Poems by Nimrod ​

Quai François Mauriac

Let me be frank: to the TGV we attribute the big jolts
Of the Corails, and to the Corails the discreet luxury of the TGV.
Unless I take the Téoz, their mid-range option.
The Téoz gives me the unparalleled feeling of moving
From second-class to first, as it were. Often
It makes my heart flush with pleasure. On the rails of Normandy
Or Clermont-Ferrand, four hours becomes
Almost two, and I insist on this almost, which pares in measure
The weight of fatigue and the venom of boredom…

In two hours—almost—silence fills
My ears, and the depths, the deepest depths of the air…
Nervous exhaustion speeds through the body, like on the rails,
Always gleaming, always staying their course: infinity,
This manna for poets and theologians.
She speeds, I say, the engine speeds her spinning of silk, of crystal
And esteem, she speeds, lengthening the manuscript that I edit
On my ivory tablet, checking that the words, on the page,
A little instable, don’t derail. There is always one word
Spinning in the wrong direction. I’m keeping my eye on that one;
It could put the whole trip in jeopardy.

Alas, another follows in its tracks, then a third.
It’s my Mac that will rejoice… As for my mind, it
Reacts at the speed of light, at Téoz speed,
Which is God chasing God. Sometimes France
and its inventions! Now, two hours have come to their end,
Between valleys and plains, pine-covered hills and grass wisely
Cultivated by scientists to give a little enhancement to humanity.
At this speed, we will inhabit the 21st-century as poet-consuls.

The gare de Lyon is in sight. In a week or a month,
I will put my prose to the test on the rails of another Téoz.
From the Train à Grande Vitesse to the Très Grand Bibliotheque,
I think I will complete my poem on parchment
and, as a Très Grand Poet, I’ll place it among the early printed books,
There, on the lawn of the Quai François Mauriac…

                    Translated by Emily Goedde and Sylvie Kandé




Where the poem is

I know the poem is—in my throat.
It is all I know, sustained by a beacon of light.
Porous stone, lava stone, shards…

I can longer count my nights of wakefulness.
I pricked my ears, dried up the wellspring of echoes.
Fairland of burning, spark of love…
I put my voice on dim. I do not know who swears
Within me or why. What he wants would be
for me to rekindle the flame of a love long since past.
I am the guardian of rocky emotions.
I hear their ebb; I hear their flow,
Their painful return. Here they come, my throat foretells.
I no longer have a body… Under the arch of winds
The sun unfurls, empire of sovereign calm.
I cannot wait to go…

                Translated by Emily Goedde and Sylvie Kandé

Nimrod©Marc Melki

Born in Tchad in 1959, Nimrod is a poet, novelist and essayist. He published more than twenty books including Les jambes d’Alice, Le bal des princes, La nouvelle chose française, Rosa Parks, Non à la discrimination raciale, L’or des rivières, Babel, Babylone, etc.), which were granted prizes such as the Vocation, Benjamin Fondane, Édouard Glissant, Max Jacob and Pierrette Micheloud Prizes. His last books are Sur les berges du Chari, district nord de la beauté (poetry, Editions Bruno Doucey, 2016), L’enfant n’est pas mort (novel, Editions Bruno Doucey, 2017), J’aurais un royaume en bois flottés, anthologie personnelle 1989-2016 (Poésie/Gallimard, 2017), 120 nuances d’Afrique, anthology edited with Bruno Doucey and Christian Poslaniec (Editions Bruno Doucey, 2017) and Gens de brume, (story, Actes Sud, 2017).

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