Hugues C. Pernath
Hugues C. Pernath Poems
I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me,
No body will ever be able to feel mine
No other ear my confusion, my unease
In the speechless torment of language.
...
I no longer belong but control the trembling
Ablaze and senile, sleepless in the past
In the things that have happened, the things
Of the days, I conjugate the pledges of pain
...
I dwelt in the corridors of come and go
In the boundless dismay of tacky colours
Nothing's still true, no sun splits open.
No son will ever speak in this handful of life
...
In the loveless landscape of my solitude
No movement prevails that calms me, no rest
That consoles or dispatches me like a firstborn.
Proudly my blood translates the signs,
...
As a relative, I have hope in common with no one
With no one the choice of love
With which I live alone, with which I stagger
Moving but subdued by the boundless landscape
...
In my strange sorrow I suspect petrifaction
Of many lives, sometimes the foulness of the source
The lily or the shady foliage.
Sometimes I suspect the trembling of your hands
...
I sought the extremes, both of grief
And of a short name written on many windows.
I closed the rotted shutters of many houses, now, today
And from their forgotten promises and every Judas kiss
...
After this night, my lack of faith, the creaking
Of this constant silence, this breaking
This revering. This very last attempt suppressed
By no word, no testament against time.
...
I abhor the shame, the shudder of the past
When everything was more than being and nothing else.
When each moment unmoved, became the movement
That must repeat what once was hushed up
...
Perhaps my choice, my eternity
That lasts no longer than recommencing,
Than banishing, petrifying of the roots.
Sometimes I look at you, sometimes at you.
...
I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me,
No body will ever be able to feel mine
No other ear my confusion, my unease
In the speechless torment of language.
...
In the loveless landscape of my solitude
No movement prevails that calms me, no rest
That consoles or dispatches me like a firstborn.
Proudly my blood translates the signs,
...
As a relative, I have hope in common with no one
With no one the choice of love
With which I live alone, with which I stagger
Moving but subdued by the boundless landscape
...
In my strange sorrow I suspect petrifaction
Of many lives, sometimes the foulness of the source
The lily or the shady foliage.
Sometimes I suspect the trembling of your hands
...
I sought the extremes, both of grief
And of a short name written on many windows.
I closed the rotted shutters of many houses, now, today
And from their forgotten promises and every Judas kiss
...
After this night, my lack of faith, the creaking
Of this constant silence, this breaking
This revering. This very last attempt suppressed
By no word, no testament against time.
...
I abhor the shame, the shudder of the past
When everything was more than being and nothing else.
When each moment unmoved, became the movement
...
Perhaps my choice, my eternity
That lasts no longer than recommencing,
Than banishing, petrifying of the roots.
Sometimes I look at you, sometimes at you.
...
I no longer belong but control the trembling
Ablaze and senile, sleepless in the past
In the things that have happened, the things
Of the days, I conjugate the pledges of pain
...
I dwelt in the corridors of come and go
In the boundless dismay of tacky colours
Nothing's still true, no sun splits open.
No son will ever speak in this handful of life
...
Hugues C. Pernath Biography
Hugues C. Pernath is the attractive literary pseudonym of Hugo Wouters, who was born in the suburbs of Antwerp At the age of sixteen he volunteered for the Belgian army in order to escape the friction between his parents, who were in the process of divorcing. At the beginning of the 1950s his first poems were published in the avant-garde magazine Het Cahier. From 1955 on, with Paul Snoek and Gust Gils, he became the driving force behind the magazine gard-sivik and a pivotal figure in the second experimental generation in Flanders. In 1957, when Paul Snoek for called up for military service in the Belgian army, he and the professional soldier Hugues Pernath wrote each other poetic letters. A selection appeared as Soldatenbrieven in 1961. Their work had thematic affinities, but their approach to poetry was totally different. Pernath favoured autonomous literature, Snoek a romantic-expressive style.)
The Best Poem Of Hugues C. Pernath
I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me
I am not sad, no tenderness attracts me,
No body will ever be able to feel mine
No other ear my confusion, my unease
In the speechless torment of language.
Every day more mortally my world contorts
In the fearful ramifications of the pain.
I have borne the very last book, from right to left
And with all my shortcomings it is I who judge
Who is burned and who struggles through the lie.
For nothing other than humility
Than the consummation of doubting,
For nothing else has delimited us.
I will have the light reiterate the darkness,
Rise again from the rock's inglorious repose
And as the meagre water trickles from my wounds
The night approaching hears my twisting heart.
Nothing engrafted has altered me
No generous past drugged me. No moaning.
These things fell apart, these things went right.
I love, I write and I experience friendship
But as a mason does, free and walled in
I will complete the temple whose last cornerstone
Will signify my end. And in that same word
Expressing all my love, I will live on
In the scourge of those sun-signs where I belong.
Translation: Tanis Guest
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