Tree Shadows / Les ombres des arbres

By Peter Halstead

On Leaving Town / Sur Quittant la Ville

End of winter. Winter’s end.
Melting trees around us bend

C’est le fin de cet hiver sans cesse
Et les arbres fondus s’empressent,

In their hopeful, dripping guise
As the ground beneath them dries,

Plein d’espoir pour le printemps:
Mais la terre au-dessous attend,

Leftovers of the season sunk
In the hillside like this trunk,

Les restes de la saison mourront,
Enterrés comme ce tronc,

Shrunk to just a silhouette
By time, a tree-like wet

Réduit aux silhouette
Quand le temps gris pirouette,

Impression in the ground,
Its long ascendance downed

Une carcasse creuse
Des poussées ruineuse,

By the self-destructive needs
Latent in its very seeds,

Détruite par les germes mêmes
De son exact système

Too much in fact like us,
Tired out by all the fuss,

Comme nous mêmes, tout à fait,
Trop, trop fatigués,

The emphasis on constant growing
Ending finally in our going,

L’effort de faire pousser,
Nous obligeant de végéter,

Parmi les branches blêmes,
La vie totale de bohême,

Shadows of the time we spent,
The opposite of what we meant,

Des ombres de nos propres histoires,
Les deuxièmes faces dans le miroir,

The progress of the soul at most
Culminating in its ghost,

Les sentiers de nos royaumes
Terminant par nos fantômes,

As if existence were a lever
By which we leave ourselves forever,

Comme si l’existence soit une fenêtre
D’être ou ne pas être,

The simple act of taking root
Like cultivating fatal fruit,

L’acte pûr de se sêmer
Comme une récolte empestée,

The point of all identity
As hollow as a missing tree,

Le but de chaque identité
Vain comme un arbre évidé,

The universe’s endless breadth
The foundation of its death,

Le souffle infini du monde
Des fondements de sa tombe,

Birth itself a mere pretext
Existing only to be ex’d,

L’existence un piège-à-con
Qui détruit ce qu’il font,

A summer morning, brightly lit,
Reveling in its opposite:

Comme ce matin illuminé:
Voilà un abattoir écharpé,

All beauty, in its range and scope,
Mathematically devoid of hope,

Où la beauté, la nature, toute la vie
Seront enfin inverties,

The meadow filled with shadow trees
Free to vanish as they please –

Comme ce squelette de bois
Et aussi donc toi et moi –

Although, if all antitheses are true,
Then, of course, their opposites are, too,

Mais si les contraires sont assez vrais,
C’est tout l’inverse qui est trompé,

And all promise, growth, and birth
Spring just as plainly from the earth.

Et de tous nos derniers adieux
Commencent des nouveaux milieux.

Explanation

Sad at leaving, knowing we must eventually, because altitude wreaks its picturesque vengeance on the ageing in memory loss (a sonata takes a week to memorize in Paris, six months in Vail, and even then the notes fade in and out, so different ones are lost each performance), and feeling the fog, the hoarseness, and even age melt away in Paris at sea level, to be replaced with so much charm, people around me (one the head of Estée Lauder) in the café interested in the poem, which they would not be in Vail, I realize we have to leave for our souls, for the beauty of the world, so leaving is in fact beginning. We only mourn the status quo, the loss of what is known, even though its replacement, Paris, is also known.

We later decided we could keep the house and only go there in winter, although the large Western fires may eliminate it eventually.

My collaborators on this poem were sole, foie gras, and a 1998 Mersault les Narbouts.

April 18th, 2001, 7:22–8:54 PM, Le Dôme, Paris