Page 2
Jacques Prévert
Translations by Anne Berkeley
 
 
 
 

BLOOD ORANGE

The zip flashed over your hips
like lightning
and the welcome tempest of your eager body
in the depth of shadow
burst into light
and your dress fell onto the polished parquet
as soundlessly
as orange peel onto a carpet
but under our feet
little mother o'pearl buttons cracked like pips
blood orange
beautiful fruit
the tip of your breast
traced a new line of fate
in the hollow of my palm
blood orange
beautiful fruit

sun of the night
 
 

THRESHING

The threshing machine has come
the threshing machine has gone

They've beaten the drum
they've beaten the carpets
they've wrung out the washing
and hung it to dry
and ironed it
they've beaten the cream and made the custards
they've beaten their children a little bit too
they've rung the bells
they've butchered the pig
they've roasted the coffee
they've split the wood
they've cracked the eggs
they've fried the veal with some petits pois
they've flambéd the crépe suzette
they've slaughtered the turkey
they've wrung the chickens' necks
they've skinned the rabbits
they've rolled out the barrels
they've drowned all their sorrows in wine
they've beaten doors and their wives' backsides
they've given a hand
they've kicked themselves
they've tipped up the table
they've pulled off the cloth
they've pushed their luck with the girls
they've choked they've busted a gut they've cracked up with laughter
they've broken the pitcher of iced water
they've spilt the custard
they've pinched the girls
they've tumbled them into the ditch
they've bitten the dust
they've beaten the earth
they've stamped their feet
stamped their feet and clapped their hands
they've shouted bellowed and sung
they've danced
danced all round the barns where the grain is stored

where the grain is safely gathered in dried cracked polished ground up
conquered well and truly thrashed.
 

HUNTING THE KID
(nb 'Borstal' in line 9 is 'Approved School' for male juvenile offenders, itself a euphemism for kids' jail)

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

They can see birds on the island
all round the island is water

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

What's all this baying for blood?

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

It's a pack of the silent majority
out on a kid-hunt

He said: I've had a bellyful of Borstal
So the screws turned their keys in his teeth
and left him out cold on the concrete

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

Now he's broken out
on the run in the night
like a hunted beast
and everyone's galloping after -
policemen tourists shareholders artists

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

A pack of the silent majority
out on a kid-hunt
You don't need a permit
all real men do it
What is it swimming out there in the night
What are all these noises and lights
A kid on the run
They're firing their guns

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!

All these chaps on the beach
empty-handed - they're gagging with rage

Mugger! burglar! layabout! scum!
Come back to shore come back to shore!

They can see birds on the island
and all round the island is water.
 
 

WEDDINGS AND FEASTS
                   (for William Blake)

In the ruins of a cathedral
a butcher is weeping bucketsful
over the death of a bird
and lying on the broken flagstones
a cracked and toppled bell
shows its useless clapper
like an obscene fat priest
whose soutane is lifted by the wind
And in the fragments of  the sacristy
three or four villains in peaked caps are taking round the collection
on the occasion of the wedding of Heaven and Hell
in England
and also of the French Revolution
and even the death of Louis XVI
The best man's name is William Blake
completely naked and very proper
But he keeps his hat on
because the Holy Spirit is inside it
It's the Holy Spirit of Contrariness
When he calls, Spirit, are you there
the bird always replies with a sweet smile:
no
At the end of the ceremony William Blake will make a present of it
     to the butcher
he will forget his dead parrot
and go back to butchering beasts
with a hefty mallet
One pigeon more or less doesn't matter
thinks William Blake
there's always something else to think about
in his case in particular the sight
of a dazzling girl invited to the wedding by heaven knows who
and who is very beautiful, and as naked as he is
A beauty
thinks William, a beauty of stunning composure
as pure as red wine
and as innocent as spring
And he looks at her because he fancies her
and she looks at him because perhaps she fancies him a little bit too
And just then a large Barbary duck turns up with his barrel-organ
and plays a timeless and universal air
and the wedding begins
A properly conducted wedding
insists William Blake
for some things have been damnably badly done
damnably
Are you talking about the Mass
demands an old man who looks like a prophet or a bishop
and severely put out
But William Blake is a gentleman
and very polite, as Englishmen are supposed to be
and he certainly doesn't want to get into an argument with a bishop
on the wedding day of Heaven and hell
or on - who knows - his own wedding day
because the pretty girl is so lovely
and there's no doubt he's fallen in love
and perhaps she has too
so he contents himself with saying
to the man who looks like a bishop or a prophet or a safety-pin
As the caterpillar chooses the fairest leaves for its
eggs, so the priest
lays his curse on the fairest joys

And so, on with the music
and we will talk about the ceremony another time
and as they say, on with the music
and the music plays
and as it does so the stunning girl
smiles at William Blake
because on another occasion he said
Prisons are built with stones of Law,
Brothels with bricks of Religion
She gives him her arm her hand
her everything
And who's the lucky man?
William Blake.
 
 

OUR FATHER

Our Father Which art in Heaven
stay there
and we will stay down here on earth
which is sometimes very pretty
with its passions of New York
and its Parisian mysteries
(worth all those of the Trinity)
with its little canal at Ourq
and the Great Wall of China
the river at Morlaix
and Cambrai mints
the Pacific Ocean
and the Tuileries ponds
with its saints and sinners
With all the wonders of the world
right here on earth
strewn about
for everyone
marvelling at themselves
without daring to admit it
like a pretty girl who won't appear in the nude
With all the horrors of the world
which are legion
its legionnaires and torturers
its rulers north and south
the bosses and their priests their traitors and their henchmen
with its seasons
and its centuries
and its pretty girls and dirty old men
and the straw of poverty rotting in the cannon's mouth.

THE BROKEN MIRROR

The little boy who was always singing
the little boy who used to dance in my head
the little boy
broke his shoelace
and all the fairground booths
suddenly crumpled
and in this silent deserted fairground
I heard your happy voice
your torn and fragile voice
childish and heartbroken
coming from far away and calling me
and I put my hand on my heart
and beating there
bloodstained
were the seven mirrored splinters of your starry laugh