Bayart

Den franske forfattaren Pascalle Monnier har studert mellomalderhistorie og moderne historie i Frankrike. Bayart (nydeleg gjendikta til engelsk av poeten Cole Swenson) er ein collage, ei glidande rørsle mellom notid og fortid, mellom skildringar av hendingar og landskap som beveger seg fram og attende gjennom tida, som to fotografi eksponerte over kvarandre; bitar av historiske dokument, brev, skildringar av veggteppe frå mellomalderen, dataspel, brokkar av samtalar. Bayart er ein ung riddar, han døyr i 1520. Ein av dei vakraste tekstane i boka er denne, der Bayart ligg på likstrå.

27

the trees the branches sway lightly over his head
masking the sun the full moon into bands of light and shade
the branches slowly alternate the shadow and the light
the gold light of the sun sieved through the tender green
almost yellow leaves between the branches of the lime
and the silver light of the moon and the black shadow of the leaves and the branches
he watches the leaves and the shadow and the light
he lowers his lids closes his eyes on the blue shadow and the light
the shifting leaves that rock him
his horse lowers his head his neck an arc
covering his body, a yellow sheet striped with green
his shroud will be his armor they cannot get it off
and near him a cage containing two birds
he's still wearing the ribbons from a joust long ago
and the pages standing in a circle near him cry
the pages form a circle they are moving very slowly all their movements are slow
he remembers the games he played as a page and the page's ribbon
that he still wears hidden under his mail
and hears music coming from a nearby tent he should have been born
at the edge of the sea in a fort not far from the waves
waiting for the tide to pull back and then running up to draw lines in the sand
and then he could have had a blue boat and slept
inside the sharp smell of tar in the silt and dried kelp
the tree is bending down soon its branches will touch his brow the night is bright and clear
the undergrowth the leaves also lean over the sky is white
the night is deep blue the night is the color of a blue and gold standard
near the bending tree are voices beyond number he is walking down a corridor of voices
a weight pressing into his chest his armor too tight and will soon be his shroud
he could have worn a crown of garnet velvet and a purple cloak edged in ermine
owned hounds lived close to the castle and protected the peasants
but the pages put flowers all around him flowering branches
the flowers the branches cover his body
he tastes bergamot and bitter syrup and walks through a forest
of blue and white and red
the forest is a cloth strewn withs flowers and flowering thistle
a lady and her servant dance on a blue flowered island
the forest forms a wall around the island where the lady and her servant dance
the island is blue in the red forest there is a gentle lion
and dogs and monkeys seep soundly at the servant's feet
the knights comes into a clearing grown in with high grasses
the bending tree forms a vault first dark then light the branches brush his brow
Bayart closes his eyes on the blue shadow slowly taking over
he is running down a corridor of voices
in the distance is his father speaking softly and smiling
the tree in bending cradles him caresses him
the wind stirs the vault of trees moving the leaves and lets in the sun
his armor sparkles is covered with flowers soon will be his shroud

Frå Bayart av Pascalle Monnier