À une Madone

I have long been anticipating this poem for a number of reasons. In the first place, it has always been one of my favorite poems, in Les Fleur du Mal and in general, and it's one of the few which I can almost completely sight translate. This seems to be more a result of memorization and re-reading than of my prowess with the French language, but it is still something. Secondly, I am always interested in how my interpretations change over the course of time. I translated this in class about a year ago and even though this version differs slightly, the sentiment remains the same. This was also the poem I gave to M. to hurt his feelings. The poem that I chant when I am in need.

I went to the Adoration Chapel yesterday and sat in front of the Perpetual Eucharist and cried a little bit. Or a lot. The Catholic coldness is new to me and my jolly Protestant upbringing and the come-as-you-are Liberal/Agnosticism which I now claim to embrace. It felt smothering and terrible, but also right. M. and I had walked through the Church on Friday and he had told me about the Saints and the paintings and the organized downfall that came from committees and Mass in the English tongue. I had nothing to say. I need something to crush this serpent, the serpent of my own anger towards him for something done so long ago. He is not the same person and neither am I.

Even if no other poem moves you, I hope this one does.

To a Madonna
Ex-voto in the Spanish style

I wish to build for you, Madonna, my mistress,
An underground alter in the depths of my despair,
And hollow out in the blackest corner of my heart,
Far from mundane desire and mocking gazes,
A niche, all enameled with blue and with gold,
Where you will tower, amazed Statue.
With my shining verses, lattice of pure metal
Cleverly spangled with rimes of crystal
I will make an enormous Crown for your head;
And in my Jealousy, oh mortal Madonna,
I will know to cut you a Mantel, in Barbaric fashion,
Stiff and heavy, and lined with suspicion,
That, like a sentry box, will lock up your charms,
Not embroidered with Pearls, but with all of my Tears!
Your Gown, this will be my Desire, quivering,
Sinuous, my Desire that rises and that falls down,
On the peaks it sways, in the valleys it takes rest,
And it covers the white and rose-pink body with a kiss.
I will make you from my Respect beautiful Slippers
Of satin, humiliated by your heavenly feet,
That, imprison them in a soft embrace
Like a mold faithful in guarding the imprint.
If I am not able, despite all of my diligent art,
To cut a silver Moon for a Pedestal
I will put the serpent that bites my entrails
Under your heels, so that you may trample and mock
Queen victorious and fertile in redemptions
This monster all bloated with hatred and spit.
You will see my Thoughts, arranged like Candles
Before the flowery alter of the Queen of Virgins
Studding with reflections the ceiling painted blue,
Regarding you always with fiery eyes;
And as all in me cherishes and admires you,
All becomes Benjoin, Incense, Oliban, Myrrh,
And constantly toward you, white and snowy summit,
My stormy spirit will rise in Vapors.

Finally, in order to complete you role of Mary,
And in order to blend love with barbarity,
Black pleasure! From the seven deadly Sins,
Hangman fraught with remorse, I will make seven Knives
Well sharpened, and like an unfeeling juggler,
Taking the deepest of your love for target,
I will plant them all into your panting Heart,
Into your sobbing Heart, into your streaming Heart!


À une Madone
Ex-voto dans le goût espagnol

Je veux bâtir pour toi, Madone, ma maîtresse,
Un autel souterrain au fond de ma détresse,
Et creuser dans le coin le plus noir de mon coeur,
Loin du désir mondain et du regard moqueur,
Une niche, d'azur et d'or tout émaillée,
Où tu te dresseras, Statue émerveillée.
Avec mes Vers polis, treillis d'un pur métal
Savamment constellé de rimes de cristal
Je ferai pour ta tête une énorme Couronne;
Et dans ma Jalousie, ô mortelle Madone
Je saurai te tailler un Manteau, de façon
Barbare, roide et lourd, et doublé de soupçon,
Qui, comme une guérite, enfermera tes charmes,
Non de Perles brodé, mais de toutes mes Larmes!
Ta Robe, ce sera mon Désir, frémissant,
Onduleux, mon Désir qui monte et qui descend,
Aux pointes se balance, aux vallons se repose,
Et revêt d'un baiser tout ton corps blanc et rose.
Je te ferai de mon Respect de beaux Souliers
De satin, par tes pieds divins humiliés,
Qui, les emprisonnant dans une molle étreinte
Comme un moule fidèle en garderont l'empreinte.
Si je ne puis, malgré tout mon art diligent
Pour Marchepied tailler une Lune d'argent
Je mettrai le Serpent qui me mord les entrailles
Sous tes talons, afin que tu foules et railles
Reine victorieuse et féconde en rachats
Ce monstre tout gonflé de haine et de crachats.
Tu verras mes Pensers, rangés comme les Cierges
Devant l'autel fleuri de la Reine des Vierges
Etoilant de reflets le plafond peint en bleu,
Te regarder toujours avec des yeux de feu;
Et comme tout en moi te chérit et t'admire,
Tout se fera Benjoin, Encens, Oliban, Myrrhe,
Et sans cesse vers toi, sommet blanc et neigeux,
En Vapeurs montera mon Esprit orageux.

Enfin, pour compléter ton rôle de Marie,
Et pour mêler l'amour avec la barbarie,
Volupté noire! des sept Péchés capitaux,
Bourreau plein de remords, je ferai sept Couteaux
Bien affilés, et comme un jongleur insensible,
Prenant le plus profond de ton amour pour cible,
Je les planterai tous dans ton Coeur pantelant,
Dans ton Coeur sanglotant, dans ton Coeur ruisselant!
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I told him that I could stand. Now I don't think that I will be able to.