Le Cygne

So we have a new president now. I am very happy...excited is not the word. I have been powering along, mostly ennui-free which is great. With M. and B. gone I have no reason to go to those places and do those awkward, damaging things. Life is quieter now, but better. New year, new life, right?

This is one of Baudelaire's more famous poems. I wish it were pertinent to the situation at hand, but I guess I should be glad that it isn't. It's about old Paris and the mess that everyone has made of it. Perhaps this could be a reflection on our own country? Eh, we shall see.

The Swan
To Victor Hugo

I.
Andromache, I think of you! This little river,
Sad and scanty mirror where once shone
The immense majesty of your widow’s grief,
This lying Simoeis that grew by your tears,

Has suddenly impregnated my fertile memory,
As I crossed the new Carousel.
The old Paris is no longer (the form of a city
Changes more quickly, alas! Than the heart of a mortal);

I see only in spirit this entire camp of huts,
This pile of rough tents and boles,
The grasses, the large blocks turned green by the water of puddles,
And, shining in the windows, the muddled bric-a-brac.

There once was a menagerie here;
I saw here, one morning, at the hour where under the clouds
Cold and clear Work awakens, where the road
Pushes a somber hurricane into the silent air,

A swan that has escaped from his cage,
And, with his webbed feet chafing the dry pavement,
Drags his white plumage over the rough ground.
Close to a waterless stream the beast opened his beak

Nervously bathed his wings in the powder,
And said, heart full of his beautiful native lake”
“Water, when then will you rain? When will you thunder, lightning?”
I see that poor wretch, strange and fatal myth,

Toward the sky sometimes, like Ovid’s man,
Toward the sky ironic and cruelly blue,
Stretching his hungry head on his convulsive neck
As if he addressed reproaches to God!

II.
Paris changes! But nothing in my melancholy
Has moved! New palaces, scaffolding, blocks,
Old suburbs, all become allegory to me
And my dear memories are heavier than the rocks.

So in front of this Louvre an image oppresses me:
I think of my great swan, with his crazed movements,
Like exiles, ridiculous and sublime
And gnawed by a relentless desire! And then of you,

Andromache, fallen from the arms of a great husband,
Vile livestock, under the hand of superb Pyrrhus,
Bent in ecstasy behind an empty tomb
Widow of Hector, wife of Helenus!

I think of the negress, thinner and consumptive
Trudging through the mud, and searching, with haggard eye,
For the absent coconuts of magnificent Africa
Behind the immense wall of fog;

To whoever has lost what he has never found
Never! To the one who drinks of tears
And suckles Grief like a kind she-wolf!
To the scrawny orphans drying out like flowers!

Thus in the forest where my spirit is exiled
An old Memory rings at full horn blast!
I think of sailors forgotten on an island,
Of captives, of the vanquished! …of many others more!

Le Cygne
À Victor Hugo

I.
Andromaque, je pense à vous! Ce petit fleuve,
Pauvre et triste miroir où jadis resplendit
L'immense majesté de vos douleurs de veuve,
Ce Simoïs menteur qui par vos pleurs grandit,

A fécondé soudain ma mémoire fertile,
Comme je traversais le nouveau Carrousel.
Le vieux Paris n'est plus (la forme d'une ville
Change plus vite, hélas! que le coeur d'un mortel);

Je ne vois qu'en esprit tout ce camp de baraques,
Ces tas de chapiteaux ébauchés et de fûts,
Les herbes, les gros blocs verdis par l'eau des flaques,
Et, brillant aux carreaux, le bric-à-brac confus.

Là s'étalait jadis une ménagerie;
Là je vis, un matin, à l'heure où sous les cieux
Froids et clairs le Travail s'éveille, où la voirie
Pousse un sombre ouragan dans l'air silencieux,

Un cygne qui s'était évadé de sa cage,
Et, de ses pieds palmés frottant le pavé sec,
Sur le sol raboteux traînait son blanc plumage.
Près d'un ruisseau sans eau la bête ouvrant le bec

Baignait nerveusement ses ailes dans la poudre,
Et disait, le coeur plein de son beau lac natal:
«Eau, quand donc pleuvras-tu? quand tonneras-tu, foudre?»
Je vois ce malheureux, mythe étrange et fatal,

Vers le ciel quelquefois, comme l'homme d'Ovide,
Vers le ciel ironique et cruellement bleu,
Sur son cou convulsif tendant sa tête avide
Comme s'il adressait des reproches à Dieu!

II.
Paris change! mais rien dans ma mélancolie
N'a bougé! palais neufs, échafaudages, blocs,
Vieux faubourgs, tout pour moi devient allégorie
Et mes chers souvenirs sont plus lourds que des rocs.

Aussi devant ce Louvre une image m'opprime:
Je pense à mon grand cygne, avec ses gestes fous,
Comme les exilés, ridicule et sublime
Et rongé d'un désir sans trêve! et puis à vous,

Andromaque, des bras d'un grand époux tombée,
Vil bétail, sous la main du superbe Pyrrhus,
Auprès d'un tombeau vide en extase courbée
Veuve d'Hector, hélas! et femme d'Hélénus!

Je pense à la négresse, amaigrie et phtisique
Piétinant dans la boue, et cherchant, l'oeil hagard,
Les cocotiers absents de la superbe Afrique
Derrière la muraille immense du brouillard;

À quiconque a perdu ce qui ne se retrouve
Jamais, jamais! à ceux qui s'abreuvent de pleurs
Et tètent la Douleur comme une bonne louve!
Aux maigres orphelins séchant comme des fleurs!

Ainsi dans la forêt où mon esprit s'exile
Un vieux Souvenir sonne à plein souffle du cor!
Je pense aux matelots oubliés dans une île,
Aux captifs, aux vaincus!... à bien d'autres encor!
---

Victor Hugo, one of my most favorite authors. Summertime I would slink into beerhouses in the middle of the night looking for supplies and catch myself playing a modern-day Esmeralda. Who would have thought me so vain?

À une Mendiante rousse

So I did the math and I realized that I only have about 40 poems left until this whole thing is through. I guess this means I will accomplish my goal, unless of course some kind of tragic situation befalls me. I am a little sad; I have grown used to these poems and this blog. I will also have to find another project to keep me from having to realize that I have to do something with my life. So it goes.

This poem is horribly translated. Uh oh.

To a Red-haired Beggar
White girl with red hair,
Whose dress by its holes
Lets show the poverty
And the beauty,

For me, sickly poet,
Your morbid young body,
Full of red patches
Has its softness.

You bear more gallantly
Than a romance queen
Her velvet boots
Your heavy clogs.

In the place of too-short tatters,
Let a magnificent court dress
Train in long and loud folds
Over your heels;

In the place of holey stockings
Let the eyes of the sly
Over your leg a dagger of gold
Still glisten;

Let poorly fastened knots
Unveil for our sins
Your two beautiful breasts, radiant
Like eyes;

In order to undress you let
Your arms require begging
And drive away with mischievous blows
The puckish fingers,

Pearls from the most beautiful waters,
Sonnets by master Belleau
Put into irons by your romantics
Offered ceaselessly,

Troop of rhymers
Dedicating their first fruits to you
And contemplating your shoes
Under the stairs,


Many a boy besotted by fate,
Many a lord and many a Ronsard
For amusement would spy on
Your chilly hole!

You would count in your bed
More kisses than lilies
And you would arrange under your laws
More than one Valois!

—However, you go begging
Some old scraps lying
In the threshold of some Vefour
Of the crossroads;

You go ogling at
The cheap jewels
Which I cannot, oh! Pardon!
Make a gift for you.

Go then, without any other ornament,
Perfume, pearls, diamonds,
Than your meager nudity,
Oh my beauty!

À une Mendiante rousse
Blanche fille aux cheveux roux,
Dont la robe par ses trous
Laisse voir la pauvreté
Et la beauté,

Pour moi, poète chétif,
Ton jeune corps maladif,
Plein de taches de rousseur,
À sa douceur.

Tu portes plus galamment
Qu'une reine de roman
Ses cothurnes de velours
Tes sabots lourds.

Au lieu d'un haillon trop court,
Qu'un superbe habit de cour
Traîne à plis bruyants et longs
Sur tes talons;

En place de bas troués
Que pour les yeux des roués
Sur ta jambe un poignard d'or
Reluise encor;

Que des noeuds mal attachés
Dévoilent pour nos péchés
Tes deux beaux seins, radieux
Comme des yeux;

Que pour te déshabiller
Tes bras se fassent prier
Et chassent à coups mutins
Les doigts lutins,

Perles de la plus belle eau,
Sonnets de maître Belleau
Par tes galants mis aux fers
Sans cesse offerts,

Valetaille de rimeurs
Te dédiant leurs primeurs
Et contemplant ton soulier
Sous l'escalier,

Maint page épris du hasard,
Maint seigneur et maint Ronsard
Epieraient pour le déduit
Ton frais réduit!

Tu compterais dans tes lits
Plus de baisers que de lis
Et rangerais sous tes lois
Plus d'un Valois!

— Cependant tu vas gueusant
Quelque vieux débris gisant
Au seuil de quelque Véfour
De carrefour;

Tu vas lorgnant en dessous
Des bijoux de vingt-neuf sous
Dont je ne puis, oh! Pardon!
Te faire don.

Va donc, sans autre ornement,
Parfum, perles, diamant,
Que ta maigre nudité,
Ô ma beauté!
---

And today was the day that I realized that I love absolutely no one. It's okay, I think.

Lola de Valence/La Lune offensée

For some odd reason I have never really realized the disparity between my work environment and what I do while I am in said environment. I spend the day with my thoughts and this beautiful poetry. But the world around me is mundane and trite to the point of desperation. This is no judgment on those around me: if it makes them happy then they should continue onward. But as for me, my arms are broken having embraced the clouds. Or something. Sometimes I wonder if I truly am the way I perceive myself and not just as trite as the rest of them. Eh.

Now that Spleen is done I am trying to retroactively analyze it and figure out if there is some common theme or story going on. I spent the whole time I was translating just sitting around, drinking and moping. Now I must get my ass in gear. Still dreaming of logic games and analytic reasoning puzzles. Fuck it.

Baudelaire wrote another poem on a painting. OMG for realz. It is a tribute to Édouard Manet's "Lola of Valencia"

Lola of Valencia
Among so many beauties that one can see everywhere,
I survey well, friends, that desire hesitates;
But one sees sparkling in Lola of Valencia
The unexpected charm of a black and rosy jewel.


Lola de Valence
Entre tant de beautés que partout on peut voir,
Je contemple bien, amis, que le désir balance;
Mais on voit scintiller en Lola de Valence
Le charme inattendu d'un bijou rose et noir.


The Offended Moon
Oh Moon that our fathers discreetly adored,
From the height of the blue countries where, radiant seraglio,
The stars follow you in smart attire,
My old Cynthia, lamp of our sanctums,

Do you see the lovers on their prosperous pallets,
Showing the cold enamel of their mouths while sleeping?
The poet bumping his head on his work?
Or the vipers coupling on the dry grass?

Under your yellow domino, and your hidden foot,
Do you go, as before, from evening to morning,
Kissing the quaint graces of Endymion?

—“I see your mother, child of this impoverished century,
Who tilts a heavy heap of years toward her mirror,
And artfully plasters the breast that nourished you!”

La Lune offensée
Ô Lune qu'adoraient discrétement nos pères,
Du haut des pays bleus où, radieux sérail,
Les astres vont te suivre en pimpant attirail,
Ma vieille Cynthia, lampe de nos repaires,

Vois-tu les amoureux sur leurs grabats prospères,
De leur bouche en dormant montrer le frais émail?
Le poète buter du front sur son travail?
Ou sous les gazons secs s'accoupler les vipères?

Sous ton domino jaune, et d'un pied clandestin,
Vas-tu, comme jadis, du soir jusqu'au matin,
Baiser d'Endymion les grâces surannées?

— «Je vois ta mère, enfant de ce siècle appauvri,
Qui vers son miroir penche un lourd amas d'années,
Et plâtre artistement le sein qui t'a nourri!»
---

So please, the mediocrity of your existence is not such that you must abandon all hope. Unfortunately, the climate tells us otherwise. I want out, out. Soon enough, I guess. No more rage, if nothing else. Just a healthy amount of concern.

Le Soleil

Any and all free time that I can possibly foresee for the next month will be eaten up by a dashing young gentleman and his dashing young pile of LSAT books. I see this as a blessing. The less time for idleness, the less time for melodrama. It is just a very strange schedule that I have not quite gotten used to yet. The masses return on Sunday and I hope they won't interfere with the zen I have somehow managed to feel for the last week or so. Last night I sat knitting and listening to audio versions of some of Baudelaire's poems. Oddly enough, it was more relaxing than listening to music. Go figure.

This next poem is one we spent a decent amount of time on in class. It was also one of the few for which we had to turn in a written translation. However, it never really struck me much. Ah well, here it is.

The Sun
Along the old suburb, where hang in the shacks
The shutters, shelter of the secret lusts,
When the cruel sun strikes with increasing strokes
Over the city and the fields, over the roofs and the crops,
I go alone to practice my fanciful fencing,
Sniffing in all the corners the chances of rhyme,
Stumbling over words as over cobblestones
Colliding sometimes with verses dreamed long ago.

This nutritive father, enemy of chlorosis,
Awakens in the fields the verses like roses;
He makes worries vanish toward the sky,
And fills the minds and the hives with honey.
It is he who rejuvenates the crutch-bearers
And makes them sweet and joyful like young girls,
And commands the harvest to grow and to ripen
In the immortal heart that always wants to blossom!

When, like a poet, he descends into the cities,
He ennobles the fate of the more loathsome things,
And introduces himself as a king, without noise and without servants,
Into all the hospitals and into all the palaces.

Le Soleil
Le long du vieux faubourg, où pendent aux masures
Les persiennes, abri des sécrètes luxures,
Quand le soleil cruel frappe à traits redoublés
Sur la ville et les champs, sur les toits et les blés,
Je vais m'exercer seul à ma fantasque escrime,
Flairant dans tous les coins les hasards de la rime,
Trébuchant sur les mots comme sur les pavés
Heurtant parfois des vers depuis longtemps rêvés.

Ce père nourricier, ennemi des chloroses,
Eveille dans les champs les vers comme les roses;
II fait s'évaporer les soucis vers le ciel,
Et remplit les cerveaux et les ruches le miel.
C'est lui qui rajeunit les porteurs de béquilles
Et les rend gais et doux comme des jeunes filles,
Et commande aux moissons de croître et de mûrir
Dans le coeur immortel qui toujours veut fleurir!

Quand, ainsi qu'un poète, il descend dans les villes,
II ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles,
Et s'introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets,
Dans tous les hôpitaux et dans tous les palais.

Paysage

I seem to be turning over a new leaf, since my soul no longer seems crushed by this permeating ennui. I don't think about it as much. It's been about a week since the new year began and things seems to be going well, although they are marching along quite unremarkably. I am trying to focus on the practical things instead of wasting my time with stupid boys. It seems to be okay so far. Who knows, really.

Now that Spleen is over, the imagery has shifted. Baudelaire spent the first hundred or so poems focusing on the melodrama that seems to have been eating away at his soul but now he seems to have decided to look outward into the world around him and contemplate himself as a poet with respect to the streets of Paris and even the countryside. I had a brief conversation with T. about this on New Year's Eve: he is writing his senior paper on the significance of the environment on the poet in Tableaux Parisiens (please correct me if I am wrong) and I must confess that that the idea had never really struck me before. I am a very internal person and I do not give the world around me enough credit. But it's something to think about it and for the time being. I guess we did not read enough from this section during class to understand the overall significance of whatever was going on. But here's to second chances!

Paysage is one that we actually did translate in class and it had the misfortune of being beaten and left for dead by the other members. When I had read it on my own the last six lines had almost made me cry. Then M. had to ruin it by making fun of the way I read it. My kingdom for a warm atmosphere: it's freezing here but I feel better, better.

Landscape
I wish, in order to chastely compose my bucolics,
To lie beside the sky, like the astrologers,
And, near the bell towers to listen while dreaming
To their solemn hymns, carried by the wind.
Chin in hands, high in my attic,
I will see the workshop that sings and that chatters;
The chimneys, the bell towers, these masts of the city,
And the great skies that make one dream of eternity.

It is sweet, through the haze, to see appear
The star in the blue, the lamp in the window
The rivers of coal climb up into the firmament
And the moon pours her pale enchantment.
I will see the springtimes, summers, autumns;
And when the winter will come with monotonous snow,
I will close all doors and shutters
To build my fairy palaces in the night.
Then I will dream of bluish horizons,
Of gardens, water fountains weeping into the alabasters,
Of kisses, of birds singing evening and morning,
And all that which is more childish in the Idyll.
The Riot, storming vainly at my windowpane,
Will not raise my forehead from my desk;
For I will be plunged into that pleasure
Of evoking the springtime with my willpower,
Of pulling a sun from my heart, and of making
From my burning thoughts a warm atmosphere.

Paysage
Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues,
Coucher auprès du ciel, comme les astrologues,
Et, voisin des clochers écouter en rêvant
Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.
Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,
Je verrai l'atelier qui chante et qui bavarde;
Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mâts de la cité,
Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d'éternité.

II est doux, à travers les brumes, de voir naître
L'étoile dans l'azur, la lampe à la fenêtre
Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament
Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.
Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes;
Et quand viendra l'hiver aux neiges monotones,
Je fermerai partout portières et volets
Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.
Alors je rêverai des horizons bleuâtres,
Des jardins, des jets d'eau pleurant dans les albâtres,
Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,
Et tout ce que l'Idylle a de plus enfantin.
L'Emeute, tempêtant vainement à ma vitre,
Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre;
Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté
D'évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,
De tirer un soleil de mon coeur, et de faire
De mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère.
---
This is the best I have felt in awhile. Nothing can hurt me anymore, I don't think.

L'Horloge

Oh, and what the fuck do I do now?

The Clock
Clock! Sinister, frightening, impassible god,
Whose finger threatens us and says to us: “Remember!
The vibrating sorrows in your terror-filled heart
Will plant themselves quickly as in a target;

The vaporous Pleasure will flee toward the horizon
As a sylph in the back of the wings;
Every instant devours a morsel of delight
That each man grants for his entire season.

Three thousand six hundred times per hour, the Second
Whispers: Remember! —Quick, with his voice
Of an insect, Now says: I am In the Past,
And I have pumped your life with my filthy trunk!

Remember! Souviens-toi! Prodigal! Esto memor!
(My metal throat speaks all languages.)
The minutes, playful mortal, are of gangue
That one must not let go without extracting the gold!

Remember that Time is a greedy gambler
Who wins without cheating, every time! It is the law.
The day fades; the night grows; Remember!
The abyss is always thirsty; the water-clock empties.

Sometimes it will strike the hour where divine Chance,
Where noble Virtue, your still-virgin wife,
Where even Repentance (oh! The final inn!),
Where all will tell you Die, old coward! It is too late!”

L'Horloge
Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doigt nous menace et nous dit: «Souviens-toi!
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur plein d'effroi
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible;

Le Plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon
Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse;
Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice
À chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.

Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la Seconde
Chuchote: Souviens-toi! — Rapide, avec sa voix
D'insecte, Maintenant dit: Je suis Autrefois,
Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde!

Remember! Souviens-toi! prodigue! Esto memor!
(Mon gosier de métal parle toutes les langues.)
Les minutes, mortel folâtre, sont des gangues
Qu'il ne faut pas lâcher sans en extraire l'or!

Souviens-toi que le Temps est un joueur avide
Qui gagne sans tricher, à tout coup! c'est la loi.
Le jour décroît; la nuit augmente; Souviens-toi!
Le gouffre a toujours soif; la clepsydre se vide.

Tantôt sonnera l'heure où le divin Hasard,
Où l'auguste Vertu, ton épouse encor vierge,
Où le Repentir même (oh! la dernière auberge!),
Où tout te dira Meurs, vieux lâche! il est trop tard!»
---
My famous last words, right?

L'Irrémédiable

I finished Spleen before the end of the year but a combination of laziness, sickness, and trips to the netherworld prevented me from posting. So here it is. The second-to-last.

I hear things and they are probably not true. Sometimes I feel like the Universe is caught up in an elaborate scheme so to make me pay dearly for my sins. It's still funny, I guess. I learn new things. I was in love. Now I just look stupid. Send your sympathy. Shit, I need it.

The Irremediable
I.
An Idea, a Form, a Being
Left the blue and fell
Into a leaded, muddy Styx
Where no eye of Heaven can penetrate;

An Angel, careless voyager
Who has been tempted by the love of the deformed,
In the depths of an enormous nightmare
Struggling like a swimmer,

And fighting, gloomy fear!
Against an enormous backwash
Which goes singing like the madmen
And pirouettes in the darkness;

An unfortunate enchanted one
In his futile trials
In order to flee from a place full of reptiles,
Looking for the light and the key;

A damned one descending without light
To the edge of an abyss where odor
Betrays the humid depth
Of eternal steps without rails,

Where the watch of the viscid monsters
Whose large eyes of phosphorous
Make a night still more black
And only render themselves visible;

A ship taken in the pole
Like in a pit of crystal,
Looking for by what fatal strait
It has come into that prison;

—Clean emblems, perfect picture
Of an irremediable fortune
Which makes one think that the Devil
Always does what he does well!

II.
Clear and somber head-to-head
A heart became its mirror!
Wells of Truth, clear and black
Where a pallid star trembles,

An ironic beacon, infernal
Torch of satanic graces,
Relief and glory only,
—Conscience in Evil!

L'Irrémédiable
I.
Une Idée, une Forme, un Etre
Parti de l'azur et tombé
Dans un Styx bourbeux et plombé
Où nul oeil du Ciel ne pénètre;

Un Ange, imprudent voyageur
Qu'a tenté l'amour du difforme,
Au fond d'un cauchemar énorme
Se débattant comme un nageur,

Et luttant, angoisses funèbres!
Contre un gigantesque remous
Qui va chantant comme les fous
Et pirouettant dans les ténèbres;

Un malheureux ensorcelé
Dans ses tâtonnements futiles
Pour fuir d'un lieu plein de reptiles,
Cherchant la lumière et la clé;

Un damné descendant sans lampe
Au bord d'un gouffre dont l'odeur
Trahit l'humide profondeur
D'éternels escaliers sans rampe,

Où veillent des monstres visqueux
Dont les larges yeux de phosphore
Font une nuit plus noire encore
Et ne rendent visibles qu'eux;

Un navire pris dans le pôle
Comme en un piège de cristal,
Cherchant par quel détroit fatal
Il est tombé dans cette geôle;

— Emblèmes nets, tableau parfait
D'une fortune irrémédiable
Qui donne à penser que le Diable
Fait toujours bien tout ce qu'il fait!

II.
Tête-à-tête sombre et limpide
Qu'un coeur devenu son miroir!
Puits de Vérité, clair et noir
Où tremble une étoile livide,

Un phare ironique, infernal
Flambeau des grâces sataniques,
Soulagement et gloire uniques,
— La conscience dans le Mal!
---

And the past year's mistakes: M, J, Mii, S, A, N, B, Aii
God help and protect me.