more or a bit less. The hum
Of the town directs the boom from one minute to the next
Following the day’s chorus, frail-sounding
Through riffs of oiled brass. The rendition            
Smells of sweat and the big band in ragged tails
Mocks a classical orchestra. – No, no, that coat of mail
Couldn’t suit you better, I swear.  – I’m not saying
It clashes, but what if we dance? The man next to you
Doesn’t find the music modern enough, he’s a magazine
Reader. – So in three years you’ll no longer love
The things you love today. – No
It’s not that simple. I like, says your neighbor, things that give me
The strongest subtlest feeling
Like a perfume crossing the room on stiletto
Heels, of the day. Later
When I pop the cork I know
(And this adds spice to my pleasure
A bit bland as yet) that it’ll be there
Vintage. – I see. That sort of thing never happens
To me I’m afraid, or only thanks to desperately
Vaporous creatures. Water that boils just
Before rising in the coffee pot, the sun
When it spills over the stained carpet
The fork clinking against the pewter
Of a plate of scraps for the cat drives him nuts.
For example. And that, you see, doesn’t have much to do
With culture. I no longer read. Well
No longer hoping to feel – what? To feel
Quite simply. Some people put their polaroids
In the freezer; they age badly, that’s obvious, but
Don’t mistake the desire to postpone effacement
For that of unreal colours. Iceberg, aurora borealis.
Time only flows colorless at room
Temperature. As soon as the atmosphere coagulates
It stinks of cooking oil. The dishwasher has made
Thin scales as strange as fragments of meteorite
With more human remains. There are days
Like that. That’ll be enough for this one
OK? Anyway the light is falling suddenly
In the bar, signalling a change of tariff
And daylight saving time, what a con, launders
Evenings loot by taxing morning sleep.
– Good night, sleep well my love. – If that’s an order
Rest assured I’ll mutiny. The captain’s at the back of the hold.
A cat couldn’t find her kittens in this murk
And neither the port we left nor the one we’re heading for
Is visible. Yesterday stood me up. Tomorrow
Tomorrow (Gone with the wind)
Is another day. Night-time, what unexpected
Violence, don’t you think? You’re sleeping.
Not that it evokes death, the haunted solitude
Of children – these thoughts will populate insomnia –
But it lays yesterdays mechanisms bare
On the deck the whole ocean transforms itself
Into a machine room and at each lookout post
The amorphous discontinuity of hours tortures
The ships boy. If only he’d known! Not an interesting
Angst, Heidegger-style, as
That sleep-deprived friend says: a shambles, a sadistic medley
Of the worst songs on Golden Oldies AM,
The burden of time. Do you see that someone
Longs to wake you, my love, to grasp
Your shoulders to show you the dreadful things going on?
– What is it? – There’s water coming in, we’re heading straight
For the iceberg, and no, there’s nothing on the horizon, that’s just
The horror of it. Some say the Titanic
Never sank, but another
Almost identical ship, that its corrupt owner
Sold its name, counting on a shipwreck with no dead
To cash in on the insurance. The Titanic – the real one –
Would still be anchored in some peaceful harbour
No-one knows where. A postcard exists
Showing a half-sunk steamship – the Cabiria
Or perhaps the Carribbean – with this caption in bold:
‘You are invited.’ It had something to do with the inauguration
Of a restaurant. I wondered who to send it to for ages,
Definitely a woman. I admit that I feel quite an affinity
With this renamed boat stripped of its big band
That sank, sinks still in our minds and
Never sank. Most often in the evening: evenings
Are so sentimental. I still have that card.
You’ve earned it through the toil of your sleep.

YOU ARE INVITED

The day advances masked
The strongest subtlest feeling
Of the day
The night
Lays its mechanisms bare
The burden of time
Water’s coming in, we’re heading straight
For the iceberg.


So the day advances masked
On very narrow rails. Oh no,
It doesn’t look its age, which doesn’t mean      
It’s older. Were it enough to hold
A mirror to the overbearing light
To read back to front across it – what? Not the truth
All the same. Just that the kilo of tomatoes
Weighs a bit more or a bit less. The hum
Of the town directs the boom from one minute to the next
Following the day’s chorus, frail-sounding
Through riffs of oiled brass. The rendition            
Smells of sweat and the big band in ragged tails
Mocks a classical orchestra. – No, no, that coat of mail
Couldn’t suit you better, I swear.  – I’m not saying
It clashes, but what if we dance? The man next to you
Doesn’t find the music modern enough, he’s a magazine
Reader. – So in three years you’ll no longer love
The things you love today. – No
It’s not that simple. I like, says your neighbor, things that give me
The strongest subtlest feeling
Like a perfume crossing the room on stiletto
Heels, of the day. Later
When I pop the cork I know
(And this adds spice to my pleasure
A bit bland as yet) that it’ll be there
Vintage. – I see. That sort of thing never happens
To me I’m afraid, or only thanks to desperately
Vaporous creatures. Water that boils just
Before rising in the coffee pot, the sun
When it spills over the stained carpet
The fork clinking against the pewter
Of a plate of scraps for the cat drives him nuts.
For example. And that, you see, doesn’t have much to do
With culture. I no longer read. Well
No longer hoping to feel – what? To feel
Quite simply. Some people put their polaroids
In the freezer; they age badly, that’s obvious, but
Don’t mistake the desire to postpone effacement
For that of unreal colours. Iceberg, aurora borealis.
Time only flows colorless at room
Temperature. As soon as the atmosphere coagulates
It stinks of cooking oil. The dishwasher has made
Thin scales as strange as fragments of meteorite
With more human remains. There are days
Like that. That’ll be enough for this one
OK? Anyway the light is falling suddenly
In the bar, signalling a change of tariff
And daylight saving time, what a con, launders
Evenings loot by taxing morning sleep.
– Good night, sleep well my love. – If that’s an order
Rest assured I’ll mutiny. The captain’s at the back of the hold.
A cat couldn’t find her kittens in this murk
And neither the port we left nor the one we’re heading for
Is visible. Yesterday stood me up. Tomorrow
Tomorrow (Gone with the wind)
Is another day. Night-time, what unexpected
Violence, don’t you think? You’re sleeping.
Not that it evokes death, the haunted solitude
Of children – these thoughts will populate insomnia –
But it lays yesterdays mechanisms bare
On the deck the whole ocean transforms itself
Into a machine room and at each lookout post
The amorphous discontinuity of hours tortures
The ships boy. If only he’d known! Not an interesting
Angst, Heidegger-style, as
That sleep-deprived friend says: a shambles, a sadistic medley
Of the worst songs on Golden Oldies AM,
The burden of time. Do you see that someone
Longs to wake you, my love, to grasp
Your shoulders to show you the dreadful things going on?
– What is it? – There’s water coming in, we’re heading straight
For the iceberg, and no, there’s nothing on the horizon, that’s just
The horror of it. Some say the Titanic
Never sank, but another
Almost identical ship, that its corrupt owner
Sold its name, counting on a shipwreck with no dead
To cash in on the insurance. The Titanic – the real one –
Would still be anchored in some peaceful harbour
No-one knows where. A postcard exists
Showing a half-sunk steamship – the Cabiria
Or perhaps the Carribbean – with this caption in bold:
‘You are invited.’ It had something to do with the inauguration
Of a restaurant. I wondered who to send it to for ages,
Definitely a woman. I admit that I feel quite an affinity
With this renamed boat stripped of its big band
That sank, sinks still in our minds and
Never sank. Most often in the evening: evenings
Are so sentimental. I still have that card.
You’ve earned it through the toil of your sleep.
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