Prévert, Prévert, j’adore Prévert! Sometimes when I read Jacques Prévert’s poetry, I feel like I’m glimpsing a small part of his soul until I realize that I’m looking at my own.
Good poetry speaks to you.
Perhaps the main reason I like reading Jacques’ work is because I read it in French, and there is something magical that happens when the meaning of the words is translated in my soul. It’s a feeling and a journey.
Too often, I read transliterations of his poems and I wonder if there isn’t something lost by reading them in English versus French. The translations aren’t wrong, not technically, but the meaning doesn’t match that in my soul.
Maybe I’m being overly critical by using the word transliterations. The point is the english words I read don’t match the effect from those in French.
Familiale
Today I read a new poem titled “Familiale,” which could translate to “Familial,” that is, if it’s an adjective. If it’s a noun the translation is closer to “Family.” I’ll let you decide which fits.
The poem talks of a family, a mother, a son, and a father. To me it’s a story of life and death, of expectations and of norms.
In a moment I’ll add my translation, but before I do, know that the translated words are the words written on my soul after I read it in French.
I grew up speaking English, and I’ve learned several languages during my life. One thing that I believe is that language is just noise. That which is important is the message conveyed. Not the grammar. Not the accent. It’s just noise.
Don’t listen to what I’m saying, understand what I mean.
So, this may not be even close to what Jacques had in mind when he wrote it. Who can know what he truly felt. This however, is what I felt.
Familial
The mother knits
The son goes to war
To the mother that’s life
And the father, what does he do?
He works
His wife knits
His son is at war
And he works
To the father that’s life
And the son and the son…
What of the son?
The son feels nothing, absolutely nothing
The son’s mother knits, his father works, and him… the war
After the war
He will work with his father
The war goes on and the mother keeps knitting
The father keeps working
The son is killed and is no more
The father and mother visit his grave
To the father and mother that’s life
Life goes on, a life of knitting, warring, and working
Work, work, and more work
Life and death
French Version
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 le mère vont au cimetière
Ils trouvent ça tout naturel le père et la mère
La vie continue la vie avec le tricot la guerre les affaires
Les affaires les affaires et les affaires
La vie avec le cimetière
The son goes to war
You know, there are a lot of things one could talk about concerning this poem, and I’m not going to pretend I know or understand them all. I’ve never been a mother or a father. I’ve never sent someone off to war. However, I have been a son and I have gone to war.
So, I’ll talk about war.
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.
I think most people would be tempted to transliterate (okay, translate) this as:
What does the son find? He doesn’t find anything, absolutely nothing. The son’s mother knits, his father works (or does business), him… the war.
Perhaps the biggest difference is translating the verb trouver – to find. In the second usage, I translated it to feel.
When I read this I asked myself, what did I find in war? – and all my answers come back to how I felt.
The Mission to stop feeling
Not long after arriving in Afghanistan, I volunteered and went out on a black-out mounted mission in the middle of the night. It was a presence patrol, looking for trouble and trying to prevent it at the same time.
That was the last time I felt.
During the mission, something happened. The details don’t matter, but I thought I was going to die. My heart has never beat so hard, and my body has never been so still. After the feeling passed, my body went into some sort of survival mode.
Looking back on it, it seems that all of the emotions that could potentially put me at risk were placed into a box, locked, and then hidden down deep. So deep, that it’s taken over a decade for that box to reemerge. So long ago, that only now am I starting to deal with the reintroduction to everything that was stored there.
After that first mission, I stopped feeling. Sure, I felt anger and excitement, but that was it and often they seemed to be two sides of the same coin. So when Jacques says, Qu’est-ce qu’il trouve le fils?, I hear what does the son feel? And I respond, nothing.
I lost so much in Afghanistan. I became so angry. When I came back, the feelings of anger and excitement overbalanced my life. Where was the compassion, the love, the patience, the humanity? Where was the understanding, the faith, the hope?
Prévert, Prévert, j’adore Prévert! Poetry is beautiful. It speaks to my soul, and it helps me feel.
