Articles taggés avec: Ricker Winsor

An Old Man’s Winter Night, by Robert Frost

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 21 juin 2014. dans La une, Ecrits

An Old Man’s Winter Night, by Robert Frost

All out-of-doors looked darkly in at him

Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars,

That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.

What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze

Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What kept him from remembering what it was

That brought him to that creaking room was age.

He stood with barrels round him – at a loss.

And having scared the cellar under him

In clomping there, he scared it once again

In clomping off ; – and scared the outer night,

Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar

Of trees and crack of branches, common things,

But nothing so like beating on a box.

A light he was to no one but himself

Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what,

A quiet light, and then not even that.

He consigned to the moon – such as she was,

So late-arising – to the broken moon

Indonesia/ Trinidad (VO)

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 06 octobre 2012. dans La une, Notre monde, Voyages

Indonesia/ Trinidad (VO)

Indonesia is about as far away as one can get from Trinidad or anywhere else on this latitude. It is on the other side of the planet, about twelve thousand miles away. It is the largest Muslim country in the world, an archipelago of about seventeen thousand five hundred islands. I wonder if anyone has really counted. People in Indonesia speak three hundred fifty local languages but they have agreed on a common one, Bahasa Indonesia, which just means Indonesian language. Indonesia is an ancient place with people reaching back in time as far as we know. Recently there was a little humanoid discovered named Flores Man, “the hobbit”, about three feet high. He survived until about twelve thousand years ago and was around, it is thought, for about eighty thousand years before that. We don’t know a lot about our past on this planet. People have had the brain we have and looked like us going back one hundred fifty thousand years but we have no knowledge about what they were doing. I don’t think they were just pounding the ground with a stick. Indonesia was Buddhist and it was Hindu; and it still is to some degree, but basically, as in many places, Islam has taken over. Why is it growing so fast and why is Christianity seeming to fade in the West?

Trinidad (version originale en anglais)

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 23 mars 2012. dans La une, Ecrits

Trinidad (version originale en anglais)

All night the sirens blared and the horns honked as police or ambulances made their way from the “fetes” of carnival in Chaguramas to the hospitals or jails of downtown Port of Spain. “It have only one road in and out and one way at that Rick”, said Ray the security guard on duty at our townhouse complex. “Must have been some shooting Ray” I said,” to account for all that commotion all night long.”      “No Rick. De people faint, fall down. That’s all, nothing bad. It have de bacchanal every night now. It carnival Rick.” “That’s good Ray” I said looking at him affectionately and knowing that he didn’t show up for work the previous day because he was drunk at a bacchanal, causing one of my other buddies, Keith, to work not only all night but then again all day too. Ray has one of those striking faces, a mixture of East Indian and African, black as night with sharp features and shiny skin. When his cap is off you can see the net he wears over the main part of his head- I guess to keep his hair straight- and on side, a long pigtail, Rasta style sticking out.  Ray is sixty-one years old and Keith is sixty five and then there are two young guys, Boxil and Lynch plus one more, Charles, the boss, who looks to be in his fifties.

Trinidad (traduction par Jean-François Vincent)

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 23 mars 2012. dans La une, Ecrits

Trinidad (traduction par Jean-François Vincent)


Toute la nuit, les sirènes hurlèrent et les klaxons retentirent alors que les voitures de police et les ambulances se frayaient un chemin à travers les « fêtes » du carnaval à Chaguramas en direction des hôpitaux et des prisons du centre-ville de Port d’Espagne. « Y’a qu’une route pour y aller et en r’venir, Rick, et juste avec une voie » dit Ray, le vigile de garde surveillant le quartier des résidences chics. « Ça a dû canarder, Ray » dis-je « ça explique ce ramdam toute la nuit ». « Non Rick, les gens, y tombent dans les pommes. C’est tout, y’a rien de mal. C’est la nouba toutes les nuits maint’nant. C’est carnaval, Rick ». « C’est bon, Ray » dis-je en le regardant avec affection ; je savais qu’il n’était pas allé travailler la veille parce qu’il s’était saoulé en faisant la nouba ; et un autre de mes potes, Keith, avait dû travailler non seulement toute la nuit, mais par-dessus le marché toute la journée également. Ray a un de ces visages qu’on n’oublie pas, un cocktail afro-indien, noir comme un geai avec des traits accusés et une peau brillante. Quand il enlève sa casquette, on voit le filet qu’il porte sur la majeure partie de la tête pour faire tenir ses cheveux, avec une longue queue de cheval, genre rasta, qui sort sur le côté. Ray a soixante et un ans, et Keith en a soixante-cinq ; avec ça, il y a deux jeunes, Boxil et Lynch, plus un autre, Charles, le patron, qui a l’air d’avoir la cinquantaine.

Le Poulet Deshi (traduit de Ricker Winsor "Deshi chicken")

Ecrit par Jean-François Vincent, Ricker Winsor le 14 janvier 2011. dans Ecrits, La une, Humour, Voyages

Le Poulet Deshi (traduit de Ricker Winsor

Ce texte est la traduction en français par Jean-François VINCENT du texte de Ricker WINSOR "Deshi Chicken" publié lundi dernier.

A Katmandou, je plongeai dans mon curry de poulet népalais, servi dans un bol de soupe où nagent ici et là les morceaux de poulet. En mordant le premier morceau, un flot de souvenirs me revinrent à l’esprit : à n’en pas douter c’était bien un poulet Deshi, un vrai poulet bicyclette comme en Afrique (1). Ce poulet avait vécu à l’extérieur, mangeant toutes les choses innommables que mangent les poulets, tout en sillonnant les collines du Népal. Comment je le sais ? En voici le premier signe : quand on le mord, il se rebiffe. « Putain ! Pas si vite, mec ! Tu vas la MORDRE ma cuisse et la mâcher ! J’espère que t’as la gueule bien musclée ».  Cela me fit penser au roi de tous les  poulets Deshi.

Deshi Chicken

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 10 janvier 2011. dans Ecrits, La une, Humour

Deshi Chicken

Ce texte de notre ami Ricker WINSOR est publié ici en langue anglaise, c’est-à-dire en langue originale. Nous vous proposerons vendredi prochain sa traduction. Pour l’instant lisez-le tel quel, c’est un bijou !

In Kathmnadu I was dipping into my Nepali chicken curry which comes in a soup bowl with the chicken pieces swimming somewhere in it and as I bit into the first piece a flood of memories came back because this was unmistakably “deshi” chicken, soul-food country chicken. This chicken had had a real life outdoors eating all the unmentionable things chickens eat and running up and down the hills of Nepal. How do I know this? The first sign is that that when you bit down it fights back, like it’s saying, « Not so goddamn fast buddy. You gonna have to BITE  my leg and chew some too. Hope you have some good jaw muscles! » And that made me think of the king of all deshi chickens.

The day the servants left !! (english)

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 10 décembre 2010. dans Ecrits, La une, Humour, Voyages

The day the servants left !! (english)

Muslims fast during Ramadan. For a month between sun up and sun down, no water, no food. Caddies pass out on the golf course or quit after nine holes. Some don’t fast and pretend to do so. Some fast quietly. Some swoon dramatically. For the ruling class this Muslim condition creates problems. The rhythm of the game is disrupted. And, at the end of Ramadan, there is Lebaron when they go on Mudik, a journey to the home town to celebrate for a week. We are expected to give extra money to one and all. There is a mass exodus as the cities empty themselves of people. Countless families climb on motorbikes and travel as far as four-hundred miles that way- two adults and two kids on a 100 cc Honda ! It’s the biggest holiday of the year. All of a sudden it is very quiet. Six-hundred people died on the road going home to celebrate this year.


Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 09 novembre 2010. dans Ecrits, Littérature


Letters from the East.  Ricker WINSOR


Une voix nouvelle venue des collines du Vermont nous ouvre une fenêtre sur les cœurs et les esprits des hommes et des femmes en ce monde. Le voyage de Ricker Winsor à la recherche de lui-même nous entraîne en Europe à travers l’Atlantique nord et, en moto, vers l’Afrique à la recherche de Hashish et d’aventure. Jeune homme au Mexique, professeur vieillissant au Bangladesh et en Indonésie, il écrit sur les écoles, les monastères ou les bordels avec la même sensibilité, la même honnêteté.


Ricker WINSOR a été reporter-photographe, professeur, peintre-paysagiste. C’est aussi un musicien professionnel, se produisant dans les cafés et les clubs depuis vingt ans. Ses écrits furent publiés au début des années 60 quand il était reporter mais « Pakuwon City » est son premier livre. Il vit dans son « West Wind Studio » à Bradford, dans le Vermont.


« Ricker Winsor est une force de la nature – photographe, musicien, écrivain, peintre, golfeur, joueur de squash, amant infatigable, catholique mystique et plutôt bon cuisinier. »           Ken ROWER


Commander le livre

Ma's Face (English)

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 01 novembre 2010. dans La une, Souvenirs, Amour

Ma's Face (English)


I was in the first grade with the purple-faced Mrs. Reagan when my mother had the first operation on her face to remove a tumor. This wasn’t the one that took the facial nerve; that came later. Still, it was difficult for a little boy to see his mother’s fine, beautiful face all sunken in and scarred. It was not the same face, possibly not even the same person. Surgery fifty years ago was mean and rough ? no refinement. I can’t remember how much explanation I got about all this, probably not much. My oldest sister, Ann, knew that Ma was facing possible death. I remember she mentioned this but it didn’t sink in, at least not on the conscious level. During that operation, during the ones that followed, and even during the mastectomies that happened during my twenties, I never let myself think that my mother might die. And she didn’t, not until a long time later. We just didn’t go there ? consciously.

Catskill Bill (English)

Ecrit par Ricker Winsor le 06 octobre 2010. dans Ecrits, La une, Voyages

Catskill Bill (English)

The Catskill region is a lonely place. Maybe it wasn't in its borscht belt heyday when young Jewish New Yorkers spent their summers in the big hotels with the hope of meeting a future husband or wife. And many did. The stories are legion. But when I first came to know the area intimately, in 1985, it was a lonely place and it still is. Beyond the hotels people live rural and solitary lives. Our Blue Hill was "settled" by our closest neighbors and they lived a mile away. George Ratner and his wife Millicent moved up to "the hill" from New York City during the depression, cleared forty acres and built their own house. In winter they skied to the store for groceries.

Francine and I came to the Catskills from rural New Hampshire, the domain of gritty, independent Yankees who have a strong identity and connection to the land. In the Catskills the people are from everywhere and nowhere. In many cases they got there by backing up into a place of refuge. Somehow the area afforded them anonymity, privacy, and, if they were fly fishermen, some of the greatest trout water in the world.

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