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

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Vocalisations

Voyelles

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91)

Voyelles
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!
Vocalisations
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 horrid 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!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

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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 a horrid 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 a horrid 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

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 horrid 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 a horrid 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 a horrid 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

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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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Vintage

Vendanges

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Vendanges
Les choses qui chantent dans la tête Alors que la mémoire est absente, Écoutez, c’est notre sang qui chante... O musique lointaine et discrète! Écoutez ! c’est notre sang qui pleure Alors que notre âme s’est enfuie, D’une voix jusqu’alors inouïe Et qui va se taire tout à l’heure. Frère du sang de la vigne rose, Frère du vin de la veine noire, O vin, ô sang, c’est l’apothéose! Chantez, pleurez ! Chassez la mémoire Et chassez l’âme, et jusqu’aux ténèbres Magnétisez nos pauvres vertèbres.
Vintage
What sings in the head In times out of mind? The song of our blood, Far-off and refined: Our blood shedding tears, Our soul in its flight: Voice fresh in our ears, That soon will be quiet. Blood’s twin, the red vine, Wine’s twin, the black vein: Blood, wine, up to heaven! Songs, tears! Banish mind And soul: come, enliven Our bones, to dusk’s haven.
Published in Cantalao no:1.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Tears fall in my heart

Il pleure dans mon cœur

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Il pleure dans mon cœur
Il pleure dans mon cœur Comme il pleut sur la ville; Quelle est cette langueur Qui pénètre mon cœur? Ô bruit doux de la pluie Par terre et sur les toits! Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie Ô le bruit de la pluie! Il pleure sans raison Dans ce cœur qui s’écœure. Quoi! nulle trahison? … Ce deuil est sans raison. C’est bien la pire peine De ne savoir pourquoi Sans amour et sans haine, Mon cœur a tant de peine.
Tears fall in my heart
Tears fall in my heart Like rain on the town; What lassitude hurts And pierces my heart? Sweet sound of the rain On the roofs and the ground! For a heart in dull pain The sound of the rain! Tears fall without reason Distressing my heart. What! Is there not treason?... This grief has no reason. Of pain the worst part Is not knowing why Without love or hate Such pain in my heart.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Parisian Sketch

Croquis parisien

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Croquis parisien
La lune plaquait ses teintes de zinc Par angles obtus. Des bouts de fumée en forme de cinq Sortaient drus et noirs des hauts toits pointus. Le ciel était gris. La bise pleurait Ainsi qu'un basson. Au loin, un matou frileux et discret Miaulait d'étrange et grêle façon. Moi, j'allais, rêvant du divin Platon Et de Phidias, Et de Salamine et de Marathon, Sous l'oeil clignotant des bleus becs de gaz.
Parisian Sketch
The sky was grey. The bitter north wind wept Like a bassoon, And thick black smoke-plumes twisted as they leapt From lofty pointed roofs towards the moon, Which spread a plating, blunt and angular, In dull zinc hues. A cat, less warm than watchful, somewhere far Uttered its eerie, high-pitched mews. I walked, I dreamed of godlike Phidias And Plato too, I dreamed of Marathon and Salamis… The gas-lamps’ eyes were watching, winking, blue.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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On the Grass

Sur l’herbe (de : Fêtes Galantes)

Paul Verlaine (1844-96)

Sur l’herbe (de : Fêtes Galantes)
L'abbé divague. — Et toi, marquis Tu mets de travers ta perruque. — Ce vieux vin de Chypre est exquis Moins, Camargo, que votre nuque. — Ma flamme... — Do, mi, sol, la, si. — L'abbé, ta noirceur se dévoile. — Que je meure, mesdames, si Je ne vous décroche une étoile — Je voudrais être petit chien ! — Embrassons nos bergères, l'une Après l'autre. — Messieurs ! eh bien ? — Do, mi, sol. — Hé ! bonsoir, la Lune !
On the Grass
The Dean talks rot. - And, Duke, old boy, Your wig has slipped a long way over. - This vintage Cyprus wine’s a joy, More so your lovely neck, Pavlova. - My darling!... - Doh, mi, so, la, ti. - Dear Dean, we all know you are bestial. - I swear, dear ladies, faithfully To bring you golden fire celestial. - I’d like to be a little pup. - Let’s kiss our milkmaids very soon, All in a row. - What, chaps? Shape up! - Doh, mi, so. - Hey, good evening, moon!
François Le Roux sang it on vinyl, 1984, on his Verlaine LP.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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