Amade, "The Egg"
 

Jean Amade (France, 1878 – 1945)

The Egg

A hen’s just cackled there, behind the whitewashed wall.
Dash to the stable, child. (Your playthings? Leave them all.)
Her cackle grinds to a halt, restarts, and builds up steam...
All around us, leaves of figs and berries dream.
Nothing moves in tree or bramble. Hear it, then:
the monotonal cackling of the laying hen.
Unbar the stable’s dark. Invade its cooling shade.
Approach the manger. Hesitate with each step made.
It’s nicer here than in our garden, though you see
nothing with your sun-dazed eyes, initially.
Your hand must search, your hand must grope the emptiness,
but instinct will support and guide you, nonetheless.
Get closer. Closer still, for I can tell, somehow,
your seeking hand is near the nest, quite near it now...
The hen, enraged, with wing-flap noise enough to stun,
goes out to lodge a formal grievance with the sun.
But you, on your pathway through the dark, hold firm and fast;
and soon you will behold — on having reached at last
the still-warm egg, in which the future’s quivering —
the whiteness of this fragile, straw-surrounded thing.


LITERAL ENGLISH PROSE CRIB:

The Egg

A hen has cackled/warbled/sung behind the white wall:
Leave your toys there, go into the stable, child.
Her song grates, and restarts, and extends…
on the fig tree, on the blackberry bramble, the leaf dreams,
and nothing moves around us: listen then
to the monotonous cackle/song of the hen who lays (an egg).
Open the dark stable, enter into the cool shadow,
and direct your hesitant steps toward the manger…
it’s nicer here than in our garden;
but your eye, blinded, at first sees nothing.
Your hand searches, your hand gropes in the darkness;
an instinct nevertheless supports you and guides you.
Approach, approach again/still: something tells me
that your hunter hand’s arriving near the nest…
The hen exits, enraged, with a great noise of wings,
and takes up again/appeals to the sun (with) her solemn complaints.
But in the shadow, stubborn, you persue your path;
and you will soon see, on arriving at last
at the warm egg, where the future trembles,
its timid/frail whiteness in the middle of the straw.


L’Œuf

Une poule a chanté derrière le mur blanc:
Laisse là tes jouets, va dans l’étable, enfant.
Son chant s’irrite, et recommence, et se prolonge…
Sur le figuier, sur le mûrier la feuille songe,
Et rien ne bouge autour de nous: écoute donc
Le monotone chant de la poule qui pond.
Ouvre l’étable obscure, entre dans l’ombre fraîche,
Et dirige tes pas hésitants vers la crèche…
Il fait meilleur ici que dans notre jardin;
Mais ton œil, ébloui, tout d’abord ne voit rien.
Ta main cherche, ta main tâtonne dans le vide;
Un instinct cependant te soutient et te guide.
Approche, approche encor: quelque chose me dit
Que ta main de chercheur arrive près du nid…
La poule sort, rageuse, avec un grand bruit d’ailes,
Et reprend au soleil ses plaintes solennelles.
Mais dans l’ombre, obstiné, toi, poursuis ton chemin;
Et tu verras bientôt, en arrivant enfin
Jusqu’à l’œuf tiède encore où l’avenir tressaille,
Sa timide blancheur au milieu de la paille.

Chants rustiques et oraisons : poèmes (published 1926)
https://estudi.univ-perp.fr/items/show/412

Hello, Julie,

This is an adorable rustic poem, and you've done it justice in your translation. It reads smoothly and conveys the mood and meaning of the original quite well.

Still, I have a few suggestions where things might be fine-tuned:

• Her cackle grinds to a halt, restarts, and builds up steam...
  → Her cackle vexes, stops, restarts to build up steam...
  —This adds the missing sense of irritation that's more pronounced in the original ("s’irrite"), and captures the energy better.
  
• Get closer. Closer still, for I can tell, somehow, / your seeking hand is near the nest, quite near it now...
  → Get closer. Closer still: for something tells me how / close your seeking hand is to the nest right now...
  —This brings in the “quelque chose me dit” more faithfully and avoids rhyme-driven phrasing.
  
• But you, on your pathway through the dark, hold firm and fast;
  → But you, along your dark pathway, proceed steadfast
  —A bit more natural in English, and perhaps slightly closer in spirit to the original’s tone and structure.

Overall, it’s a really well-realized translation, Julie!

Cheers,
…Alex

Hi, Julie—

A charming poem by a French poet I am not familiar with. I especially like the warm humanity of the adult watching the excited child explore the mystery of new life and the humorous characterization of the crotchety, aggrieved hen.

I notice that the original French is in tetrameter and your English translation is in hexameter. Would it be possible to preserve the original meter? (I know, that’s asking a lot.)

In L6 “monotonal” has an academic flavor that “monotonous” or “monotone” are free of.

In L9 of the original French, should “It fait. . .” be “Il fait. . .?”

I enjoyed it!

Glenn

Hey Glenn, just jumping in to clarify that the original isn’t really tetrameter—it’s written in alexandrins, the classical French twelve-syllable lines (with the e muet counted where metrically valid). This is the standard meter of formal French verse, and the line is typically divided by a strong caesura after the sixth syllable.

For such a formal rendition in English as Julie's, I think the choice of hexameter is a natural counterpart—preserving both the length and the feel of the original’s phrasing and cadence.

—Alex