Oak Ash and Thorn by Timothy Adès

Oak Ash and Thorn by Kipling

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

A song for anybody to sing without avoiding A, I, O, or U
Oak Ash and Thorn by Kipling
Of all the trees that grow so fair Old England to adorn Greater are none beneath the sun Than oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All on a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Oak of the clay lived many a day Or ever Aeneas began Ash of the loam was a lady at home When Brut was an outlaw man Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town From which was London born Witness hereby the ancientry Of oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Yew that is old in churchyard mould He breedeth a mighty bow Alder for shoes do wise men choose And beech for cups also But when you have killed and your bowl is spilled And your shoes are clean outworn Back ye must speed for all that ye need To oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Ellum she hates mankind and waits Till every gust be laid To drop a limb on the head of him Who any way trusts her shade But whether a lad be sober or sad Or mellow with ale from the horn He'll take no wrong when he lieth along 'Neath oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn Surely we sing of no little thing In oak and ash and thorn Oh do not tell the priest our plight Or he would call it a sin But we've been out in the woods all night A-conjuring summer in And we bring you news by word of mouth Good news for cattle and corn Now is the sun come up from the south with oak and ash and thorn Sing oak and ash and thorn good sirs All of a midsummer's morn England shall bide till Judgement Tide By oak and ash and thorn.
Oak Ash and Thorn by Timothy Adès
Of trunks and boughs which Luck allows Fair Albion to adorn, Naught is so grand in all our land As oak and ash and thorn. Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. OAK on our clay saw stop and stay Troy’s pious lord forlorn; ASH on our loam saw Brutus roam, An outlaw put to scorn; THORN on our Down saw young Troy Town, From which was London born. Thus all may know that long ago Stood oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. TAXUS grows old in churchyard mould And spawns a mighty bow; ALNUS is put on snug-shod foot, FAGUS to cups will go; A kingdom’s built, a bowl is spilt, A boot’s cast off, outworn: You shall go back for what you lack To oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. ULMUS abhors mankind, and waits In calm, if not in storm, To drop a limb on top of him Who trusts that shady form. But any lad who’s spry or sad Or high on hops from horn Cannot go wrong by lying long In oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn Good folk shall sing, no paltry thing, Of oak and ash and thorn. Blurt to no parson of our plight: A parson calls it sin, Our frolicking in woods all night To summon long days in. Glad tidings run by word of mouth Of joy for cow and corn, For now Sir Sun strolls up from south With oak and ash and thorn. - Sing oak and ash and thorn, good sirs, All on a long day’s morn: Fair Albion shall not pass away With oak and ash and thorn!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Rudyard Kipling...

Uricon

Not avoiding A, I, O, or U

A E Housman (1859-1936)

Not avoiding A, I, O, or U
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves. 'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon.
Uricon
Wind on Long Mynd puts woods in anguish; On Clun, a sylvan shag rains down. Caught in that blast, frail saplings languish; Sabrina dons a milfoil gown. Thus did it blow through holt and gully Whilst Roman Viroconium stood. It blows today; its tantrums bully A Saxon, not a Roman, wood. I wasn’t born, as far-flung Roman Saw, long ago, that windblown hill. Such blood still warms a Saxon ploughman, As his; such hurtful thoughts, hurt still. That wind has wildwoods now in labour, And through yon Roman it ran high. Not tranquil is our human arbour! It was a Roman; now, ’tis I. Caught in that blast, frail saplings languish; It blows so hard, ’twill pass anon: What hid that Roman and his anguish? Ruin and dust of Uricon.
Published online by the Poetry Society: https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by A E Housman...

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...

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

Sailor's Wind

Brise Marine

Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98)

Translated without using letter E: a lipogram
Brise Marine
La chair est triste, hélas! et j’ai lu tous les livres, Fuir! là-bas fuir! Je sens que des oiseaux sont ivres D’être parmi l’écume inconnue et les cieux! Rien, ni les vieux jardins reflétés par les yeux Ne retiendra ce coeur qui dans la mer se trempe O nuits! ni la clarté déserte de ma lampe Sur le vide papier que la blancheur défend Et ni la jeune femme allaitant son’enfant. Je partirai! Steamer balançant ta mâture, Lève l’ancre pour une exotique nature! Un Ennui, désolé par les cruels espoirs, Croit encore à l’adieu suprême des mouchoirs! Et, peut-être, les mâts, invitant les orages Sont-ils de ceux qu’un vent penche sur les naufrages Perdus, sans mâts, sans mâts, ni fertiles ilôts … Mais, ô mon coeur, entends le chant des matelots!
Sailor's Wind
Limbs flag and fail; j’ai lu all books of words. To fly away! I think of soaring birds In sky unknown, and spray, mad-drunk with flight. No arbours, mirror’d back from orbs of sight, Can stay my soul from plunging totally, O nights! nor lamplight’s arid clarity On my blank writing-pad’s forbidding wall; Nor a young woman with a sucking doll. I go! You throbbing ship with masts that sway, Up anchor, and to magick lands away! Vain longings haunt us; harsh monotony Still trusts in waving chiffon’s last goodby; And masts that summon storms may soon bow down To roaring winds, by ruin’d hulks that drown, Lost, with no masts, nor islands blossoming … But hark, my soul! What songs our sailors sing!

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Stéphane Mallarmé...

De virgine perdita

The Ruined Maid

Lipograms – Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

His English, my Latin
The Ruined Maid
"O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown! Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town? And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?" — "O didn't you know I'd been ruined?" said she. — "You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks, Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks; And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!" — "Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined," said she. — "At home in the barton you said thee' and thou,' And thik oon,' and theäs oon,' and t'other'; but now Your talking quite fits 'ee for high compa-ny!" — "Some polish is gained with one's ruin," said she. — "Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek, And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!" — "We never do work when we're ruined," said she. — "You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream, And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!" — "True. One's pretty lively when ruined," said she. — "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown, And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" — "My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be, Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined," said she.
De virgine perdita
‘hoc superat certe, cara o mea Melia, totum: ~~res inopina, ego iens obvia in urbe tibi. unde hae divitiae quot habes et pulcher amictus?’ ~~‘num nescis? quia sum perdita: damnor ego.’ ‘squalebant panni, nudo pede pauper abisti: ~~plus lolia et betas lassa fodire nequis. nunc nitet armillis necnon tribus instita plumis.’ ~~‘tale quidem splendens perdita tegmen habet.’ ‘rure domi tute, en! tibimetque in chorte solebas, ~~hice ollumque et alid, rustica verba loqui. nunc tamen apta bonis tua vox, proceresque iuvabis.’ ~~‘perdita pro damno lautior esse potest.’ ‘dura rudisque manus, pigrum os et pullius: at nunc ~~pellicit et tamquam fascinat ista gena. sunt manicae tenerae, bona quas matrona sitiret!’ ~~‘nulla laborem urget perdita nympha manu.’ ‘ante domi te questa magas vinxisse sopore, ~~ miscebas gemitu murmura. nunc mihi ades expers tristitiae, caput haud cruciata dolore.’ ~~‘vera refers: hilaris perdita nympha viget.’ ‘o si magnificam chlamydem plumasque tenerem, ~~os purum, forti pulchra et in urbe gradu!’ ‘rustica et inconcinna manes. quid? non tibi talis, ~~non tibi, quae non es perdita, vita datur.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Lipograms – Thomas Hardy...

Goldfinch in Jail

The Caged Goldfinch

Lipograms – Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

The Caged Goldfinch
Within a churchyard, on a recent grave, I saw a little cage That jailed a goldfinch. All was silence save Its hops from stage to stage. There was inquiry in its wistful eye, And once it tried to sing; Of him or her who placed it there, and why, No one knew anything.
Goldfinch in Jail
Within a churchyard, on a just-laid plot, I saw a tiny jail: A goldfinch was within. No sound: but, what? Hop, hop, a dismal trail. Inquiry in its wistful look saw I; I saw it fail to sing; Of who had put it in that spot, and why, Nobody knows a thing.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

More poems by Lipograms – Thomas Hardy...

Categories
French

Chill Out, My Sorrow

Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)

Recueillement
without using “e”

Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici;
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.
Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,
Loin d’eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;
Le Soleil moribond s’endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul trainant à l’Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.
Chill out, my sorrow: play it cool: calm down:
You said night ought to fall; you got your way.
Twilight cuts in: dusk sinks upon our town,
Doling out consolation or dismay.
Lust cracks his whip, that hangman void of pity;
Most of humanity, a vulgar throng,
Will wallow, and will blush for doing wrong.
My sorrow, hold my hand: now, quit this city:
Stand by. A rack of gowns that could not last,
Lining an upstairs rail: that is our past:
Smiling contrition in salt surf is born;
Sunlight is fading, dying in an arch.
Think of a long shroud trailing off to dawn:
Hark, darling! Night kicks into forward march.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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French

Accords

Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)

Correspondances
without using “e”

La Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l’observent avec des regards familiers.
Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.
Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d’enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
– Et d’autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l’expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l’ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l’encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l’esprit et des sens.
This world’s a worship-hall: its columnry
Half-murmurs, on and off, a word or two;
Symbols grow thick and tall, as man walks through,
And watch him with familiarity.
A distant, long cacophony confounds
Its clangour in dark gulfs of harmony,
Monstrous as night, and vast as clarity:
A caucus of aromas, colours, sounds!
Fragrant as baby-limbs, mild odours waft
From rolling grasslands, ocarina-soft;
Or arrogant, triumphant, rich and high,
Far out, and growing to infinity,
Musk and patchouli, cinnamon, copal:
Transport and song of spirit, mind and soul.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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French

Cats

Charles Baudelaire (1821-67)

Les Chats
without using “e”

Les amoureux fervents et les savants austères
Aiment également, dans leur mûre saison,
Les chats puissants et doux, orgueil de la maison,
Qui comme eux sont frileux et comme eux sédentaires.
Amis de la science et de la volupté,
Ils cherchent le silence et l’horreur des ténèbres;
L’Erèbe les eût pris pour ses coursiers funèbres,
S’ils pouvaient au servage incliner leur fierté.
Ils prennent en songeant les nobles attitudes
Des grands sphinx allongés au fond des solitudes,
Qui semblent s’endormir dans un rêve sans fin;
Leurs reins féconds sont pleins d’étincelles magiques,
Et des parcelles d’or, ainsi qu’un sable fin,
Étoilent vaguement leurs prunelles mystiques.
Passion may burn, and scholarship may chill:
But, swains and savants, jointly doff your hats!
Lords of our roost, our puissant pussy-cats
Match you for craving warmth and sitting still.
Cats quarry facts and stalk voluptuous bliss,
Finding a dull or downright Stygian spot;
Cats could sign on as four-in-hand of Dis,
If cats could justify a minion’s lot.
A cat that’s sunk in thought looks proud and grand,
Grand as a big old sphinx, aloof and sprawling,
Down chasms of hypnotic fancy falling.
From loins prolific, sparks of magic flow;
And grains of gold-dust, smooth and small as sand,
In dark and mystic iris dimly glow.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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