Today, I have decided to post a poem that I wrote in 2004. It was originally in French and came third in a competition whose theme was “friendship”. I subsequently translated it into English and re-worked it a bit. The second version was published in an anthology in the United States of America in 2006.
I have typed the French version, printed it, added the accents, scanned it and inserted it below. The English version is underneath the French one.
Its French title was “La Consolatrice”. I have changed the title in English.
I prefer the French version of this poem because it is more sensual and suits the subject better.
The English version was baptized a “prose-poem” by an American expert. It was the first time that I had ever heard of this style of poetry.
Sleek, supple, black coat shining,
She steps gracefully across the Chinese rug,
Skirts a floor-cushion, then pauses near the sofa,
Her green eyes anxious, questioning.
The seated man holds an opened letter in his left hand.
His stunned gaze travels around the sun-drenched room,
Seeking something … or someone.
She can feel his suffering. It worries her.
Spicy perfume, from yellow roses on the coffee table,
Tickles her nose. She sneezes.
The man extends an approximate hand.
She moves closer, meeting his caress.
The man speaks. She doesn’t understand the words
But leaps lightly onto his lap. He takes her in his arms,
Lays his cheek against her velvet head.
A salty drop, landing on her tiny nose, startles her.
She tastes it, then snuggles down and starts to purr.