Aurélia Lassaque

Aurélia Lassaque


Aurélia Lassaque (b. 1983) is bilingual poet in French and Occitan. Interested in the interaction between various forms of art, she often cooperates with visual artists, videomakers, dancers and particularly musicians. She has performed all over the world, in Europe, Latin America, North Africa, Scandinavian countries, Indonesia and India. She is an active advocate of linguistic diversity and acts as literary advisor for the “Paroles Indigo” festival in Arles and the “Premio Ostana Scritture in Lingua Madre” (Italy). She been nominated in 2016 by the Printemps des Poètes to join the european poetry platform Versopolis.

Her last poetry book, Pour que chantent les Salamandres (Editions Bruno Doucey, Paris) has been translated into English, Norwegian, Hebrew and Dutch and received critical attention by, among others, The Guardian; the literary supplement of Al Araby Al Jadeed and Haaretz Daily.

Her most recent books are: Connivences 4, Editions de la Margeride, a poetry artist’s book written together with the poets Rolando Kattan from Honduras and Víctor Rodríguez Núñez from Cuba; En quête d’un visage, Editions Bruno Doucey, a dialog at the frontier between poetry and theater.


Copyrights :

Occitan © Aurélia Lassaque, from Pour que chantent les salamandres, Éditions Bruno Doucey, 2013

English translation © James Thomas, from Solstice and Other Poems, Francis Boutle Publishers, London, 2012.





Fai freg dins mon anma

Es romantic e desuet.


Auriái presa la nau en Grècia.

A Santorin auriái limpat

Sus l’esquina d’un ase

Fins a la mar.

Auriái penjat mon lum

A la branca d’un olivièr.

E dins un ostal blanc

Auriái aimat de pescaires esperitals

E de monges desfrocats.




My soul is cold inside;

It’s quaint, romantic.


I would have boarded the boat in Greece.

At Santorini I’d have drifted

On the back of a mule

Right out to sea.

I would have hung up my light

On the branch of an olive tree.

Inside a whitewashed house

I’d have made love to divine fishermen

And defrocked monks.


De sa maire beguèt lo lach…



De sa maire beguèt lo lach,

De sa femna manjèt la carn,

De sos dròlles cremèt los cervèls,

Pr’aquò compren pas sa solesa.

Son ostal bèu la pluèja,

Sa terra engolís las pèiras.

Demorarà lo rei de l’istòria que conta,

Es lo privilègi dels mostres d’aiçaval.


He drank the milk of his mother…



He drank the milk of his mother,

He ate the flesh of his wife

And burned the brains of his children;

Yet he can’t fathom his feeling alone.

His house laps up the rain,

His land gorges on stones.

He’ll always be king in the story he tells,

That’s the privilege of monsters here below.


Sa pèl escura e cauda…



Sa pèl escura e cauda

Coma una nuèch d’estieu

S’estira fins a fintar l’alba

Quand son còs de cavala fèra

Tornamai s’alanda

E cava dins la prigondor de sas cambas

Un paradís d’auselaire.

Her skin, hot and dark…



Her skin, hot and dark

Like a summer’s night,

Stretches to catch out the dawn

As her wild-mare body moves,

Uncoiling once more

Probing in the deepness of her limbs

A bird-catcher’s paradise.


A l’ora del solstici…



A l’ora del solstici

Lo pòble vestit de fusta

Atira dins sa rama

D’aucèls sens cara.


Lo riu barrutlaire

Carreja dusca als ribals

Sos remembres de nèu.


Los aubres de ma selva

An rogejat al primièr jorn de l’estieu.


Los òmes de la vila

An dich qu’aquò’s la rovilha

E que ven del Japon.



Mas eles sabon pas

Que los aubres d’aquela comba

Dins lo secret de lors rasigas

Alisan de pèiras vivas

Que se mèton a somiar

Que l’aura e la pluèja

Las prendràn nusas sul bard

A l’ora del solstici.

At the solstice hour…



At the solstice hour

People dressed in wood

Lure into their leafage

Birds without faces.


The wandering stream

Drags towards the shores

Its memories of snow.


My sylvan trees

Have reddened with summer’s first day.


The men from the town

Said that was rust

Blown in from Japan.


But they don’t know

That the trees in this coomb

In their deepest secret roots

Stroke living stones

That start to dream

That the wind and the rain

Will take them naked on clay

At the solstice hour.

E t’entornes pas


As pres lo camin del país de nuèch.

Lo desèrt i es de gèl

E las estèlas se languisson.

Obris tos braces e cava,

La posca serà ton pan,

T’abeuraràn nòstras lagremas.

Vai, vai e t’entornes pas.

S’ausisses udolar la pèira,

Es que s’i gravan las letras de ton nom.


And don’t turn back


You’ve chosen the path for the land of night.

The desert is made of ice there

And the stars die of boredom.

Stretch out your arms and dig,

Dust will be your bread,

You’ll swallow our tears.

Go now, go, and don’t turn back.

If you hear the stones wailing,

The letters of your name are being engraved


Château de Bonaguil



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