Category: French

Un Deuil / Mourning (1916)

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French

Un Deuil / Mourning (1916)

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

Elle eut trois fils; tous trois sont tombés à Boncelle. Le soir se fait. J’entends parler sa tendre voix. Un trop rouge soleil joue encor dans les bois, Mais la douceur de l’ombre est flottante autour d’elle. Bien que toute heure, hélas! lui soit une heure triste; Elle ne prétend pas renoncer au malheur Dont est lasse sa chair, mais dont est fier son cœur Et dont la clarté belle, en ses larmes, persiste. Et je la vois là–bas qui de sa lente main Cueille, pour ses trois morts, trois fleurs dans le chemin Et mon âme s’emplit de joie involontaire À voir marcher ce deuil bienfaisant sur la terre. From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre
Un Deuil / Mourning (1916)
She had three sons. Boncelle undid them all. I hear her soft voice speak, as shadows fall. Long the red sunset in the woods has played, Yet round her floats the mildness of the shade. Though all her hours are hours of wretchedness, She guards, for all her flesh’s weariness, A heart that treasures up this tragedy, And tears that shine with its nobility. I see her slowly plucking in the lane Three flowers for her three dear fallen men: My soul rejoices, as it surely would, To see this grief go forth, a force for good.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Émile Verhaeren...

Premieres Aéroplanes

From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

From Les Ailes Rouges de la Guerre
Les roses de l’été — couleur, parfum et miel — Peuplent l’air diaphane; Mais la guerre parsème effrayamment le ciel De grands aéroplanes. Ils s’envolent si haut qu’on ne les entend pas Vrombir dans la lumière Et que l’ombre qu’ils allongent de haut en bas S’arrête avant la terre. L’aile courbe et rigide et le châssis tendu, Ils vont, passent et rôdent, Et promènent partout le danger suspendu De leur brusque maraude. Ceux des villes les regardant virer et fuir Ne distinguent pas même Sur leur avant d’acier ou sur leur flanc de cuir Leur marque ou leur emblème. On crie, — et nul ne sait quelle âme habite en eux, Ni vers quel but de guerre Leur vol tout à la fois sinistre et lumineux Dirige son mystère. Ils s’éloignent soudain dans la pleine clarté, Dieu sait par quelle voie, En emportant l’affre et la peur de la cité Pour butin et pour proie.
Premieres Aéroplanes
Honey, colours, aromas of roses of summer: Bright breeze’s refrains. But war sows the sky with the fearsome yammer Of great aeroplanes. They fly up so high and they thrum in the light Yet we hear no sound And their shadow stretching down from a height Never reaches the ground. With chassis outstretched, with curved rigid wing They circle and prowl, And wherever they go they hang threatening With their evil patrol. City people watching them scamper and wheel Cannot even descry On their leather flank or their nose of steel An identity. Though we shout, no–one knows who is riding unseen, Or to what warlike ends The luminous flight of the hellish machine Inscrutably tends. And all at once in broad daylight they’ve fled, God knows by which way, Making off with the city’s terror and dread, Their booty, their prey. Published in Agenda 2014.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Les Rois

The Kings

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

The Kings
C’est une troupe de gamins Qui porte la virevoltante étoile De toile Au bout d’un baton vain. Le vieux maître d’école Leur a donné congé; L’hiver est blanc, la neige vole, Le bord du toit en est frangé. Et par les cours, et par les rues, Et deux par deux, et trois par trois, Ils vont chantant avec des voix Qui muent, Tantôt grêles, tantôt fortes, De porte en porte, La complainte du jour des Rois. « Avec leurs cœurs, avec leurs vœux, Toquets de vair, souliers de plumes, Collets de soie et longs cheveux, Et blancs comme est blanche l’écume, Faldera, falderie, Vierge Marie, Voici venir, sur leurs grands palefrois, Les bons mages qui sont des rois. » « Avec leurs cœurs, avec leurs vœux, Jambes rêches, tignasses rousses, Vêtement lâche en peaux de bœufs, Mais doux comme est douce la mousse Faldera, falderie, Vierge Marie, Voici venir, avec troupeaux et chiens Les vieux bergers qui ne sont rien. » « Avec leurs cœurs, avec leurs vœux, Sabots rouges, casquettes brunes, Mentons gercés et nez morveux Et froids comme est froide la lune Faldera, falderie, Vierge Marie, Voici venir, au sortir de l’école Ceux qui demandent une obole. » Et sur le seuil des torpides maisons, Non pas à flots, ni à foisons, Mais revêches et rarissimes, Comme si le cuivre craignait le froid, Sont égrenés, du bout des doigts, Les minimes centimes. Les gamins crient, Et remercient, Happent l’argent qui leur échoit; Et chacun d’eux, à tour de role, Et sur le front, et sur le torse, et les épaules Se trace, avec le sou, le signe de la croix.
Les Rois
An urchin troupe Waves the twirling star Of cloth at the top Of a lofty prop. Old schoolmaster grants A half-day off. Winter’s white, flakes dance, Snow fringes the roof. In courts and streets By twos and threes From door to door they sing With breaking voices hoarse or strong This day’s own ballad of the Kings. “With heartfelt goodwill-vows, Topknots of ermine, plumes on shoes, Silk collars, tresses, here we come, As pale as foam, Fal-lal, fal-lairy, Virgin Mary, On our high palfreys journeying, We kindly Wise Men, each a king.” “With heartfelt goodwill-vows And shaggy legs and russet wigs And shabby garb of hides of cows As soft as moss, Fal-lal, fal-lairy, Virgin Mary, Here we come with flocks and dogs, We the old shepherds, merest dross.” “With heartfelt goodwill-vows, Chins chapped, snot-nosed, Brown-capped, red clogs, Cold as the moon, Fal-lal, fal-lairy, Virgin Mary, Here we come from schoolroom door, For an obol, only a coin, no more.” And on the thresholds Of torpid households Not streaming, teeming But crabbed and sparse, – Perhaps the brass Shrinks from the cold? – Cold hands dispense Mean sous and cents. Urchins cry thanks, Snatch the sum thrown, And each in turn On brow, breast, shoulders with the coin Traces the cross.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Émile Verhaeren...

How Grim!

Si morne!

Émile Verhaeren (1855-1916)

Si morne!
Se replier toujours sur soi-même, si morne ! Comme un drap lourd, qu'aucun dessin de fleur n'adorne. Se replier, s'appesantir et se tasser Et se toujours, en angles noirs et mats, casser. Si morne ! et se toujours interdire l'envie De tailler en drapeaux l'étoffe de sa vie. Tapir entre les plis ses mauvaises fureurs Et ses rancœurs et ses douleurs et ses erreurs. Ni les frissons soyeux, ni les moires fondantes Mais les pointes en soi des épingles ardentes. Oh ! le paquet qu'on pousse ou qu'on jette à l'écart, Si morne et lourd, sur un rayon, dans un bazar. Déjà sentir la bouche âcre des moisissures Gluer, et les taches s'étendre en leurs morsures. Pourrir, immensément emmaillotté d'ennui ; Être l'ennui qui se replie en de la nuit. Tandis que lentement, dans les laines ourdies, De part en part, mordent les vers des maladies.
How Grim!
Always enfolding on oneself, how grim! Like unadorned non-floral heavy bedding, Enfolding, being weighted down, subsiding, Fragmenting into sharp points, black and dim. How grim! And to inhibit one’s desire Of cutting up life’s cloth in strips for banners, To hide within the folds one’s evil fires, One’s sorrows and one’s errors and one’s rancours. No silken shivers and no melting moire: The points of red-hot pins within one’s core, The packet pushed or shovelled to the floor, Grim, heavy, on a shelf in a bazaar. To sense the mould now acrid in the mouth, The sticky stains that spread from tooth to tooth, To rot, immensely swaddled in ennui, To be the ennui enfolded in the night, While slowly in the wool-warp’s devilry, Through everywhere, the worms of sickness bite.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Categories
French

Vocalisations

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

Voyelles
without using “e”

A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes:
A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes
Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles,
Golfes d’ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes,
Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d’ombelles;
I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles
Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes;
U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides,
Paix des pâtis semés d’animaux, paix des rides
Que l’alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux;
O, suprême clairon plein des strideurs étranges,
Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges:
– O l’Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
A black, (a blank), I blood, U grass, O sky:
I’ll bring to light your backgrounds. Wait a bit.
A, smooth black armour of a flashing fly
Buzzing around a vicious stinking pit,
Dark gulfs; (who?), fair camp-canvas, vapour-drips,
Alp-cusps, snow-kings and shaking fumitory;
I, crimsons, spat blood, luscious laughing lips,
Furious, or only drunk with saying sorry:
U, holy rhythms of a Gaian main,
Calm grazing-grounds of cows, calm brows and brain
That witchcraft furrows, mind-span that absorbs;
O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords,
Still voids for flights of worlds and spirit-birds.
O, big round O, viola-ray, O Orbs!

Rimbaud perceives the vowels as having colours! Some people perceive musical notes, or musical instruments, in that way: the technical term is synesthesia. These variations were added in 2020 in a blog written for the Rimbaud & Verlaine Society.

A
written by the meteoric young genius
 
X nights, E gulls, I blood, U green, O blue:
I’ll tell your origins in just one jiffy.
First, sleek jet corset of some flies which flew
Like buzz-bombs over sink-holes fiercely whiffy,
 
Dim depths; E, tents, or white condensing drips,
proud snow-crests, virgin kings, the trembling umbel;
I, crimsons, blood-gouts, luscious chortling lips,
Once furious, or drunk, but now quite humble:
 
U, holy rhythms of the snot-green brine,
Furrows incised on brows, whose chemistries
Conjure gold spells; quiet greenbelt strewn with kine;
 
O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords,
Still voids for flights of worlds or spirit-birds:
O, big round O, lobbed violet of those Eyes!

I
by the ne’er-do-well wonder-boy who stole La Mauté’s husband,

A black, E snow, J blood, U green, O blue:
My task: your backgrounds have to be revealed.
A, sleek black corset of a fly that flew
around a swamp malodorous, concealed,

Buzzy; E, canvas tents and puffs of steam,
Proud snowy crests, proud monarchs, trembly umbel;
J, purples, blood-gouts, lovely mouths that stream
Laughter of rage, once drunk perhaps, now humble;

U, holy groundhog throb of snot-green seas,
The peace of beast-strewn pastures, peace of ruts
Dug by dark spells on brows of PhD’s;

O, the last trump, full of strange brazen brays,
Mute tracts traversed by worlds’ and angels’ routes,
O Omega, those eyeballs’ purple rays!

U
by the whippersnapper from Charleville-Mézières,

A black, E white, I blood, X grass, O sky:
Here’s how the whole gang started. Wait a bit.
A, smooth black corset of a flashing fly
prancing atop an evil stinking pit,

black holes; E, canvas tents, condensing drips,
white kings, fierce glacier-spears, the cowslip’s shiver;
I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of lovely lips
Enraged, or tipsy, off to see the shriver;

X, cycles, holy throb of snot-green seas,
The peace of beast-strewn meadows, peace of grooves
That witchcraft scored on brows of PhD’s;

O, the last blast, blown with weird brazen brays,
Still voids traversed by worlds’ and angels’ hooves,
O Orbs, great Omega, viola-rays!

UE
Thank that blatant makar, a faraway castaway at Harar

A night, X snow, I blood, Y grass, O sky:
How did that gang start off, now? Wait a bit.
A, smooth black thorax of a flashing fly
prancing atop an evil stinking pit,

black voids; X, canvas camps and foggy drips,
snow-kings, high glacial swords, a cowslip’s frisson;
I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of tasty lips
Angry, or tipsy, off to find a parson;

Y, holy rhythmic throb of briny snots,
Calm grazing-grass of moo-cows, calm of spraints
That magic’s drawn on brows of toiling swots;

O, mighty blast, blown hard with odd brass brays,
Still voids, tram-tracks of worlds and flying saints:
O Orbs, big Royal Orbs, viola-rays!

O
Arthur Rimbaud scripsit, scalpsit, slurpsit

A black, E white, I red, U green, Z sky:
What lies behind these items? Wait a bit.
A, shiny hull that guards a flashing fly
Buzzing beside an evil stinking pit,

Dark gulfs; E, fair camp-canvas, misty drips,
Alp-cusps, pale kings and lilies vacillating;
I, scarlet, spat red cells, sweet laughing lips,
Irate, unless half-cut with exculpating:

U, cycles, drums that grace a Gaian main,
Calm heifers’ pastures ; tranquil temples, brain
Adept at study, wrinkled by witchcraft;

Z, mighty trumpet-blast, replete with genius,
Vacuums where angels flit and planets waft:
Z, zigzag Z-ray, plump and purple Zinnias!

EEEEE
Extreme verses! We’ve kept the E, we’ve eschewed the rest,
we never needed them. We persevered!

E jet, E sleet, E red, E green, E… See
Whence these emerged! We’re exegetes: we’ll tell.
E, welded vestments the resplendent bee
Needs, when she seeks the sewer’s repellent smell,

Grey depths; E, wet sheens, essences, speedwells,
Ellesmere’s deep-freezes, Re per neve, tents;
E, belched red cells, the glee des lèvres belles:
She’s vexed… let’s see! She’s legless, she repents!

E, wheels, celestes, green meres where petrels breed,
Self-seeded beeves well-rested where they feed,
Experts’ meek temples, trenches hexes pressed;

E, endless sennets, revellers’ blended cheers,
The ether’s messengers, the seven seers;
E, EVEREST, E’S EYES, THE LEVEL BEST!!!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

Crows

LES CORBEAUX

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

LES CORBEAUX
Seigneur, quand froide est la prairie, Quand dans les hameaux abattus Les longs angelus se sont tus… Sur la nature défleurie Faites s’abattre des grands cieux Les chers corbeaux délicieux! Armée étrange aux cris sévères, Les vents froids attaquent vos nids! Vous, le long des fleuves jaunis, Sur les routes des vieux calvaires, Sur les fossés et sur les trous Dispersez-vous, ralliez-vous! Par milliers, sur les champs de France, Où dorment les morts d’avant-hier, Tournoyez, n’est-ce pas, l’hiver, Pour que chaque passant repense? Sois donc le crieur du devoir, Ô notre funèbre oiseau noir! Mais, saints du ciel, en haut du chêne, Mât perdu dans le soir charmé, Laissez les fauvettes de mai Pour ceux qu’au fond du bois enchaîne, Dans l’herbe d’où l’on ne peut fuir, La défaite sans avenir.
Crows
Lord, when the countryside is cold, And nature naked and unflowered, When in the hamlets overpowered The last long angelus has tolled, Bring down from your wide heavens those Adorable, delicious crows! Strange armies of the cheerless cries, The icy winds assault your homes! Along the banks of yellowed streams, On roads of ancient calvaries, Over the ditches and the delves Scatter yourselves, unite yourselves! In thousands, on the fields of France, Where sleep the dead of yesteryear, Will you not whirl with winter here, Bring second thoughts to transients? Give voice, our black sepulchral bird, Cry duty as your battle-word! Come, saints above, on oaken steep, Where twilight charms great masts away: Turn from the warbling birds of May To those enchained in forest deep, In thickets where no wings are fleet, By ineluctable defeat.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

Vowels 1. My version avoiding letter E

Vocalisations

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

Lipograms!
Vocalisations
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles, Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes: A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d’ombre; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes, Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d’ombelles; I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes; U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides, Paix des pâtis semés d’animaux, paix des rides Que l’alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux; O, suprême clairon plein des strideurs étranges, Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges: – O l’Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux! Georges Perc's version in his book 'La Disparition' which avoids the letter E: A noir, (Un blanc), I roux, U safran, O azur: Nous saurons au jour dit ta vocalisation: A, noir carcan poilu d'un scintillant morpion Qui bombinait autour d'un nidoral impur, Caps obscurs; qui, cristal du brouillard ou du Khan, Harpons du fjord hautain, Rois Blancs, frissons d'anis? I, carmins, sang vomi, riant ainsi qu'un lis Dans un courroux ou dans un alcool mortifiant; U, scintillations, rond divins du flot marin, Paix du pâtis tissu d'animaux, paix du fin Sillon qu'un fol savoir aux grands fronts imprima; O, finitif clairon aux accords d'aiguisoir, Soupirs ahurissant Nadir ou Nirvâna: O l'omicron, rayon violin dans son Voir !
Vowels 1. My version avoiding letter E
A black, X blank, I blood, U grass, O sky: I’ll bring to light your backgrounds. Wait a bit. A, smooth black armour of a flashing fly Buzzing around a vicious stinking pit, Dark gulfs; X, fair camp-canvas, vapour-drips, Alp-cusps, snow-kings and shaking fumitory; I, crimsons, spat blood, luscious laughing lips, Furious, or only drunk with saying sorry: U, holy rhythms of a Gaian main, Calm grazing-grounds of cows, calm brows and brain That witchcraft furrows, mind-span that absorbs; O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords, Still voids for flights of worlds and spirit-birds. O, big round O, viola-ray, O Orbs! That was with E thrown out. This is With A thrown out: Written by the youthful genius from C-Mézières (Nil.)... E pure white, I red, U green, O blue: I’ll tell your origins in just one jiffy. First, sleek jet corset of some flies which flew Like buzz-bombs over sink-holes fiercely whiffy, Dim depths; E, tents or white condensing drips, proud snow-crests, virgin kings, the trembling umbel; I, crimsons, blood-gouts, luscious chortling lips, Once furious, or drunk, but now quite humble: U, holy rhythms of the snot-green brine, Furrows incised on brows, whose chemistries Conjure gold spells; quiet greenbelt strewn with kine; O, mighty trump, full-blown with wondrous chords, Still voids for flights of worlds or spirit-birds: O, big round O, lobbed violet of Her Eyes! Without letter I by the ne’er-do-well wonder-boy who stole La Mauté’s husband, A black, E snow, J blood, U green, O blue: My task: your backgrounds have to be revealed. A, sleek black corset of a fly that flew around a swamp malodorous, concealed, Buzzy; E, canvas tents and puffs of steam, Proud snowy crests, proud monarchs, trembly umbel; J, purples, blood-gouts, lovely mouths that stream Laughter of rage, once drunk perhaps, now humble; U, holy groundhog throb of snot-green seas, The peace of beast-strewn pastures, peace of ruts Dug by dark spells on brows of PhD’s; O, the last trump, full of strange brazen brays, Mute tracts traversed by worlds’ and angels’ routes, O Omega, those eyeballs’ purple rays! Without U by the whippersnapper from Charleville-Mézières, A black, E white, I blood, X grass, O sky: Here’s how the whole gang started. Wait a bit. A, smooth black corset of a flashing fly prancing atop an evil stinking pit, black holes; E, canvas tents, condensing drips, white kings, fierce glacier-spears, the cowslip’s shiver; I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of lovely lips Enraged, or tipsy, off to see the shriver; X, cycles, holy throb of snot-green seas, The peace of beast-strewn meadows, peace of grooves That witchcraft scored on brows of PhD’s; O, the last blast, blown with weird brazen brays, Still voids traversed by worlds’ and angels’ hooves, O Orbs, great Omega, viola-rays! Without UE Thank that blatant makar, a faraway castaway at Harar A night, X snow, I blood, Y grass, O sky: How did that gang start off, now? Wait a bit. A, smooth black thorax of a flashing fly prancing atop an evil stinking pit, black voids; X, canvas camps and foggy drips, snow-kings, high glacial swords, a cowslip’s frisson; I, crimson, spat blood, mirth of tasty lips Angry, or tipsy, off to find a parson; Y, holy rhythmic throb of briny snots, Calm grazing-grass of moo-cows, calm of spraints That magic’s drawn on brows of toiling swots; O, mighty blast, blown hard with odd brass brays, Still voids, tram-tracks of worlds and flying saints: O Orbs, big Royal Orbs, viola-rays! Without O Arthur Rimbaud scripsit, scalpsit, slurpsit A black, E white, I red, U green, Z sky: What lies behind these items? Wait a bit. A, shiny hull that guards a flashing fly Buzzing beside an evil stinking pit, Dark gulfs; E, fair camp-canvas, misty drips, Alp-cusps, pale kings and lilies vacillating; I, scarlet, spat red cells, sweet laughing lips, Irate, unless half-cut with exculpating: U, cycles, drums that grace a Gaian main, Calm heifers’ pastures ; tranquil temples, brain Adept at study, wrinkled by witchcraft; Z, mighty trumpet-blast, replete with genius, Vacuums where angels flit and planets waft: Z, zigzag Z-ray, plump and purple Zinnias! This is with E, I, U all thrown out. Do thank A.R., that vocal makar, a faraway castaway at Harar! A black, X snow, Y blood, Z grass, O sky: My task’s to show how all that lot locks on. A, smooth black thorax of a flash-brat fly that swoops atop a nasty hollow john,   dark blots; X, canvas camps and drops of fogs, snow-lords, cold polar swords, and blooms that worry; Y, maroon, spat blood, hoots, and tasty snogs, Angry or blotto, two ways to say sorry;       Z, calm of pastor’s grass that’s food for cows, Salt snot-floods’ holy rhythms; calm of cwms                 Laboratory-drawn on scholars’ brows;   O, top-rank blasts, blown hard for odd brass brays, Good ghosts on non-clang pathways, worlds on zooms: - O Grand, O Final Orbs! O gamma-rays! EEEEE Extreme verses! We’ve kept the E, we’ve eschewed the rest, we never needed them. We persevered! E jet, E sleet, E red, E green, E… See Whence these emerged! We’re exegetes: we’ll tell. E, welded vestments the resplendent bee Needs, when she seeks the sewer’s repellent smell, Grey depths; E, wet sheens, essences, speedwells, Ellesmere’s deep-freezes, Re e neve, tents; E, belched red cells, the glee des lèvres belles: She’s vexed… let’s see! She’s legless, she repents! E, wheels, celestes, green meres where petrels breed, Self-seeded beeves well-rested where they feed, Experts’ meek temples, trenches hexes pressed; E, endless sennets, revellers’ blended cheers, The ether’s messengers, the seven seers; E, EVEREST, E’S EYES, THE LEVEL BEST!!!
My comments were written for the Rimbaud & Verlaine website, now extinct. Translating Voyelles By Timothy Adès Rimbaud was a poet of meteoric brilliance, quickly burnt out. I must get to know him better! I have translated a thousand poems, mostly rhymed and rhyming: a great many are sonnets, including all the 154 sonnets of Shakespeare, which I rewrote without using letter E; but only one is a sonnet by Rimbaud; inevitably this one is his celebrated poem ‘Vowels’ (Voyelles). Inevitably too, I translated Voyelles without using the letter E. The result is what is called a Lipogram – a piece of writing where one or several letters are deliberately avoided. It is an experimental way of writing pioneered by the ‘Oulipo’ movement, founded in 1960. Oulipo is a French abbreviation for ‘workshop of potential literature’ and its exponents treat words and language in a playful and inventive way. Its notable members have included the novelists Georges Perec and Italo Calvino. Voyelles is one of six classic French poems that Georges Perec rewrote without an E in his entirely E-less novel La Disparition. This novel is available in the equally E-less English translation A Void, by Gilbert Adair: it’s great fun to read. The French poems aren’t there: Adair, with good reason, inserted English poems instead, notably ‘The Raven’ by Poe. ‘Quoth the raven, Nevermore’ becomes ‘Said my black bird, Not Again’… So it was left to me to translate the six French poems without using letter E. My version of Rimbaud’s ‘Vowels’ is on the great Brindinpress website of translated poetry, at http://www.brindinpress.com/pfrimvo1.htm . Nearby you will find Norman Cameron’s version, among others, and my one other Rimbaud poem, ‘Crows’. Norman Cameron is a great translator of Rimbaud, but on my bookstall of translated poetry I prefer Martin Sorrell’s very fine versions, in the compact and sharply priced volume from Oxford University Press. Martin has also translated Verlaine, Apollinaire and Lorca in the same series. Writing this blog has caused me to revisit my lipogrammatic ‘Vowels’ file and add to it. As you will see, in each version I avoided the vowel/s shown at the top; but in the last version I used no vowel except ‘E’. The title ‘Vocalisations’ is that used by Perec when he rewrote the poem in French without letter E. It is the commonest letter in French, as it is in English. Here’s Rimbaud’s original, followed by my variations. Rimbaud perceives the vowels as having colours! Some people perceive musical notes, or musical instruments, in that way: the technical term is synesthesia.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

The Rimbaud and Verlaine Foundation

Moonlight

Clair de Lune

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Clair de Lune
Votre âme est un paysage choisi Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques. Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune, Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune, Au calme clair de lune triste et beau, Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau, Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
Moonlight
Your soul’s a chosen country scene That masques and bergamasques beguile With lutes and dancing, though they seem Sad, underneath their fancy style. While in a minor key they sing Life’s pleasures and triumphant love, They seem to doubt their prospering, Lapped in the moonlight up above: The moonlight, calm, sublime and sad, That sets birds dreaming in the trees, While slender fountains rise amid Statues, and sob in ecstasies.
Said in the Purcell Room, London, 3 December 2018

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Poetic Art

To Charles Morice

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

To Charles Morice
De la musique avant toute chose, Et pour cela préfère l'Impair Plus vague et plus soluble dans l'air, Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose. Il faut aussi que tu n'ailles point Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise : Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise Où l'Indécis au Précis se joint. C'est des beaux yeux derrière des voiles, C'est le grand jour tremblant de midi, C'est, par un ciel d'automne attiédi, Le bleu fouillis des claires étoiles ! Car nous voulons la Nuance encor, Pas la Couleur, rien que la nuance ! Oh ! la nuance seule fiance Le rêve au rêve et la flûte au cor ! Fuis du plus loin la Pointe assassine, L'Esprit cruel et le Rire impur, Qui font pleurer les yeux de l'Azur, Et tout cet ail de basse cuisine ! Prends l'éloquence et tords-lui son cou ! Tu feras bien, en train d'énergie, De rendre un peu la Rime assagie. Si l'on n'y veille, elle ira jusqu'où ? O qui dira les torts de la Rime ? Quel enfant sourd ou quel nègre fou Nous a forgé ce bijou d'un sou Qui sonne creux et faux sous la lime ? De la musique encore et toujours ! Que ton vers soit la chose envolée Qu'on sent qui fuit d'une âme en allée Vers d'autres cieux à d'autres amours. Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure Eparse au vent crispé du matin Qui va fleurant la menthe et le thym... Et tout le reste est littérature.
Poetic Art
Music: prefer it, everywhere, And let the medley be uneven: More vague, more soluble in air, It strikes no pose, it needs no leaven. Next, it’s important that you choose Your words with Error’s benefice: We love the blurred refrains that fuse The Pointed with the Imprecise. This is the veiled yet lovely eye, This, the broad noonday’s trembling lustres; Or in less heated autumn sky, Stars, glittering in azure clusters. For it is Nuance we esteem: Away with colour, only nuance! For only nuance can affiance Woodwind to horn and dream to dream. The cruel wit, the impure laugh, The murderous barb, keep far from you: That garlic of the vulgar chef Brings tears to angels in the blue. Take eloquence and wring its neck! And while you’re throttling eloquence, Knock into Rhyme a bit of sense: Where will it stop, with none to check? O who shall hymn the wrongs of Rhyme? What cloth-eared child or ranting fellow Forged us this gem not worth a dime, That to the rasp rings false and hollow? Music, more music! At all times! Let yours be verse that soars above, Descried when fleet-winged souls remove To other loves, in other climes; Let yours be verse that freely scatters Its aromatic mint and thyme On dawn’s fresh breezes, cleansed of rhyme! The rest is nothing but belles-lettres.
An earlier version appeared in Acumen 47.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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My Familiar Dream

Mon rêve familier

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Mon rêve familier
I often have this strange and striking dream: Some woman, whom I love, and who loves me; Loves me and understands; not utterly Different each time, not utterly the same. She understands me, she alone, and clears My clouded heart, uncomplicated now For her alone; my damp and pallid brow She, she alone, can freshen, with her tears. Her hair: brown, blonde or auburn? I don’t know. Her name resembles music sweet and low, Like names of loved ones Life has sent away; Her gaze is like a statue’s, and her tone Of voice is distant, calm, and grave: you’d say, Like those dear voices that are hushed and gone.
My Familiar Dream
Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant D'une femme inconnue, et que j'aime, et qui m'aime Et qui n'est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même Ni tout à fait une autre, et m'aime et me comprend. Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur, transparent Pour elle seule, hélas ! cesse d'être un problème Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême, Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant. Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse ? - Je l'ignore. Son nom ? Je me souviens qu'il est doux et sonore Comme ceux des aimés que la Vie exila. Son regard est pareil au regard des statues, Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a L'inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.
Published 2013 in Cantalao 1.1, a magazine devoted to Neruda

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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