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西脇 順三郎
Nishiwaki Junzaburo
(1894 - 1982)


詩人。新潟県・小千谷の出身。慶大科卒・渡英をへて慶大の英文学教授。 シュールレアリスム提唱者。ここでは詩集「Ambarvalia」から、Ivan Goll (1891-1950) の仏詩を訳出してアレンジした『恋歌』を紹介。下は、それぞれの詩節に合致するゴールの詩の仏文(Duo d'amour: Poèmes d'amour 1920 á 1950 (1959) , pp. 109)を掲載した。ただし西脇の抄訳は、順番をまるで変えてしまっているので、まだ拾えてない箇所もある。いずれ機会があったらきちんと照会したい。
Poet born in Ojiya, Niigata Prefecture. After studying in England he became English professor at his alma mater, Keiou Univ. An explonent of the surrealist movement. His work Ambarvalia is largely an arrangement of translations he made from works such as the Latin poet Catullus. "Song of Love" is a rearrangement of his translation of French verses by Ivan Goll (1891-1950). Below, I've extracted the corresponding

『Ambarvalia』(1933年)より From Ambarvalia(1933)

恋歌 

- イヴァンからクレールへ
君は杏子の唇をもったおれの牧場である。
二つの青い千鳥が
君の眼の静かな水面をかき乱す
そうしておれはおれの疲労した魂をその中で洗う

Tu es mon prè aux lèvres d'adonide
Deux pluvier bleu remuent
L'eau calme de tes yeux
Et j'y noie mon âme fatiguée

Des poissons d'or agitent ton babil,
Les myosotis de tes fosettes
Sont nos petites nièces
Le vent joue de la harpe dans tes cheveux.
Une église lointaine sonne dans ton cœur
L'angélus de mon amour

Elles étaient de grande tragédies ambulantes
Elles étaient des nuages pensifs
Elles étaient le rêve dans la vitre du métro
[Elles étaient..]
Elles étaient la neige qui fond dans la main chaude
Elles étaient des rosiers en crêpe de chine.
Elles étaient une pauver soirée de pluie
Elles étaient Russes ou Brésiliennes.
Elles n'éaient que des femmes.
Elles..

Mais toi
Je ne te connais pas
Je ne puis te décrire
Je t'aime.

(Selon l'Ecclésiaste)
Tes cheveux allurement le plus grand incendie du siècle
Ton front est lécran oú passent les secrets des hommes
Tes yeux, deux diamantes fixé dans les orbites du Sphinx
Ton nez est une tour Eiffel peinte en rose
Tes lèvres sont des yoles jumelles qui dansent sur la Mer Rouge
Tes dents s'alignent comme les touches de mon piano
Quand tu parles, les acacias flurissent
Et dix ruisseaux rient
Qunad tu marches
Toute la terre se balance

Dors, douce enfant:
J'arrêterai la terre dans sa course
J'huilerai les bielles de la lune
Que tu pleurs ont rouillées
Je counduirai le vent qui a de l'asthme
Et qui réveille l'Europe entière
Pour que tu dormes
Tous les tramways mettront des roues d??tante
La pluie de fera neige
A l'aube j'étranglerai es mésanges
Dont le cri fêlerait ton cœuer:
Pour que tu dormes!

Les lilas ont déteint sous la pluie
Les myosotis ont perdu tous leur yeux
Encherchant l'amour
Trompés par l'or faux de l'aurore
Les oiseaux sont rentrés
Désespèrés
L'orage a fait sauter le ciel à la dynamite
Et la terre tourne toujours: où donc se reposer?
Moi j'avais le cœur bien tranquille
Fermé comme une huître
En l'ouvrant tu l'as tué!

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(str. 4) Aussi exact que le maçons
Qui s'est levé au cri rouillé du coq
J'attends tous les matins
Entouré des oiseaux de France
Devant le chantier de notre amour en construction.

Nous travaillons à nous comprendre
A bâtir un portique
Brique par brique
Peine par peine
Ciment et larmes:
Pour qu'un jour, dans notre vieillesse
Assies devant le souvenir
Nous nous contemplions nous mêmes!

J'ai vu tes chairs diluée au radium
Monde inconnu: Mer que j'appelais mienne!
J'ai vu les forêts de varech
Où disait mon destin,
[Les preuvres rose de désir ]
Et les lunes brisées de bien des ??tes]
J'ai vu ton cœur, ce fièr navire,
Qui transportait les cargaisons d'amour
Sombré dans un buisson de rêve
Parmi les momies de corail

Alors moi, lourd scaphandrier
J'ai voulu y plonger, sauver l'amour perdu
Mais l'on ne m'a jamas vu remonter.

Parfoit mon cœur crie dans la nuit
Comme un vieux meuble craqué
Au souveniir du temps du cerisier.
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C'est la saison de jalousie
Mes yeux secs tombent comme de feuilles
Le long de ma vie.

Une pluieaux mains de veuve
Lisse mes cheveux
Ma soeur Douleur, assises sur mes malles
Pleurez pour moi!
Le fer et le plomb
Ne sont pas si lourde
Que l'amour

Song of Love

from Yvan to Clair
[from the works of Yvan Goll]



You are my meadow, possessed of apricot lips,
A pair of plovers in blue, that disturb
the still waters of your eyes — a place where to
cleanse this worn-out soul of mine.

A little goldfish has got you chatting
The forget-me-nots that make up your dimples
are to us our little nieces.
And the wind plays your hair like a harp.
The distant chapel reaches your heart,
pealing my angelus bells, my angelus.

They were the great tragedy put on by the actors’ troupe.
They were the pensive clouds.
They would dream by the metro-train windows.
They were the dear little fools.
They were snow melting on warm open palms.
They were the rose pattern on the crêpe-de-chine.
They were a rainfall at sunset.
They were of Russian or Brazilian descent.
They were...


And yet there was you.
I have yet to come to know you.
I can't describe a sketch of you.
I love you, [that is what I do].

(From the Books of the Old Testament)
Your hair is fire, the biggest come of this millennium.
Your forehead is a screen, passing on mankind's secrets.
Your eyes are two diamonds set in the Sphinx's sockets.
Your neck is the Eiffel Tower with coats of pink painted over it.
Your lips are twin boats dancing on the Red Sea.
Your teeth are better-arranged than the keyboard of any piano
When you talk, you make the acacias bloom.
and cause ten streams to babble.
With your walk,
you set the whole earth astir.

Sleep, poor little one,
Watch while I stop the earth from turning.
I'll go grease down the working shafts of the moon,
made rusty by your tears.
I'll do this so you can sleep.
I shall flatly refuse the coming
of the asthmatic storm that wakes all of France.
Trains will have to wrap their wheels in cotton.
And rain turn to snow.
And as for the titmouse who causes your
fragile heart to crack, I'll go ambush it in the morning,
so you can sleep

Lilac blossoms lose their color in the rain.
And forget-me-nots pierce our eyes.
Seduced by the false gold of Dawn,
I conduct a search for love.
The little bird returns, disenchanted.
The monsoon blew up the sky with sticks of dynamite.
And the earth keeps on turning an eternity Then where to lie?
I'd clasped my door shut tight as an oyster,
feeling exceedingly tranquil, yet
you had come and wrecked it, trying to pry.


You are a nymph, escaped from the white birch forest.
Beneath your feet of gold, dogs give up their lives.
And the stars, they enter your eyes,
and converge with the bygone Fluvial Age

The last of the centaurs, I
ride past the street of the opera
I dismount from these four legs of mine,
splitting apart in two,
and at the gate of the forest you'd left behind,
I offer in your name
my torso dripping with blood

I awake to the cock's rusty crowing,
with the precision of a mason's, no less.
I await every morning,
surrounded by birds,
in the building site belonging to my love.

We strive in order to comprehend.
Through study we strive, trying to build us a porch [where to sit],
stacking brick by brick, heaping
torment upon torment,
with cement and tears.
So that in our old age one day,
we could sit with our remembrances
and contemplate those times spent together.

I saw your body, reduced yet thinner than radium.
A world I can't understand
The body I once called mine.
My love was dragged like so much rags.
I’d witnessed the sea-weeds under ultraviolet light.
Your pointed heart, like the flotsam off a ship tipped over,
remained still at the bottom of a dream.
In the oxydized coral,
filled with an impenetrable silence.
on top of, oh, what secrets.

At the time, I was a sinkered-down sea diver.
I wanted to fathom its depths. To look for lost gold.
And already, the others regarded me as one who’d never return.
Sometimes, my deadened heart would scream
in the dead of night like the rattling of old armor.
It recalled the rosy-colored days of the cherry orchards.
Already, woe has become the habitual state of mine.
I write your name on a cloud about to depart.
I fix my gaze on the meadow, where stood the willow you sung of.
And I sometimes open my eyes
behind the myopic shutter-doors
like a bayside villa for rent, that we’ve never known the owner of.

Whether I stand
or sit,
Whether it strikes three
or fifteen,
In the evening edition,
a morning dream,
Pro or con,
Sober or drunk,
Yesterday,
or today,
I can only think of you

I have since forgotten how to lay down my head.
I'm better off choosing the low ground,
like a rubber balloon that's spent.

My smile scales off like the aging lime-plaster
over the moon's surface.
The north wind has dried up
what tears there were within me.
So a Dawn had to cry instead.

Caged up inside my skeleton,
the robin-bird of my heart
had choked his neck between the seventh and eighth rib.

In the night, your tangerine-colored hair
illuminated another heavenly tower,
reaching even to those turrets of Saturn.
And the angels who caught cold there
were drying their woolly wings
that were doused in untimely dew.

But the light grew faint, one twilight.
The electric red hair dancing on your nape
fell weak, like a shooting star streaking the sky.

Inside your head of porcelain,
or somewhere in your pale chest perhaps,
lead shots had entered.

Your soul — Ever from the first that I loved you
I have loved you all the more since.
I uprooted those oaks and forget-me-nots,
Pulled out my own hair from its roots.
I lashed out, clawing at thin air.
No longer have I eyes to cry with,
Nor a god whom to lament.
Lend an ear to the silence, screaming at the other brink of night.
I draw a Turkish saber, a comet at that,
and I plunge it straight through my heart

Day by day,
Night after night, year in and year out.
The flowers, the dogs, and the clouds,
the villas in the suburbs,
the bicycle riders —
they don't know that you've left them.
They race around,
they eat,
and they die.
And these things they do all in vain

I'm neither alone, I don't think, nor poor
I carry pain with me, I travel with this noble pain of mine
There, the leaves of sorrow, the tree of pain
Wears a red glove, this friend, this pain.
I am its sibling, I am its spouse,
I am the child of my pain.
Without pain, I am nothing.
I feed on pain.
I laugh out the pain.
I inhale the pain from the cigarette.
I shout it, the pain,
I spew it, the pain.
And because it's yours too, this pain, I cherish it.

Now is the season of jealousies.
My parched out eyes, like leaves,
fall scattered along my life's lane.

While holding the widow's hand, the rain
strokes my hair.
Oh, the pain borne by my sisters,
who’re saddled atop my suitcase.
Cry for me, for

Neither steel nor lead
is scarce as heavy as love.


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