Spring 2024 Concert: Rimbaud: This Fugitive Soul
Texts and Translations
Prologue
Mario Gullo
Assez vu. La vision s’est rencontrée à tous les airs.
Assez eu. Rumeurs des villes, le soir, et au soleil, et toujours.
Assez connu. Les arrêts de la vie. – O Rumeurs et Visions!
Départ dans l’affection et le bruit neufs!
Enough seen. The vision gleams across the skies.
Enough had. Sounds of cities, in the evening, and in sunlight, and always.
Enough known. The stops of life. — O Sounds and Visions!
Departure in affection and new noise!
(Rimbaud, Départ)
Dear sir, A certain Monsieur Rimbaud, who claims to be a trader at Harar and Aden, arrived in Massaouah yesterday, on board the weekly mailboat from Aden. A Frenchman, he was brought in by the police. He has no passport, and no means of proving his identity to me. Despite the long hours spent together, I never asked him anything relating to his previous life, he never told me anything about it. I would be much obliged, Monsieur le Consul, if you could give me some information about this individual, who appeared to be a rather shady character.
He must have had setbacks in his previous life. His character must have been changed by those misfortunes which leave an indelible mark on you.
Assez vu. La vision s’est rencontrée à tous les airs.
Assez eu. Rumeurs des villes, le soir, et au soleil, et toujours.
Assez connu. Les arrêts de la vie. – O Rumeurs et Visions!
Départ dans l’affection et le bruit neufs!
Enough seen. The vision gleams across the skies.
Enough had. Sounds of cities, in the evening, and in sunlight, and always.
Enough known. The stops of life. — O Sounds and Visions!
Departure in affection and new noise!
(Rimbaud, Départ)
Dear sir, A certain Monsieur Rimbaud, who claims to be a trader at Harar and Aden, arrived in Massaouah yesterday, on board the weekly mailboat from Aden. A Frenchman, he was brought in by the police. He has no passport, and no means of proving his identity to me. Despite the long hours spent together, I never asked him anything relating to his previous life, he never told me anything about it. I would be much obliged, Monsieur le Consul, if you could give me some information about this individual, who appeared to be a rather shady character.
He must have had setbacks in his previous life. His character must have been changed by those misfortunes which leave an indelible mark on you.
Introduction
Bettina Sheppard
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes
A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,
I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
His eyes
I remember
His large clear eyes, grey
His deep blue eyes
Disturbingly pale blue eyes
What a gaze!
There, exhibited by Verlaine, was a most alarming underage poet
Big hands, big feet, babyish face you might have mistaken for a child of thirteen
Deep blue eyes, manners more wild than timid
Such is the boy whose imagination, full of power and unimaginable corruption, has fascinated and terrified all our friends
Tall and skinny
With the perfectly oval face of an angel in exile
Disheveled light-brown hair
A large sturdy lad with a reddish face
A peasant
A young school kid who had grown too fast
His eyes were rather beautiful, but they had a shifty look which we took for shyness
His life was jerky like his meter and incoherent like his thought
His trousers were too short for him, and you could see his blue cotton socks
His hair was tousled, his necktie stringy, his clothes untidy
He was an unbearable companion
He ate greedily and behaved badly at the table
He kept a disdainful silence for hours, then volubly spouted insults and paradoxes
We weren't quite sure that he wouldn't end up on the scaffold
But we were convinced that his head would fall haloed with glory in the infamous basket
Verlaine was the hourly companion of the younger poet for some years
One fact only, written on the sky of palest legend in letters of blood
For this crime Verlaine spent two years at Mons
His eyes
I remember
His large clear eyes, grey
His deep blue eyes
Disturbingly pale blue eyes
What a gaze!
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes
A black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,
I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
His eyes
I remember
His large clear eyes, grey
His deep blue eyes
Disturbingly pale blue eyes
What a gaze!
There, exhibited by Verlaine, was a most alarming underage poet
Big hands, big feet, babyish face you might have mistaken for a child of thirteen
Deep blue eyes, manners more wild than timid
Such is the boy whose imagination, full of power and unimaginable corruption, has fascinated and terrified all our friends
Tall and skinny
With the perfectly oval face of an angel in exile
Disheveled light-brown hair
A large sturdy lad with a reddish face
A peasant
A young school kid who had grown too fast
His eyes were rather beautiful, but they had a shifty look which we took for shyness
His life was jerky like his meter and incoherent like his thought
His trousers were too short for him, and you could see his blue cotton socks
His hair was tousled, his necktie stringy, his clothes untidy
He was an unbearable companion
He ate greedily and behaved badly at the table
He kept a disdainful silence for hours, then volubly spouted insults and paradoxes
We weren't quite sure that he wouldn't end up on the scaffold
But we were convinced that his head would fall haloed with glory in the infamous basket
Verlaine was the hourly companion of the younger poet for some years
One fact only, written on the sky of palest legend in letters of blood
For this crime Verlaine spent two years at Mons
His eyes
I remember
His large clear eyes, grey
His deep blue eyes
Disturbingly pale blue eyes
What a gaze!
A, noir corset velu
Perry Townsend
A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes
Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d'ombre
A, black velvet corset of brilliant flies
which buzz around cruel smells, Gulfs of shadow
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
This young poet only shone for a moment
It was his destiny to disappear at the age of twenty
A notice from Paul Verlaine:
This fugitive soul has gone to Asia
Dedicating himself to works of art
But the news is contradictory
He is said to be a pig merchant on the Belgian border
King in Africa
Canvasser for the Dutch Army in Sunda
His very existence is contested
And he floats as a mythical shadow over the Symbolists
The poets only met once again
Verlaine's hour of grace had not yet come
And he sought to dissuade the young disciple from his resolve
Rimbaud had learnt to understand the immediate necessity of repentance
He closed his eyes and ears to allurements and temptations
Bade Verlaine farewell
And left Europe to immure himself forever
In a Christian convent on the shores of the Red Sea
He has been seen digging the soil for the grace of God
Too bad, because I remain convinced that he could have been a poet
A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes
Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d'ombre
A, black velvet corset of brilliant flies
which buzz around cruel smells, Gulfs of shadow
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
This young poet only shone for a moment
It was his destiny to disappear at the age of twenty
A notice from Paul Verlaine:
This fugitive soul has gone to Asia
Dedicating himself to works of art
But the news is contradictory
He is said to be a pig merchant on the Belgian border
King in Africa
Canvasser for the Dutch Army in Sunda
His very existence is contested
And he floats as a mythical shadow over the Symbolists
The poets only met once again
Verlaine's hour of grace had not yet come
And he sought to dissuade the young disciple from his resolve
Rimbaud had learnt to understand the immediate necessity of repentance
He closed his eyes and ears to allurements and temptations
Bade Verlaine farewell
And left Europe to immure himself forever
In a Christian convent on the shores of the Red Sea
He has been seen digging the soil for the grace of God
Too bad, because I remain convinced that he could have been a poet
E, candeurs des vapeurs
Brian Mountford
Confirming your letter of September 9. We are sending, on September 23, with caravan 46: 42 camels loaded with cowhide. We are preparing, for caravan 48 of October 20, 5,000 goat skins. The same caravan will probably also bring you feathers and ivory from Ogadine, from which our expedition will have returned no later than the end of September.
E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes,
Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d'ombelles
E, whiteness of vapors and of tents,
Lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of cow-parsley
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
I found Rimbaud at Tadjourah
He had not yet set off for the interior
A tall, thin man, his hair grey at the temples
A very serious man, highly trusted
A pair of rather baggy trousers, a vest, a loose-fitting, grey khaki jacket
Esteemed by the Abyssinian authorities in Harar
On his head a little skullcap
He absorbed the mentality
Learned the languages
Freely conversed in each region
At his house he would have learned discussions about the Koran with the local elders
I hardly ever saw him laugh
His charity, very discreet and generous
Was one of the few things he did without a sneer or a cry of disgust
His favorite meals were peppery dishes, outrageously spicy
He sometimes repented afterwards for having tasted these spices of the devil!
For three full years, I never had the opportunity to suspect
That within this sad and taciturn employee was a dead poet
His stupefying and precocious entry
And his sudden and strange exit from the sacred grove
Confirming your letter of September 9. We are sending, on September 23, with caravan 46: 42 camels loaded with cowhide. We are preparing, for caravan 48 of October 20, 5,000 goat skins. The same caravan will probably also bring you feathers and ivory from Ogadine, from which our expedition will have returned no later than the end of September.
E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes,
Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d'ombelles
E, whiteness of vapors and of tents,
Lances of proud glaciers, white kings, shivers of cow-parsley
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
I found Rimbaud at Tadjourah
He had not yet set off for the interior
A tall, thin man, his hair grey at the temples
A very serious man, highly trusted
A pair of rather baggy trousers, a vest, a loose-fitting, grey khaki jacket
Esteemed by the Abyssinian authorities in Harar
On his head a little skullcap
He absorbed the mentality
Learned the languages
Freely conversed in each region
At his house he would have learned discussions about the Koran with the local elders
I hardly ever saw him laugh
His charity, very discreet and generous
Was one of the few things he did without a sneer or a cry of disgust
His favorite meals were peppery dishes, outrageously spicy
He sometimes repented afterwards for having tasted these spices of the devil!
For three full years, I never had the opportunity to suspect
That within this sad and taciturn employee was a dead poet
His stupefying and precocious entry
And his sudden and strange exit from the sacred grove
I, pourpres, sang craché
Texts by Rimbaud and his critics, music by Martha Sullivan
I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles
Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes
Crimson letter "I", spat-out blood, the smile of lovely lips
In anger or penitent drunkenness
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
Paul Bourde, 1885: He speaks to us in a language no longer our own. The goal of the system is gibberish.
Teodor de Wyzewa, 1886: It is one of the most stunning works there could be. No plan, true. One searches in vain for the shadow of a story through these elegant pages.
Baju le Décadent, 1889: From Rimbaud’s pages flowed so much glory that it has engulfed the world. We speak of the great French poet, we comment on his works, we ponder his life, and we grieve his sudden disappearance.
Paul Bourde: All incoherence and bizarreness aside, I was struck by the stunning virtuosity of these works from your youth. Sometimes we speak of you, together, with sympathy.
Félix Fénéon, 1886: Already his existence is contested; and Rimbaud floats as a mythic shadow over the Symbolistes.
Anatole France, 1886: This young poet shone for only a moment. Such uncertainties! The life of Rimbaud is as jumbled up with fables as the life of Orpheus.
I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles
Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes
Crimson letter "I", spat-out blood, the smile of lovely lips
In anger or penitent drunkenness
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
Paul Bourde, 1885: He speaks to us in a language no longer our own. The goal of the system is gibberish.
Teodor de Wyzewa, 1886: It is one of the most stunning works there could be. No plan, true. One searches in vain for the shadow of a story through these elegant pages.
Baju le Décadent, 1889: From Rimbaud’s pages flowed so much glory that it has engulfed the world. We speak of the great French poet, we comment on his works, we ponder his life, and we grieve his sudden disappearance.
Paul Bourde: All incoherence and bizarreness aside, I was struck by the stunning virtuosity of these works from your youth. Sometimes we speak of you, together, with sympathy.
Félix Fénéon, 1886: Already his existence is contested; and Rimbaud floats as a mythic shadow over the Symbolistes.
Anatole France, 1886: This young poet shone for only a moment. Such uncertainties! The life of Rimbaud is as jumbled up with fables as the life of Orpheus.
Une Saison en Enfer
text by Rimbaud, music by Stephen Gerber
À moi. L'histoire d'une de mes folies.
My turn. The history of one of my follies.
Depuis longtemps je me vantais de posséder tous les paysages possibles, et trouvais dérisoire les célébrités de la peinture et de la poésie moderne.
For ages I claimed mastery of all possible landscapes, and scoffed at the celebrities of modern painting and poetry.
J'aimais les peintures idiotes, dessus de portes, décors, toiles de saltimbanques, enseignes, enluminures populaires; la littérature démodée, latin d'église, livres érotiques sans orthographe, romans de nos aïeules, contes de fées, petits livres de l'enfance, opéras vieux, refrains niais, rythmes naïfs.
I loved idiotic pictures, bas reliefs, stage sets, carnival backdrops, inn signs, popular prints; old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books with poor spelling, novels of grandmother’s day, fairy tales, little books for children, old operas, nonsense rhymes, naive rhythms.
Je rêvais croisades, voyages de découvertes dont on n'a pas de relations, républiques sans histoires, guerres de religion étouffées, révolutions de mœurs, déplacements de races et de continents: je croyais à tous les enchantements.
I dreamt of crusades, unrecorded voyages of discovery, republics without histories, wars of suppressed religion, moral revolutions, movements of races and continents: I believed in every enchantment.
J'inventai la couleur des voyelles! — A noir, E blanc, I rouge, O bleu, U vert. — Je réglai la forme et le mouvement de chaque consonne, et, avec des rythmes instinctifs, je me flattai d'inventer un verbe poétique accessible, un jour ou l'autre, à tous les sens. Je réservais la traduction.
I invented the color of vowels! A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. – I regulated the form and motion of every consonant, and, with instinctive rhythms, I boasted of inventing a poetic language, accessible some day to all the senses. I alone would be its translator.
Ce fut d'abord une étude. J'écrivais des silences, des nuits, je notais l'inexprimable. Je fixais des vertiges.
It was academic at first. I wrote of silences, nights, I expressed the inexpressible. I made the whirling world stand still.
Loin des oiseaux, des troupeaux, des villageoises,
Que buvais-je, à genoux dans cette bruyère
Entourée de tendres bois de noisetiers,
Dans un brouillard d'après-midi tiède et vert?
Que pouvais-je boire dans cette jeune Oise,
— Ormeaux sans voix, gazon sans fleurs, ciel couvert! --
Boire à ces gourdes jaunes, loin de ma case
Chérie? Quelque liqueur d'or qui fait suer.
Je faisais une louche enseigne d'auberge.
— Un orage vint chasser le ciel. Au soir
L'eau des bois se perdait sur les sables vierges,
Le vent de Dieu jetait des glaçons aux mares;
Pleurant, je voyais de l'or — et ne pus boire. --
Far from flocks, from birds, from village girls,
What was I drinking, on my knees in the heather
Surrounded by tender hazel trees
In the warm green mist of afternoon?
What could I be drinking from this young Oise
– Voiceless elms, flowerless grass, dull sky! –
Drinking from yellow gourds, far from my dear hut?
Some golden draught that makes me sweat.
I made a dubious inn-sign.
A storm came chasing the heavens. Toward evening,
Water from the wood spilled itself on virgin sands,
Heavenly wind cast ice on the ponds;
Weeping, I saw gold – and could not drink.
La vieillerie poétique avait une bonne part dans mon alchimie du verbe.
Worn-out poetry played a key role in my alchemy of the word.
Je m'habituai à l'hallucination simple: je voyais très franchement une mosquée à la place d'une usine, une école de tambours faite par des anges, des calèches sur les routes du ciel, un salon au fond d'un lac; les monstres, les mystères; un titre de vaudeville dressait des épouvantes devant moi.
I got used to pure hallucination: I saw quite clearly a mosque instead of a factory, a drum corps of angels, horse carts on heavenly highways, a salon at the bottom of a lake; monsters, mysteries; a vaudeville title filled me with awe.
Puis j'expliquai mes sophismes magiques avec l'hallucination des mots!
Then I explained my magical sophistries with hallucinatory words!
Je finis par trouver sacré le désordre de mon esprit. J'étais oisif, en proie à une lourde fièvre: j'enviais la félicité des bêtes — les chenilles, qui représentent l'innocence des limbes, les taupes, le sommeil de la virginité!
At last, I began to consider my mind's disorder as sacred. I lay about idle, consumed by an oppressive fever: I envied the contentment of beasts – caterpillars, who represent the innocence of Limbo, moles, the sleep of virginity!
Mon caractère s'aigrissait. Je disais adieu au monde dans d'espèces de romances:
My mind turned sour. I bid farewell to the world in various ballads:
CHANSON DE LA PLUS HAUTE TOUR
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
J'ai tant fait patience
Qu'à jamais j'oublie.
Craintes et souffrances
Aux cieux sont parties.
Et la soif malsaine
Obscurcit mes veines.
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
Telle la prairie
À l'oubli livrée,
Grandie, et fleurie
D'encens et d'ivraies,
Au bourdon farouche
Des sales mouches.
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
SONG OF THE HIGHEST TOWER
Let it come, let it come,
The day when we love as one.
I have waited so long
That at length I forget.
Fears and sufferings
Have flown up to heaven.
And sick thirst
Darkens my veins.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when we love as one.
As the meadow
Freed by neglect,
Overgrown and flowering
With incense and weeds,
And the fierce drone
Of dusty flies.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when we love as one.
J'aimai le désert, les vergers brûlés, les boutiques fanées, les boissons tiédies. Je me traînais dans les ruelles puantes et, les yeux fermés, je m'offrais au soleil, dieu de feu.
I loved the wilderness, burnt orchards; tired old shops, lukewarm drinks. I would drag myself through stinking alleys and, eyes closed, offer myself to the sun, god of fire.
"Général, s'il reste un vieux canon sur tes remparts en ruines, bombarde-nous avec des blocs de terre sèche. Aux glaces des magasins splendides! dans les salons! Fais manger sa poussière à la ville. Oxyde les gargouilles. Emplis les boudoirs de poudre de rubis brûlante..."
“General, if there’s an old cannon left on your ruined ramparts, bombard us with clods of dried-up earth. Fire on the windows of splendid shops! Into the salons! Make the city swallow its own dust. Turn the gargoyles to rust. Fill the boudoirs with powder of burning rubies...”
Oh! le moucheron enivré à la pissotière de l'auberge, amoureux de la bourrache, et que dissout un rayon!
Oh! the drunken gnat in the pub urinal, in love with rotting weeds, and obliterated by a beam!
Enfin, ô bonheur, ô raison, j'écartai du ciel l'azur, qui est du noir, et je vécus, étincelle d'or de la lumière nature. De joie, je prenais une expression bouffonne et égarée au possible:
At last, O happiness, O reason, I cleared from the sky its blue, which is darkness, and I lived as a golden spark of natural light. From joy, I made my face as comic and wild as possible:
Elle est retrouvée!
Quoi? l'éternité.
C'est la mer mêlée
Au soleil.
Mon âme éternelle,
Observe ton vœu
Malgré la nuit seule
Et le jour en feu.
Donc tu te dégages
Des humains suffrages,
Des communs élans!
Tu voles selon...
— Jamais l'espérance.
Pas d'orietur.
Science et patience,
Le supplice est sûr.
Plus de lendemain,
Braises de satin,
Votre ardeur
Est le devoir.
Elle est retrouvée!
— Quoi? — l'Éternité.
C'est la mer mêlée
Au soleil.
It has been found!
What? Eternity.
It is the sun, mingled
With the sea.
My immortal soul,
Keep your vow
Despite lonely night
And the day on fire.
Set yourself free
From human striving,
From common urges!
To fly as you feel…
– No hope.
No orietur.
Science and patience,
Torment is sure.
No more tomorrow,
Embers of satin,
Your own ardor
The only duty.
It has been found!
What? Eternity.
It is the sun, mingled
With the sea.
Je devins un opéra fabuleux: je vis que tous les êtres ont une fatalité de bonheur: l'action n'est pas la vie, mais une façon de gâcher quelque force, un énervement. La morale est la faiblesse de la cervelle.
I guessed a fabulous story: I saw that all are doomed to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting strength, an enervation. Morality is a weakness of the brain.
À chaque être, plusieurs autres vies mes semblaient dues. Ce monsieur ne sait ce qu'il fait: il est un ange. Cette famille est une nichée de chiens. Devant plusieurs hommes, je causai tout haut avec un moment d'une de leurs autres vies. — Ainsi, j'ai aimé un porc.
Each person seemed to have an alter ego. This gentleman doesn't know what he does: he’s an angel. That family is a pack of dogs. With many men, I have chatted with a piece of their other lives. – Thus, I have loved a pig.
Aucun des sophismes de la folie, — la folie qu'on enferme, — n'a été oublié par moi: je pourrais les redire tous, je tiens le système.
Not one of the arguments of madness – the madness that gets you locked up – did I forget: I could recite them all, I know the system.
Ma santé fut menacée. La terreur venait. Je tombais dans des sommeils de plusieurs jours, et, levé, je continuais les rêves les plus tristes. J'étais mûr pour le trépas, et par une route de dangers ma faiblesse me menait aux confins du monde et de la Cimmérie, patrie de l'ombre et des tourbillons.
It affected my health. The terror came on. I fell asleep for days at a time, and, waking, continued with the most sorrowful dreams. I was ripe for the fatal harvest, and by a dangerous road my weakness led me to the edge of the world and to the Cimmerian shore, land of shadows and whirlwinds.
Je dus voyager, distraire les enchantements assemblés sur mon cerveau. Sur la mer, que j'aimais comme si elle eût dû me laver d'une souillure, je voyais se lever la croix consolatrice. J'avais été damné par l'arc-en-ciel. Le Bonheur était ma fatalité, mon remords, mon ver: ma vie serait toujours trop immense pour être dévouée à la force et à la beauté.
I had to travel, to distract myself from the enchantments crowding my brain. On the sea, which I loved as if it would wash away my impurity, I saw the consoling cross arise. I had been damned by the rainbow. Happiness was my doom, my gnawing remorse: my life would always be too immense to be devoted to strength and beauty.
Le Bonheur! Sa dent, douce à la mort, m'avertissait au chant du coq, — ad matutinum, au Christus venit, — dans les plus sombres villes:
Happiness! Its tooth, deadly sweet, warned me at cockcrow – ad matutinam, at the Christus venit, – in the darkest cities:
Ô saisons, ô châteaux!
Quelle âme est sans défauts?
J'ai fait la magique étude
Du bonheur, qu'aucun n'élude.
Salut à lui, chaque fois
Que chante le coq gaulois.
Ah ! je n'aurai plus d'envie:
Il s'est chargé de ma vie.
Ce charme a pris âme et corps
Et dispersé les efforts.
Ô saisons, ô châteaux!
L'heure de sa fuite, hélas!
Sera l'heure du trépas.
Ô saisons, ô châteaux!
O seasons, O chateaux!
Where is the flawless soul?
I made a magical study
Of happiness, which none can escape.
A toast to it, each time
The Gallic cock crows.
Ah! I have no more desire,
It has taken charge of my life.
That charm has taken heart and soul
And scattered all efforts.
O seasons, O chateaux!
The hour of its flight, alas!
Will be the hour of death.
O seasons, O chateaux!
Cela s'est passé. Je sais aujourd'hui saluer la beauté.
That’s all past. Today I know how to greet beauty.
À moi. L'histoire d'une de mes folies.
My turn. The history of one of my follies.
Depuis longtemps je me vantais de posséder tous les paysages possibles, et trouvais dérisoire les célébrités de la peinture et de la poésie moderne.
For ages I claimed mastery of all possible landscapes, and scoffed at the celebrities of modern painting and poetry.
J'aimais les peintures idiotes, dessus de portes, décors, toiles de saltimbanques, enseignes, enluminures populaires; la littérature démodée, latin d'église, livres érotiques sans orthographe, romans de nos aïeules, contes de fées, petits livres de l'enfance, opéras vieux, refrains niais, rythmes naïfs.
I loved idiotic pictures, bas reliefs, stage sets, carnival backdrops, inn signs, popular prints; old-fashioned literature, church Latin, erotic books with poor spelling, novels of grandmother’s day, fairy tales, little books for children, old operas, nonsense rhymes, naive rhythms.
Je rêvais croisades, voyages de découvertes dont on n'a pas de relations, républiques sans histoires, guerres de religion étouffées, révolutions de mœurs, déplacements de races et de continents: je croyais à tous les enchantements.
I dreamt of crusades, unrecorded voyages of discovery, republics without histories, wars of suppressed religion, moral revolutions, movements of races and continents: I believed in every enchantment.
J'inventai la couleur des voyelles! — A noir, E blanc, I rouge, O bleu, U vert. — Je réglai la forme et le mouvement de chaque consonne, et, avec des rythmes instinctifs, je me flattai d'inventer un verbe poétique accessible, un jour ou l'autre, à tous les sens. Je réservais la traduction.
I invented the color of vowels! A black, E white, I red, O blue, U green. – I regulated the form and motion of every consonant, and, with instinctive rhythms, I boasted of inventing a poetic language, accessible some day to all the senses. I alone would be its translator.
Ce fut d'abord une étude. J'écrivais des silences, des nuits, je notais l'inexprimable. Je fixais des vertiges.
It was academic at first. I wrote of silences, nights, I expressed the inexpressible. I made the whirling world stand still.
Loin des oiseaux, des troupeaux, des villageoises,
Que buvais-je, à genoux dans cette bruyère
Entourée de tendres bois de noisetiers,
Dans un brouillard d'après-midi tiède et vert?
Que pouvais-je boire dans cette jeune Oise,
— Ormeaux sans voix, gazon sans fleurs, ciel couvert! --
Boire à ces gourdes jaunes, loin de ma case
Chérie? Quelque liqueur d'or qui fait suer.
Je faisais une louche enseigne d'auberge.
— Un orage vint chasser le ciel. Au soir
L'eau des bois se perdait sur les sables vierges,
Le vent de Dieu jetait des glaçons aux mares;
Pleurant, je voyais de l'or — et ne pus boire. --
Far from flocks, from birds, from village girls,
What was I drinking, on my knees in the heather
Surrounded by tender hazel trees
In the warm green mist of afternoon?
What could I be drinking from this young Oise
– Voiceless elms, flowerless grass, dull sky! –
Drinking from yellow gourds, far from my dear hut?
Some golden draught that makes me sweat.
I made a dubious inn-sign.
A storm came chasing the heavens. Toward evening,
Water from the wood spilled itself on virgin sands,
Heavenly wind cast ice on the ponds;
Weeping, I saw gold – and could not drink.
La vieillerie poétique avait une bonne part dans mon alchimie du verbe.
Worn-out poetry played a key role in my alchemy of the word.
Je m'habituai à l'hallucination simple: je voyais très franchement une mosquée à la place d'une usine, une école de tambours faite par des anges, des calèches sur les routes du ciel, un salon au fond d'un lac; les monstres, les mystères; un titre de vaudeville dressait des épouvantes devant moi.
I got used to pure hallucination: I saw quite clearly a mosque instead of a factory, a drum corps of angels, horse carts on heavenly highways, a salon at the bottom of a lake; monsters, mysteries; a vaudeville title filled me with awe.
Puis j'expliquai mes sophismes magiques avec l'hallucination des mots!
Then I explained my magical sophistries with hallucinatory words!
Je finis par trouver sacré le désordre de mon esprit. J'étais oisif, en proie à une lourde fièvre: j'enviais la félicité des bêtes — les chenilles, qui représentent l'innocence des limbes, les taupes, le sommeil de la virginité!
At last, I began to consider my mind's disorder as sacred. I lay about idle, consumed by an oppressive fever: I envied the contentment of beasts – caterpillars, who represent the innocence of Limbo, moles, the sleep of virginity!
Mon caractère s'aigrissait. Je disais adieu au monde dans d'espèces de romances:
My mind turned sour. I bid farewell to the world in various ballads:
CHANSON DE LA PLUS HAUTE TOUR
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
J'ai tant fait patience
Qu'à jamais j'oublie.
Craintes et souffrances
Aux cieux sont parties.
Et la soif malsaine
Obscurcit mes veines.
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
Telle la prairie
À l'oubli livrée,
Grandie, et fleurie
D'encens et d'ivraies,
Au bourdon farouche
Des sales mouches.
Qu'il vienne, qu'il vienne,
Le temps dont on s'éprenne.
SONG OF THE HIGHEST TOWER
Let it come, let it come,
The day when we love as one.
I have waited so long
That at length I forget.
Fears and sufferings
Have flown up to heaven.
And sick thirst
Darkens my veins.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when we love as one.
As the meadow
Freed by neglect,
Overgrown and flowering
With incense and weeds,
And the fierce drone
Of dusty flies.
Let it come, let it come,
The day when we love as one.
J'aimai le désert, les vergers brûlés, les boutiques fanées, les boissons tiédies. Je me traînais dans les ruelles puantes et, les yeux fermés, je m'offrais au soleil, dieu de feu.
I loved the wilderness, burnt orchards; tired old shops, lukewarm drinks. I would drag myself through stinking alleys and, eyes closed, offer myself to the sun, god of fire.
"Général, s'il reste un vieux canon sur tes remparts en ruines, bombarde-nous avec des blocs de terre sèche. Aux glaces des magasins splendides! dans les salons! Fais manger sa poussière à la ville. Oxyde les gargouilles. Emplis les boudoirs de poudre de rubis brûlante..."
“General, if there’s an old cannon left on your ruined ramparts, bombard us with clods of dried-up earth. Fire on the windows of splendid shops! Into the salons! Make the city swallow its own dust. Turn the gargoyles to rust. Fill the boudoirs with powder of burning rubies...”
Oh! le moucheron enivré à la pissotière de l'auberge, amoureux de la bourrache, et que dissout un rayon!
Oh! the drunken gnat in the pub urinal, in love with rotting weeds, and obliterated by a beam!
Enfin, ô bonheur, ô raison, j'écartai du ciel l'azur, qui est du noir, et je vécus, étincelle d'or de la lumière nature. De joie, je prenais une expression bouffonne et égarée au possible:
At last, O happiness, O reason, I cleared from the sky its blue, which is darkness, and I lived as a golden spark of natural light. From joy, I made my face as comic and wild as possible:
Elle est retrouvée!
Quoi? l'éternité.
C'est la mer mêlée
Au soleil.
Mon âme éternelle,
Observe ton vœu
Malgré la nuit seule
Et le jour en feu.
Donc tu te dégages
Des humains suffrages,
Des communs élans!
Tu voles selon...
— Jamais l'espérance.
Pas d'orietur.
Science et patience,
Le supplice est sûr.
Plus de lendemain,
Braises de satin,
Votre ardeur
Est le devoir.
Elle est retrouvée!
— Quoi? — l'Éternité.
C'est la mer mêlée
Au soleil.
It has been found!
What? Eternity.
It is the sun, mingled
With the sea.
My immortal soul,
Keep your vow
Despite lonely night
And the day on fire.
Set yourself free
From human striving,
From common urges!
To fly as you feel…
– No hope.
No orietur.
Science and patience,
Torment is sure.
No more tomorrow,
Embers of satin,
Your own ardor
The only duty.
It has been found!
What? Eternity.
It is the sun, mingled
With the sea.
Je devins un opéra fabuleux: je vis que tous les êtres ont une fatalité de bonheur: l'action n'est pas la vie, mais une façon de gâcher quelque force, un énervement. La morale est la faiblesse de la cervelle.
I guessed a fabulous story: I saw that all are doomed to happiness: action is not life, but a way of wasting strength, an enervation. Morality is a weakness of the brain.
À chaque être, plusieurs autres vies mes semblaient dues. Ce monsieur ne sait ce qu'il fait: il est un ange. Cette famille est une nichée de chiens. Devant plusieurs hommes, je causai tout haut avec un moment d'une de leurs autres vies. — Ainsi, j'ai aimé un porc.
Each person seemed to have an alter ego. This gentleman doesn't know what he does: he’s an angel. That family is a pack of dogs. With many men, I have chatted with a piece of their other lives. – Thus, I have loved a pig.
Aucun des sophismes de la folie, — la folie qu'on enferme, — n'a été oublié par moi: je pourrais les redire tous, je tiens le système.
Not one of the arguments of madness – the madness that gets you locked up – did I forget: I could recite them all, I know the system.
Ma santé fut menacée. La terreur venait. Je tombais dans des sommeils de plusieurs jours, et, levé, je continuais les rêves les plus tristes. J'étais mûr pour le trépas, et par une route de dangers ma faiblesse me menait aux confins du monde et de la Cimmérie, patrie de l'ombre et des tourbillons.
It affected my health. The terror came on. I fell asleep for days at a time, and, waking, continued with the most sorrowful dreams. I was ripe for the fatal harvest, and by a dangerous road my weakness led me to the edge of the world and to the Cimmerian shore, land of shadows and whirlwinds.
Je dus voyager, distraire les enchantements assemblés sur mon cerveau. Sur la mer, que j'aimais comme si elle eût dû me laver d'une souillure, je voyais se lever la croix consolatrice. J'avais été damné par l'arc-en-ciel. Le Bonheur était ma fatalité, mon remords, mon ver: ma vie serait toujours trop immense pour être dévouée à la force et à la beauté.
I had to travel, to distract myself from the enchantments crowding my brain. On the sea, which I loved as if it would wash away my impurity, I saw the consoling cross arise. I had been damned by the rainbow. Happiness was my doom, my gnawing remorse: my life would always be too immense to be devoted to strength and beauty.
Le Bonheur! Sa dent, douce à la mort, m'avertissait au chant du coq, — ad matutinum, au Christus venit, — dans les plus sombres villes:
Happiness! Its tooth, deadly sweet, warned me at cockcrow – ad matutinam, at the Christus venit, – in the darkest cities:
Ô saisons, ô châteaux!
Quelle âme est sans défauts?
J'ai fait la magique étude
Du bonheur, qu'aucun n'élude.
Salut à lui, chaque fois
Que chante le coq gaulois.
Ah ! je n'aurai plus d'envie:
Il s'est chargé de ma vie.
Ce charme a pris âme et corps
Et dispersé les efforts.
Ô saisons, ô châteaux!
L'heure de sa fuite, hélas!
Sera l'heure du trépas.
Ô saisons, ô châteaux!
O seasons, O chateaux!
Where is the flawless soul?
I made a magical study
Of happiness, which none can escape.
A toast to it, each time
The Gallic cock crows.
Ah! I have no more desire,
It has taken charge of my life.
That charm has taken heart and soul
And scattered all efforts.
O seasons, O chateaux!
The hour of its flight, alas!
Will be the hour of death.
O seasons, O chateaux!
Cela s'est passé. Je sais aujourd'hui saluer la beauté.
That’s all past. Today I know how to greet beauty.
U, cycles, vibrements divins
Bettina Sheppard
U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides,
Paix des pâtis semés d'animaux, paix des rides
Que l'alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux
U, waves, divine vibrations of viridian seas,
Peace of pastures dotted with animals, peace of the furrows
Which alchemy traces on broad studious foreheads
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
He lost his appetite
A dogged insomnia gripped him
He weakened and lost weight
He desperately wanted to be able to sleep
He drank poppy tea and lived for several days in a very strange waking dream
The opiate effects continued in the waking state
Providing him with attenuated, almost pleasant sensations, illuminating his memory
And provoking in him an irresistible desire to confide
One night, imagining himself on his feet and trying to grasp some imaginary vision
He tried to get out of bed unaided
We heard the sound of his tall body crashing down
He was stretched out on the carpet completely naked
He becomes a seer: he prophesies
He relives all his painful past
Then he has marvelous visions
He sees columns of amethyst, marble and wooden angels
Vegetation and landscapes of unknown beauty
Expressions of a penetrating and bizarre charm
Dear Sir, I have come to inquire if I have anything left on account with you. I wish to change my booking today on this ship whose name I don’t even know. I am completely paralyzed, so I wish to embark in good time. Please let me know when I should be carried aboard.
U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides,
Paix des pâtis semés d'animaux, paix des rides
Que l'alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux
U, waves, divine vibrations of viridian seas,
Peace of pastures dotted with animals, peace of the furrows
Which alchemy traces on broad studious foreheads
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
He lost his appetite
A dogged insomnia gripped him
He weakened and lost weight
He desperately wanted to be able to sleep
He drank poppy tea and lived for several days in a very strange waking dream
The opiate effects continued in the waking state
Providing him with attenuated, almost pleasant sensations, illuminating his memory
And provoking in him an irresistible desire to confide
One night, imagining himself on his feet and trying to grasp some imaginary vision
He tried to get out of bed unaided
We heard the sound of his tall body crashing down
He was stretched out on the carpet completely naked
He becomes a seer: he prophesies
He relives all his painful past
Then he has marvelous visions
He sees columns of amethyst, marble and wooden angels
Vegetation and landscapes of unknown beauty
Expressions of a penetrating and bizarre charm
Dear Sir, I have come to inquire if I have anything left on account with you. I wish to change my booking today on this ship whose name I don’t even know. I am completely paralyzed, so I wish to embark in good time. Please let me know when I should be carried aboard.
O, suprême Clairon
Mario Gullo
O, suprême Clairon plein des strideurs étranges,
Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges
O, sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,
Silences crossed by Worlds and by Angels
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
He is better known in France as a decadent poet than as a traveler
But under the latter title he also deserves to be remembered
If these lines chance to meet his eyes
He should know that we do not judge men’s motives
I imagine myself meeting him one day, somewhere in the middle of the Sahara, after several years of separation. We are alone, and going in opposite directions. He pauses for a moment.
‘Hello, how are you?’
‘Fine. Goodbye.’
And he continues on his way: not the slightest emotion, not a word more.
O l'Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
O the Omega! violet ray of His Eyes!
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
The decadents express nothing
Neither life nor death
For them the words have a color, a taste, a perfume
As to the meaning, it is useless and good only for philistines
With syllables they make music and paint.
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes
I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
O, suprême Clairon plein des strideurs étranges,
Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges
O, sublime Trumpet full of strange piercing sounds,
Silences crossed by Worlds and by Angels
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
He is better known in France as a decadent poet than as a traveler
But under the latter title he also deserves to be remembered
If these lines chance to meet his eyes
He should know that we do not judge men’s motives
I imagine myself meeting him one day, somewhere in the middle of the Sahara, after several years of separation. We are alone, and going in opposite directions. He pauses for a moment.
‘Hello, how are you?’
‘Fine. Goodbye.’
And he continues on his way: not the slightest emotion, not a word more.
O l'Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
O the Omega! violet ray of His Eyes!
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
The decadents express nothing
Neither life nor death
For them the words have a color, a taste, a perfume
As to the meaning, it is useless and good only for philistines
With syllables they make music and paint.
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes
I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins
(Rimbaud, Voyelles)
|
|
|
C4 is funded in part by:
C4 is a proud member of:
New York Choral Consortium
|
Receive our newsletter:
Support C4's Mission!
|
