Old Poetry Old Poetry Poetry • Poets • Essays • Forums •

Forums / Poet & Poem Questions /
DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SUN AND MOON--Jean Genet


  • Lute
    Jul 11 2:14 PM
    Reply
    DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE SUN AND MOON
    Translation by Mark Spitzer
    Dialogue de la lune et du soleil
    by Jean Genet
    THE MOON (with a bandaged eye)

    To no end! My role is to indefinitely stretch the motionless shadow of objects. It inscribes itself in the paleness of my light. And my light is round. Nothing moves... The earth turns beneath my eye... The prison colony dwells in silence... and even though my light is deaf, it listens... she is an immense old woman who hears the slightest noise... Roger, the little informess, gathers flowers... and plucks their petals... in a low voice... From here, the prison colony appears as soft as moleskin... In his tomb, Rocky spits... he weeps... he ages... my role is to confound time, and the nights...

    THE SUN (valiantly)

    Me, I name the days! Each of my rays brands them, specifies them, ennobles them. Not one day resembles the previous one. And each has its name. I give you rhythm. My first arrow ignites intelligence and -- Behold! -- extinguishes it as a result! The prison colony thinks because of me. It conceives itself without dreaming. It rushes toward itself. I am the sun and I polish my arrows. I gave the idea to Ferrand, of going back to his workshop and working at the forge of fuckery: Noon. The Warden examines the state of the accounts presented to him by the Treasurer. A cent is a cent, a day a day, precisely. (sadly) Already, night comes...

    THE MOON

    Yes. To obtain this eternally serene but relentless light, I must clean my mess kit. Always in circles... in the same way. Otherwise I'd diffuse a dim light -- and I'd pick up false clues. I must be that immense ear which hears Rocky sighing... I hear him. He spits... he turns over... his covers stir... I hear the pleats falling on his dirty feet... Rocky is leaning against the wall... he breathes through his nose... air passes through his nostril hairs... Nobody tries to escape... The chaplain is astonished by the meaning of the word "chaplainess"... he wants to cry... He says: "The chaplain isn't the husband of the chaplainess, the chaplainess isn't..." My arm is weary from cleaning my mess kit in circles, and the fatigue of a night...


    THE SUN

    Bells, chimes! The flowers turn toward me. Their glances follow me. I clean time. I make myself scintillate. The most beautiful day of our life... is today! About eight in the crimson morning, apoplectic, a prisoner falls. I lack juice. Through a single action, even idleness is active when I dart my rays. (he looks at his wrist-watch) At half past noon the Warden fans himself. Is he digesting? At seven in the evening, the sun falls... in a haze...



    THE MOON

    To the vertical ease of cypresses, I propose the confusion of lianas. We flow, we crawl. Minutes and hours overlap. Time is elastic. It stretches, it lengthens, it shrinks. It's a mish-mash. We smoke. We get hard. We drowse. Electric currents circulate in the filaments enclosing the walls. Rocky has just shat. He squats in his corner. He removes his hand from his covers... he extends his arm... he touches the wall... he caresses the typical portrait of the killer:

    average forehead
    average nose
    average mouth

    A mass of shadows has just added itself to the total mass of nights. This passing night is, at the same time, all the darkness of the times...


    THE SUN

    The days pass and don't resemble each other. History is written day by day, it is deducted in days (with a shout) All Glorious! Ferrand forges a ring. At ten o'clock he will go clean the knife, his tool, for tomorrow morning we work. At three o'clock -- three o'clock! Light is triumphant. The entire prison colony knows it's moved away from the shores where women had power. Here, nothing can recall them. There are never any baptisms or weddings by the chaplain. The day is a male, entirely, in his solitary, sterile erectness...


    THE MOON

    I am all absent femininity, left behind on ancient shores, says the night. The convicts slink in my black, hollow, full, pale belly. Each night is knocked up. The convicts forget their age and their agony accelerates. Rocky coughs... he spits, but not as far as the night before... he caresses the image of Forlano, a little more faded...


    THE MOON

    Night opens its immense ass, where the forgotten day will bury itself...


    THE SUN

    The day.


    THE MOON

    The night, devouress...


    THE SUN

    A day passes...


    THE MOON

    Night dwells.


    THE SUN

    Days pass.


    THE MOON

    Night dwells.



    http://www.sptzr.net/Translations/dialog.htm


  • I-Like-Rhymes
    July 14
    Reply
    Thanks for the thread and for the link.
    Watch this space http://oldpoetry.com/oauthor/show/Jean_Genet
    Jim OP Research Team
  • :