Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Yves Bonnefoy

SUMMER AGAIN

I go through the snow. I closed
My eyes, but the light can still get through
My porous eyelids, and I perceive
That in my words it’s still the snow
That swirls, thickens, bursts.

Snow,
A letter that we find and unfold,
And the ink on it has faded and in the marks
The clumsiness of the wit is visible
Which can only muddle up its sharp shadows.

And we try to read, we don’t understand
Who is interested in us in memory,
Except that it’s summer again; and we see
Under the flakes the leaves, and the heat
Rise from the missing sun like a mist.

NOG ALTIJD ZOMER

Ik ga voort in de sneeuw, ik sloot
Mijn ogen, maar nog dringt het licht door
Mijn poreuze oogleden, en ik zie
Dat in mijn woorden de sneeuw almaar
Voortwarrelt, dichter wordt, openscheurt.

Sneeuw,
Brief die je terugvindt en openvouwt,
De inkt is verbleekt en de tekens
Verraden hoe de geest door zijn gestumper
De klare schaduwen ervan alleen maar door elkaar haalt.

En je probeert te lezen, je begrijpt niet
Wat ons aantrekt in het geheugen, behalve dat de zomer
Voortduurt, en dat je onder de vlokken
De bladeren ziet, en van de afwezige bodem
De gloed ziet opstijgen als nevel.

L’ÉTÉ ENCORE

J’avance dans la neige, j’ai fermé
Les yeux, mais la lumière sait franchir
Les paupières poreuses, et je perçois
Que dans mes mots c’est encore la neige
Qui tourbillonne, se resserre, se déchire.

Neige,
Lettre que l’on retrouve et que l’on déplie,
Et l’encre en a blanchi et dans les signes
La gaucherie de l’esprit est visible
Qui ne sait qu’en enchevêtrer les ombres claires.

Et on essaye de lire, on ne comprend pas
Qui s’intéresse à nous dans la mémoire,
Sinon que c’est l’été encore; et que l’on voit
Sous les flocons les feuilles, et la chaleur
Monter du sol absent comme une brume.
Close

SUMMER AGAIN

I go through the snow. I closed
My eyes, but the light can still get through
My porous eyelids, and I perceive
That in my words it’s still the snow
That swirls, thickens, bursts.

Snow,
A letter that we find and unfold,
And the ink on it has faded and in the marks
The clumsiness of the wit is visible
Which can only muddle up its sharp shadows.

And we try to read, we don’t understand
Who is interested in us in memory,
Except that it’s summer again; and we see
Under the flakes the leaves, and the heat
Rise from the missing sun like a mist.

SUMMER AGAIN

I go through the snow. I closed
My eyes, but the light can still get through
My porous eyelids, and I perceive
That in my words it’s still the snow
That swirls, thickens, bursts.

Snow,
A letter that we find and unfold,
And the ink on it has faded and in the marks
The clumsiness of the wit is visible
Which can only muddle up its sharp shadows.

And we try to read, we don’t understand
Who is interested in us in memory,
Except that it’s summer again; and we see
Under the flakes the leaves, and the heat
Rise from the missing sun like a mist.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère