écriture créative selon sir Derek


Peter Doig: <i>Lapeyrouse Wall</i>, 2004


By Derek Walcott

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.

First, there was the heaving oil,
heavy as chaos;
then, like a light at the end of a tunnel,

the lantern of a caravel,
and that was Genesis.
Then there were the packed cries,
the shit, the moaning:

Bone soldered by coral to bone,
mantled by the benediction of the shark’s shadow,

that was the Ark of the Covenant.
Then came from the plucked wires
of sunlight on the sea floor

the plangent harps of the Babylonian bondage,
as the white cowries clustered like manacles
on the drowned women,

and those were the ivory bracelets
of the Song of Solomon,
but the ocean kept turning blank pages

looking for History.
Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors
who sank without tombs,

brigands who barbecued cattle,
leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore,
then the foaming, rabid maw

of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal,
and that was Jonah,
but where is your Renaissance?

Sir, it is locked in them sea-sands
out there past the reef’s moiling shelf,
where the men-o’-war floated down;

strop on these goggles, I’ll guide you there myself.
It’s all subtle and submarine,
through colonnades of coral,

past the gothic windows of sea-fans
to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed,
blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen;

and these groined caves with barnacles
pitted like stone
are our cathedrals,

and the furnace before the hurricanes:
Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills
into marl and cornmeal,

and that was Lamentations—
that was just Lamentations,
it was not History;

then came, like scum on the river’s drying lip,
the brown reeds of villages
mantling and congealing into towns,

and at evening, the midges’ choirs,
and above them, the spires
lancing the side of God

as His son set, and that was the New Testament.

Then came the white sisters clapping
to the waves’ progress,
and that was Emancipation—

jubilation, O jubilation—
vanishing swiftly
as the sea’s lace dries in the sun,

but that was not History,
that was only faith,
and then each rock broke into its own nation;

then came the synod of flies,
then came the secretarial heron,
then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote,

fireflies with bright ideas
and bats like jetting ambassadors
and the mantis, like khaki police,

and the furred caterpillars of judges
examining each case closely,
and then in the dark ears of ferns

and in the salt chuckle of rocks
with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumour without any echo

of History, really beginning.

“The Sea Is History” from THE POETRY OF DEREK WALCOTT 1948-2013 by Derek Walcott,

Derek Walcott a donné plusieurs années à la suite des ateliers d’écriture créative aux Etats-Unis et ailleurs dans le monde comme à Milan . Lors de ces ateliers il demandait aux participants de mémoriser les poèmes et ensuite de les réciter à haute voix. Walcott a désormais fermé ses derniers guillemets . Et désormais il doit surfer sur les vagues et les alizés entre le Morne  Fortune à Sainte-Lucie et Paramin, Trinidad. Dans son éloge funèbre l’évèque a insisté sur le fait que sir Derek était entré dans le groupe très restreint des grands héros de la Caraïbe qui seront toujours  dans nos coeurs. Dans ce groupe il a cité dans l’ordre Toussaint L’Ouverture, Fidel Castro, Bob Marley, Usain Bolt, Daren Sammy et deux autres sirs comme lui V.S. Naipaul et Arthur Lewis ! Je ne connaissais ni Darren Sammy, qui est un grand joueur de cricket originaire de Sainte–Lucie, ni Arthur Lewis (Prix Nobel d’économie en 1979). No comment ! L’important c’est de lire Walcott (relire ci-dessus son poème magistral « The Sea is History »), lire Joseph Brodsky (le russe, 1940-1996) et Seamus Heaney (l’irlandais, 1939-2013), ses deux mousquetaires, tous deux Prix Nobel de littérature comme lui et s’imprégner de la substantifique moelle des poèmes suivants

Thomas Hardy: “During Wind and Rain,”

W. H. Auden: “The Fall of Rome,”

Wilfred Owen: “The Parable of the Young Man and the Old,”

Edward Thomas: “The Glory” 

Hart Crane: “To Brooklyn Bridge,”

Emily Brontë: “Remembrance”

Algernon Charles Swinburne: “Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon,”

sans oublier Adam Zegajewski : »To go to Lvov » et en croisant les doigts pour que la maison où Walcott est né soit préservée comme elle se doit surtout compte tenu des investissements millionnaires qui ont été faits.



Une réflexion sur “écriture créative selon sir Derek

Les commentaires sont fermés.