They pass through, and see through us
Christine Guinard
Translated from the French by Susanna Lang
this ground that collapsed was the ground of hometowns
it’s strange, hometowns are tenacious
this ground that collapsed was a mirage
mirages have different tints, more sepia
a ground that yields, volcanic matter, that hollows out and sediments
in the subsoil
hollows out and torpedoes matter even the words for matter
crushes the leafless branches as they emerge from the trunk
in the washed-out furrow left behind by the roots’ terror
where was this?
all I did was live in my house
I spoke the language of my mother, my father and my friends
all I did was live in the same big city for such a long time
I did not make any decision
I did not act precipitously without any knowledge
(though without turning around I sometimes had to leave
though without breathing in I sometimes had to stay silent)
I read books closely
I learned languages and discovered countries penetrated
by paintings and music
(all the same, did I have a house?)
I did not cross the beach and then run to leave it behind across hundreds of improbable meters
covered with snow with defeat with debris
pass through barbed wire beneath drawn guns
cry out heroic the name of a land and a language
so I could hold onto it and carry it
with an assumed name and hidden behind curtains
I did not plow through the corridors of the house I would never make my own
I read between the lines and I played piano I practiced progressed, then wrote
I did not start all over here then there as humans do
(yet I sometimes started over again even there)
Ils passent et nous pensent
ce sol effondré c’était le sol des villes natales
c’est étrange, les villes natales sont tenaces
ce sol effondré c’était un mirage
les mirages ont d’autres teintes, mordorées
un sol qui cède, matière volcanique, creuse et sédimente
en sous-sol
creuse et torpille la matière même les mots pour la matière
écrase les branches effeuillées à peine portées à bout de tronc
dans le sillon délavé laissé par l’effroi des racines
où était-ce ?
j’ai juste habité ma maison
j’ai parlé la langue de ma mère, de mon père et de mes amis
j’ai juste habité la même grande ville si longtemps
je n’ai pas pris de décision
je n’ai pas agi rapidement sans savoir
(quoique sans me tourner parfois j’aie dû partir
quoique sans inspirer parfois j’aie dû me taire)
j’ai étudié de près les livres
j’ai appris des langues et découvert des pays traversés
de peintures et de musique
(tout de même, avais-je une maison ?)
je n’ai pas parcouru sur la plage et pour la quitter des centaines de mètres improbables
chargés de neige de déroute de déchets
traversé des barbelés sous les fusils pointés
héroïque crié le nom d’une terre et d’une langue
pour la tenir, pour la porter
sillonné sous nom d’emprunt et sous rideau
les couloirs de la maison que jamais je ne ferais mienne
j’ai lu entre les lignes et j’ai joué du piano j’ai répété progressé, puis écrit
je n’ai pas tout recommencé ici puis là parce qu’humaine
(j’ai tout recommencé pourtant quelquefois là même)
Translator’s Note: In They pass through, and see through us, Christine Guinard evokes her family’s refugee experience during La Retirada. Half a million Spaniards, including the poet’s grandmother, escaped into France after the fall of Barcelona to Franco’s army in 1939. Men of military age were held behind barbed wire on the beaches where they landed, and then drafted into forced labor or the army. Women and children were mostly relocated to shelters, but in a time of fear and xenophobia, the welcome offered to strangers was no different from that offered today, in both the United States and in Europe, to those forced to leave their homes in order to survive. Those families who were able to make a new home in the wider society faced insults and rejection. Throughout the collection, the rhetorical move is to insist that these are not the speaker’s memories, though they echo through her life and her voice. In this moment, I find that they echo in our own situation as well.
Poet, translator, musician and film maker, Christine Guinard published the Journal of a Catalan Refugee in 2012, an account similar to her family’s experience during La Retirada. In 1939, half a million people escaped Spain when Barcelona fell to Franco’s army. She has published seven poetry collections, most recently Ils passent et nous pensent (Unicité, 2023) and Vous étiez un monde (Gallimard, 2023).
Susanna Lang’s translations of poetry include Words in Stone by Yves Bonnefoy (University of Massachusetts Press, 1976), Baalbek by Nohad Salameh (L’Atelier du Grand Tétras, 2021), and My Soul Has No Corners by Souad Labbize (Diálogos Books, 2023). She was the winner of the 2024 Marvin Bell Memorial Poetry Prize awarded by December Magazine, and her most recent book of original poems was Like This (Unsolicited Books, 2023).
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