THE TICKET TAKER

Let's go! Let's go!
Squeeze in!
Let's go! Let's go!
Okay, squeeze in!
There are too many travelers—
Too many travelers.
Squeeze in! Squeeze in!
There are people in line.
Everywhere there are
Lots
Along the loading dock
Or else in the lanes of their mothers' bellies.
Let's go! Let's go! Squeeze in!
Squeeze the trigger.
Everybody must live
So kill yourself a little.
Let's go! Let's go!
Come on!
Be serious!
Give way!
You know quite well you can't stay there
Too long.
There has to be space for everyone
A little trip, they told you—
A little trip round the world—
A little trip in the world
A little trip—and you go.
Let's go! Let's go!
Squeeze in! Squeeze in!
Be polite!
Don't push!

A Simply Appalling translation of—

LE CONTRÔLEUR

Allons allons
Pressons
Allons allons
Voyons pressons
Il y a trop de voyageurs
Trop de voyageurs
Pressons pressons
Il y en a qui font la queue
Il y en a partout
Beaucoup
Le long du débarcadère
Ou bien dans les couloirs du ventre de leur mère
Allons allons pressons
Pressons sur la gâchette
Il faut bien que tout le monde vive
Alors tuez-vous un peu
Allons allons
Voyons
Soyons sérieux
Laissez la place
Vous savez bien que vous ne pouvez pas rester là
Trop longtemps
Il faut qu'il y en ait pour tout le monde
Un petit tour on vous l'a dit
Un petit tour du monde
Un petit tour dans le monde
Un petit tour et on s'en va
Allons allons
Pressons pressons
Soyez polis
Ne poussez pas.

     —Jacques Prévert, Paroles (1945)

Labels: English translation, Jacques Prévert, Poem of the Day, poetry

Despair is one of the great obstacles imposed on us by our culture. It is a hallmark of evangelical and fundamentalist Christians, and it has cast a pall over the American psyche. These religionists see no way forward for humanity—apart from a savior, see no hope of ending war—apart from a savior, see no end to poverty—apart from a savior, and dare not trust their own senses—for want of a savior.

We have empowered these people. We are preached their counsel from the halls of Congress. We hear their beliefs echoed by the military. We pay for their paranoia through the war machine. We are pulled by the philosophical undercurrent on the editorial pages. And we see the manifestation of their beliefs in the destruction of the environment, of societal bonds and of a decent hope for human progress.

This sort of despair (a word that has other meanings, to be sure) is subtle yet pervasive and colors the thought of too many—even those who think of themselves as "progressive." It truly sets 21st century Americans apart—not just from the West but from the East, not just from Africa but from Latin America. The worst of it is that it is self-reinforcing. How did we go so collectively mad?

In any case, despair comes in many forms but sometimes—

DESPAIR IS SEATED UPON A BENCH

In a square on a bench
There's a man who calls when you pass.
He wears spectacles and an old gray suit
He smokes a little cigar. He is seated
And calls you when you pass
Or he simply motions to you.
You must not look at him
You must not listen to him
You must pass by.
Act as if you didn't see him
As if you didn't hear him.
You must pass on and quicken your step.
If you look at him
If you listen to him
He will motion to you and nothing and no one
Can keep you from going to sit by him.
Then he will look at you and smile
And you will suffer grievously
And the man will continue to smile
And you will smile the very same smile
Exactly
The more you smile the more you'll suffer
Grievously
The more you suffer the more you'll smile
Irremediably
And you stay there
Seated, fixed
Smiling on the bench.
Children play right by you
Passers-by pass
Quietly
Birds fly away
Leaving one tree
For another
And you stay there
On the bench
And you know—you know
that never again will you play
Like these children
You know that never again will you pass
Quietly
Like these passers-by
That never again will you fly away
Leaving one tree for another
Like these birds.

     —Jacques Prévert, Paroles

A Simply Appalling translation of—

LE DÉSESPOIR EST ASSIS SUR UN BANC

Dans un square sur un banc
Il y a un homme qui vous appelle quand on passe
Il a des binocles un vieux costume gris
Il fume un petit ninas il est assis
Et il vous appelle quand on passe
Ou simplement il vous fait signe
Il ne faut pas le regarder
Il ne faut pas l'écouter
Il faut passer
Faire comme si on ne le voyait pas
Comme si on ne l'entendait pas
Il faut passer et presser le pas
Si vous le regardez
Si vous l'écoutez
Il vous fait signe et rien personne
Ne peut vous empêcher d'aller vous asseoir près de lui
Alors il vous regarde et sourit
Et vous souffrez atrocement
Et l'homme continue de sourire
Et vous souriez du même sourire
Exactement
Plus vous souriez plus vous souffrez
Atrocement
Plus vous souffrez plus vous souriez
Irrémédiablement
Et vous restez là
Assis figé
Souriant sur le banc
Des enfants jouent tout près de vous
Des passants passent
Tranquillement
Des oiseaux s'envolent
Quittant un arbre
Pour un autre
Et vous restez là
Sur le banc
Et vous savez vous savez
Que jamais plus vous ne jouerez
Comme ces enfants
Vous savez que jamais plus vous ne passerez
Tranquillement
Comme ces passants
Que jamais plus vous ne vous envolerez
Quittant un arbre pour un autre
Comme ces oiseaux.

There are a number of good readings on YouTube. My preference is here.

Related post
Poem of the Day (5/6/07)

Labels: English translation, Jacques Prévert, pessimism, Poem of the Day, religion, religious fundamentalism

DOMESTIC LIFE

The mother does her knitting
Her son's in the war
She feels that's quite natural, the mother
And the father? What does the father do?
He's in business
His wife does her knitting
His son's in the war
Him, his business
He feels that's quite natural, the father
And the son? And the son?
What does he feel, the son?
He feels nothing, absolutely nothing, the son
The son—his mother does her knitting, his father his business, him the war
When he's done with the war
He'll go into business with his father
The war goes on; the mother goes on, she knits
The father goes on; he's in business
The son is killed; he doesn't go on any longer
The father and the mother go to the cemetery
They feel that's natural, the father and the mother
Life goes on—life with knitting war business
Business war knitting war
Business business and business
Life with the cemetery.

—Jacques Prévert (1900-1977)

"Domestic Life" is a Simply Appalling translation of this—

FAMILIALE

La mère fait du tricot
Le fils fait la guerre
Elle trouve ça tout naturel la mère
Et le père qu'est-ce qu'il fait le père?
Il fait des affaires
Sa femme fait du tricot
Son fils la guerre
Lui des affaires
Il trouve ça tout naturel le père
Et le fils et le fils
Qu'est-ce qu'il trouve le fils?
Il ne trouve rien absolument rien le fils
Le fils sa mère fait du tricot son père des affaires lui la guerre
Quand il aura fini la guerre
Il fera des affaires avec son père
La guerre continue la mère continue elle tricote
Le père continue il fait des affaires
Le fils est tué il ne continue plus
Le père et la mère vont au cimetière
Ils trouvent ça naturel le père et la mère
La vie continue la vie avec le tricot la guerre les affaires
Les affaires la guerre le tricot la guerre
Les affaires les affaires et les affaires
La vie avec le cimetière.

Labels: antiwar, English translation, Jacques Prévert, Poem of the Day