The Poet of This World

To RenGuy Cadou (1920-1951)

Poet of clear name like a pebble in middle of the stream you reunited words that were flints of where is born a fire that is not forgotten. Ren-Guy Cadou, friend of the cooper, the postman, the customs officer and the smuggler, you lived in a village of six hundreds inhabitants. There you were a rural teacher, the weight of the smell of the neighboring garden suffocated the classroom like the classroom where your father had been teacher. You liked to talk with the people of face similar to clays pan, walking barefooted, to watch playing cards in the bar. At night at the light of a hawthorns fire You open a book while Helena sewed (Helena like a drop of dew in your glass). You had a preferred poet for each season: In autumn was Verlaine, the spring brought all the roses of Ronsard, the winter arrived with the creaking of the Grand Meaulness carriage and the violent season the noise of swords collide in an inn of Alejandro Dumas. You never were alone, you were lighted by the memories of your father coming back of hunting in the winter. And while your friends went to the Caf, A la Brasserie Lipp o al Deux Magots,

you went up to your room and confronted to the radiant Face. In the bow of your ship You leaned out to see the roads of your country of fairies and marshes, roads traced like the lines of an exercise book. Your words arrived like birds which know there is always an open window to the end of the world. And the poems caught fire like sunflowers germinated of your deep and secret hurt, rescued from the nostalgia, the only reality. You knew that poetry must be usual like the sky which goes beyond than us, that it means nothing if it doesnt allow to the men approach and know themselves. The poetry must be a daily coin and must be over each table like the singing of the wines jar which lights the Sundays roads. You knew the cities are accidents which wont prevail in front of the trees, that the poetry is not proclaimed in the squares nor is sold in the markets in fashion, that is not written with saliva, with petrol, with grimaces, nor with the poor mood of those who want