Frankryk vereer Aimé Césaire

Aimé Césaire

Aimé Césaire

Bykans drie jaar na sy afsterwe in 2008 is die Martinikaanse digter, Aimé Césaire, verlede week by die Panthéon in Parys met ‘n spesiale huldigingsplegtigheid vereer. Dié spoggeleentheid, wat ook op die televisiekanaal France 2 gebeeldsend is, is onder andere bygewoon deur die Franse president, Nicolas Sarkozy, die Franse Minister van Kultuur, Frédéric Mitterand, César se familie en ongeveer 1 000 uitgenooide gaste.

Danksy die digter se uitgespelde wens dat hy op Martinique begrawe moet word, sal sy oorskot helaas nié sy finale rusplek te midde van Frankryk se grootste geeste vind nie, maar op sy geboorte-eiland bly soos dit tans die geval is.

Luidens De Papieren Man se berig die volgende: “Césaire werd samen met de Senegalees Leopold Sédar Senghor, met wie hij studeerde, beschouwd als een van de boegbeelden van de cultuurfilosofische negritude-beweging, de voorloper van de Black Power in de jaren ’60. Hij zette zich in voor de Afrikaanse culturele emancipatie en verdedigde de zelfstandigheid van de Afrikaanse samenleving. Menselijke waardigheid en mensenrechten zijn constanten in zijn literair werk. […] Césaire was ook een politieke en anti-koloniale voorvechter. Hij zetelde sinds 1946 in het Franse parlement als vertegenwoordiger van Martinique en was burgemeester van Fort-de France van 1945 tot 1983.”

Vir jou leesplesier volg die gedig “Forfeiture” uit die bundel Soleil cou coupé (Solar Throat Slashed), wat reeds in 1948 verskyn het, onder aan vanoggend se Nuuswekker.

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Sedert gister het daar weer net een nuwe plasing bygekom. Desmond Painter skryf oor sy passie vir droedels en plaas sommer sy versamelde werke.

Geniet dit.

LE

 

FORFEITURE

As soon as I press the little pawl that I have under my tongue at a spot that escapes all detection all microscopic bombardment all dowser divination all scholarly prospecting beneath it triple layer of false eyelashes of centuries of insults of strata of madrepores of what I must call my niagara cavern in a burst of cockroaches in a cobra twitch a tongue like a cause for astonishment makes the leap of a machine for spitting a mouthful of curses a rising of the sewers of hell a premonitory ejaculation a urinary spurt a foul emission a sulfuric rhythm feeding an uninterruption of interjections-and then right there pushing between the paving stones the furious blue eucalypti that leave far behind them the splendor of veronicas, skulls smack in the delirium of dust like the jaboticaba plum and then right there started up like the loud buzzing of a hornet the true war of devolution in which all means are justified right there the passenger pigeons of the conflagration right there the crackling of secret transmitters and the thick tufts of black smoke that resemble the vaginal vegetation thrust into the air by rutting loins. I count. Obstructing the street a honey-colored armillaria lying dwarf-like on its side a church uprooted and reduced by catastrophe to its true proportions of a public urinal. I cross over collapsed bridges. I cross under new arches. Toboggan eye at the bottom of a cheek amidst woodwinds and well-polished brasses a house abutting an abyss with in cut-away view the violated virginity of the daughter of the house the lost goods and chattels of the father and the mother who believed in the dignity of mankind and in the bottom of a wool stocking the testicles pierced by the knitting needle of an unemployed workman from distant lands.

I place my hand on my forehead it’s a hatching of monsoons. I place my hand on my dick. It fainted in leaf smoke. All the deserter light of the sky has taken refuge in the red white and yellow heated bars of snakes attentive to the wasting away of this landscape sneered at by dog piss.
For what?
The planets are very fertile birds that constantly and majestically disclose their guano silos
the earth on its spit alternatively vomits grease from each of its facets
fistfuls of fish hook their emergency lights to the pilasters of stars whose ancient slippage crumbles away during the night in a thick very bitter flavor of coca.

Who among you has never happened to strike an earth because of its inhabitants’ malice? Today I am standing and in the sole whiteness that men have never recognized in me.

 

© Aimé César (Uit Frans vertaal deur Clayton Eshleman & A. James Arnold)

 

 

 

 

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