Words, Words, and Words

Words, Words, and Words

Words are all I have and all I need are words. I reread what I wrote in Collage and Pastiche. And I must confess that I like what I wrote, some risqué words notwithstanding. The poem Laura is a masterpiece and deserves wider circulation. Thus, I’m rendering it into English, knowing fully well that “traduire, c’est trahir”. The music in the French original is largely missing in this English version.


Laura

Laura, do you remember
It rained without end in Saigon that evening in November?
We were taking shelter in the veranda
Of the library of Centre Culturel Francais
And I was babbling about my hope and plan.
I was talking in English,
A language I would like to master.
On and on I kept talking while the rain continued falling.
You were listening,
Smiling, ravishing with the rain on your face.
I boldly took your wet hand in mine
And you smiled and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
Oh, the kiss that forever made me lose my mind.
When I got back home that evening,
An intoxicating joy exploded in my heart
And my life seemed like a field of flowers.
I was leaving for Paris, three years later.
At the airport, I said:
“Baby, please don’t cry!
I will come back for you.”

This evening in Saigon, it is raining without end
As it did a long time ago.
Rain keeps falling on me and through my heart.
How lonesome I feel
Because you are here no more.

Laura, do you remember
It rained without end that evening
And you put your head
Against mine and you said:
“How beautiful the rain is!
I wish it would rain forever.”


Where are you now
While I’m standing outside the same veranda
In this rain of no tomorrow?
I, who have held you in my arms,
Will continue loving you without end.
I’m going to love you against the rising tide of time,
Against this rain of sorrow, this rain of pain.


Laura

Rappelle-toi, Laura
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Saigon ce soir-là.
Nous nous abritions sous la veranda
De la bibliothèque de la Mission Francaise
Et je parlais sans cesse de mon espoir,
Mon plan pour l’avenir.
Je parlais en anglais,
Une langue que je voudrais maitriser
Mais que tu as déjà possedée.
Je parlais sans cesse
Comme la pluie en cette nuit-là
Et tu m’écoutais
Souriante, ravissante, ruisselante
Avec la pluie sur ton visage
Et je prenais mon courage
Et saisissais ta main mouillée
Et tu souriais et m’as donné
Un baiser léger sur ma joue.
Oh baiser doux qui m’a rendu fou!
Cette nuite-là, quand je suis revenu chez moi
Une joie intoxicante explosait en mon coeur
Et ma vie semblait immersée dans un champ de fleurs!
Trois ans plus tard, je suis parti pour Paris.
A l’aeroport, je t’ai dit:
‘Ne pleure pas.
Je pars, mais je reviendrai.”

Ce soir à Saigon, il pleut sans cesse
Comme it pleuvait autrefois.
Cette pluie qui tombe sur mon chapeau
Semble penetrer dans mon coeur.
Oh mon dieu, comme je suis triste!
Tu étais ici.
Maintenant tu es partie.
Rappelle-toi Laura, ce soir-là.
Il pleuvait sans cesse
Et tu appuyais la tête
Contre moi et disais:
“Comme la pluie est belle!
Je souhaite qu’elle tombe jusqu’à l’éternité.”

Qu’es-tu devenue maintenant
Sous cette pluie de douleur!
Moi, qui te serrais dans mes bras.
Je vais t’aimer sans cesse.
Je vais t’aimer contre la marée du temps,
Contre cette pluie de douleur, cette pluie de tristesse.


Commentaire: Laura était reelle; la pluie était réelle. Mon amour malheureusemente était reel auusi. Je n’aime plus Laura. La douleur était effrayante. J’aime beaucoup ce poème. Malgré ma limitation de la langue francaise, je n’ai pas eu de difficulté de composer ce “chef-d’oeuvre”. Les mots arrivaient rapidement.


I was numb from the translation effort. It took a lot out of me. I no longer love Laura, but I can’t help talking and writing about her. Maybe I am trying to talk myself from falling in love again. Needless to say, whenever it rains hard and long, I go a bit crazy. I did go completely crazy once and almost took a jump into the abyss. It took me a long time to recover. I wrote the French version back in 1994 when I thought I still loved Laura. The funny thing is that the poem was a testament to my power of imagination. The only thing true about the poem was the rain. It did rain that evening. She and I were taking shelter from the rain in the veranda of the American Library in Saigon. We were getting to know each other then, so none of the dialogue and kissing took place. I especially loved the poem’s last stanza. It was truly beautiful, even in the English translation. The last stanza gave me a belief that I do have artistic sensibilities and the making of a poet. Note the choice of words and the resultant imagery and music. While I am basically an honest person, when it comes to creative writing, I give free rein to my imagination. I inflate and I exaggerate. I lie. I even plagiarize. I feel completely free of social conventions. I use strong words, I confess, and I bleed all over the pages. I use writing as a form of therapy. So, while I wrote that I was going to love Laura till the end of time, the reality was that I completely stopped loving Laura about three years ago. I woke up on a glorious Sunday morning with blue sky, light breezes, and fine temperature and realized that Laura was common as common can be and that she didn’t deserve my love. I don’t even want to see her ever again. Lately, I have started being more withdrawn. I have stayed away from old correspondents. They didn’t really understand me. Some of them thought they were too good for me whereas the reality was the other way around. I’m getting more prideful and difficult. I know I am hurting myself socially and emotionally, but somehow I don’t care. I now concentrate my remaining energy on making money and taking care of my health.

In moments of reflection, I stumble and slouch towards a realization that deep down I don’t care for money, fame, or power. I merely hanker after Love, the one with a capital L, but I am admitting that true love is rare and maybe I will never get it because I don’t work hard enough at it. I am too lazy and prideful. So, I lose myself in books and dreams. Still, I feel there is a certain closure, a certain peace in my conversations with you. I finally talked to you and you sounded as I imagined you to be. I utilize my imagination and dreams to strengthen myself. I’m getting more disciplined and focused and moralistic. I am not generous but I am fair. I detest greed, jealousy, and dishonesty in people.

I am waiting for Death to arrive. Meanwhile I am trying to live a life with honor and dignity, that is to say, I will not beg, steal, or lie to survive. We all die anyway and I am not a common person. I am an artist, a philosopher, and a seeker of knowledge. My current project is learning not to be self-righteous. Peace. Namaste.

I know I have been a fool, but I can’t help myself. I’m too much a dreamer. I dream of peace and of the improbable if not the outright impossibility. I like to swim against the currents of conventions and of time itself. There’s a river flowing between us. I am standing on this side of the river and when the mood is right, I take to singing. I sing off-key, but I sing anyway. It does not really matter if you hear my singing, and if you do, whether you like it. The important thing is that I know you are there, on the other side of the river. The only thing that matters is my belief that you are not a common person. That belief has given me peace, has given me strength. Even if one day you decide not to live on that side of the river anymore and move away, I still treasure the memories associated with you.


Wissai
February 2006

That was what I wrote more than 3 years ago. How time flew! A lot of things happened in three years. I got older and not wiser. I got fatter, too, but I have just managed to get back to my fighting weight, the svelte figure I used to maintain when I was in college: 155 lbs. Since the title of this piece is Words, I might as well indulge in them. From here on, you will see the record of my journey with words.

Tim Page, a music critic, characterized the music of Beach Boys as “vaporous, ethereal, elaborately ornamented musical clockworks, distinguished by a blossoming tenderness and sheer sonic splendor”. Wonderful, don’t you think? Ever since I first learned to speak, sound has fascinated me, but I can’t sing. But I loved to talk although I suffered from a speech impediment: stuttering. The more I wanted to talk, the more I got stuck in producing the sounds I wanted. So I thought of words visually. In my brain, words got lined up and I just spoke as I saw them. As I got older, I stuttered less. Now I only do when I get over-excited. Meanwhile, I discovered that I got some facility with words. I fancy that I think very quickly with words and am extremely efficient with ripostes, retorts and repartees. ________________________________________________________________