#Heretic game graveyard software
It was developed by Raven Software and published by id Software through GT Interactive. And his translation of Robert Melançon’s poem “Elégie écrite dans le parc Notre-Dame-de-Grâce” was the winner in the first installment of the Malahat Review’s translation competition, Les poésies francophones du Canada.Heretic is a dark fantasy first-person shooter video game released in 1994. His poem “Biarritz” was selected for the Web anthology of the 2012 Montreal International Poetry Prize. McGrath’s poems have appeared in periodicals in Canada and abroad. He has published three poetry collections: At First Light (Wolsak and Wynn, 1995) The Port Inventory (Cormorant Books, 2012) and Montreal Before Spring (Biblioasis, 2015), a translation of L’Avant-printemps à Montréal by Québec poet Robert Melançon, who twice received the Governor General’s Poetry Award. This tranquil roof pecked by dove-white sails.ĭonald McGrath is a Montreal-based writer and translator. The powdery wave dares burst up from the rocks!īreak, waves! Break from delighted waters The vast air opens my book and closes it again, Of idols erected in thousands to the sun,īiting your own glistening tail in turmoil Your honeycombed chlamys and your panther hides Yes, majestic sea endowed with your deliria, To ride the wave and emerge from it alive. O the sun! … What tortoise shadow for the soul, The sound gives birth to life, the arrow kills! Has your winged arrow pierced me through, It doesn’t matter! He sees, wants, touches, dreams!
#Heretic game graveyard full
Is full of holes, divine impatience is no more.ĭeath into the form of a maternal breast, intoįathers deep beneath the ground, vacant heads Will you sing when you’ve become a vapour? That waves and gold compose in eyes of flesh? That will have no more of those lying colours The ultimate gifts, the fingers that defend them,Īll go under the earth, where the game begins again.Īnd you, great soul, are you still hoping for a dream The charming breast that plays with fire, The art of the individual, the singular soul? Where now are the dead’s familiar turns of phrase, The gift of life has passed into the flowers! They have dissolved into a compact absence, My regrets, my doubts, my limitations make I am the secret change that rings in you. Head complete unto itself-perfect diadem, Reflects within itself, commensurate with itself, It warms them up, dries out their mystery. The hidden dead lie at ease within this earth, Life, drunk on absence, is vast bitterness The brittle insect scratches at the parched groundĮverything is burned, undone, taken up into air, Let my enigmatic sheep linger her to graze.įrom the white flock of my tranquil tombs With so much trembling marble over so many shadows What brow draws it down to this bony earth?Ī spark there is a thought for those I’ve lost.Įnclosed, sacred, full of immaterial fire,Īn earthly fragment offered to the light, this placeĬomposite of gold and stone and dark trees, Gulf eating through these paltry iron gates,ĭazzling secrets playing over closed lids, Sounding a hollow ever pending in the soul!ĭo you know, false captive of this foliage, O for myself, to myself alone, in my own self,Ĭlose to a heart, to the sources of the poem, Look upon yourself! To give off light is to create With your pitiless arsenal! I return you, I bear you, admirable justice of the light Over the houses of the dead my shade glides. O sky beautiful and true, see how I’m changing Time’s Temple is condensed within a sigh.įrom this pure point I climb and myself attune,
O my silence! … Edifice of the soul, Roof!Īttic resplendent with a thousand golden tiles! Such depths of sleep beneath a veil of flame. Time sparkles and the Dream is knowledge.ĭependable treasure, simple temple to Minerva,īrow of water, Eye that holds within yourself What pure toil of shimmering light consumes O what recompense after thought’s travail This quiet roof where doves stray and dip Montreal-based writer and translator Donald McGrath offers a new, original translation of “ Le Cimetière marin” by Paul Valéry, the French poet, essayist, philosopher and 12-time nominee for the Nobel Prize in Literature.Ībove image: Ambroise Paul Toussaint Jules Valéry (1871-1945)