La Fontaine de Sang

I took my virgin voyage these week with two sailors and an open heart. We sat on the water in the sun and I managed to clear my mind completely for the first time in months and months. R. says the sensory overload converges into a beautiful, perfect oblivion. This is what I wanted. I love it, I love him and I will always love him. The past few days have been all pollen and sleep for him and in the meantime I make connections and bite my nails. I will be gone soon.

The Fountain of Blood
It sometimes seems to me that my blood pours in streams,
As a fountain in rhythmic sobs.
I hear it well which pours with a long murmur,
But I feel in vain to find the wound.

Through the city, like on a tournament field,
It goes, transforming the cobblestones into islets,
Quenching the thirst of every creature,
And everywhere coloring nature in red.

I have often asked specious wines
To allay for a day the terror that eats away at me;
Wine renders the eye clearer and the ear more perceptive!

I have searched for an oblivious sleep in love;
But love is for me only a mattress of needles
Made in order to give drink to these cruel girls!

La Fontaine de Sang
Il me semble parfois que mon sang coule à flots,
Ainsi qu'une fontaine aux rythmiques sanglots.
Je l'entends bien qui coule avec un long murmure,
Mais je me tâte en vain pour trouver la blessure.

À travers la cité, comme dans un champ clos,
Il s'en va, transformant les pavés en îlots,
Désaltérant la soif de chaque créature,
Et partout colorant en rouge la nature.

J'ai demandé souvent à des vins captieux
D'endormir pour un jour la terreur qui me mine;
Le vin rend l'oeil plus clair et l'oreille plus fine!

J'ai cherché dans l'amour un sommeil oublieux;
Mais l'amour n'est pour moi qu'un matelas d'aiguilles
Fait pour donner à boire à ces cruelles filles!
---
The world is caving in and I don't care.

Les Deux Bonnes Soeurs

Ninety degrees in the shade, this April morning. The heat makes me remember everything I wanted to forget, but it still fills me with hope. The hormones make me tired and poisonous. I just want to get away and stay away and forget everything that ever happened here. But I cannot. Not while his things remind me that sometimes he is here. My skin is turning brown and the sun is getting higher and higher. This is exactly what I wanted.

The Two Good Sisters
Debauchery and Death are two lovable girls,
Lavish with kisses and riches of health,
Whose thighs, ever virgin and draped with rags
Under eternal labor have never given birth.

To the sinister poet, enemy of families,
Favorite of hell, poorly paid courtier,
Tombs and brothels manifest beneath their arbor
A bed which remorse has never frequented.

And the coffin and the alcove fertile in blasphemies
Offer us in their turn, like two good sisters,
Terrible pleasures and horrible sweets.

When do you wish to bury me, Debauchery with the filthy arms?
Oh Death, when will you come, her rival in attraction,
To graft your black cypress on her foul myrtle?

Les Deux Bonnes Soeurs
La Débauche et la Mort sont deux aimables filles,
Prodigues de baisers et riches de santé,
Dont le flanc toujours vierge et drapé de guenilles
Sous l'éternel labeur n'a jamais enfanté.

Au poète sinistre, ennemi des familles,
Favori de l'enfer, courtisan mal renté,
Tombeaux et lupanars montrent sous leurs charmilles
Un lit que le remords n'a jamais fréquenté.

Et la bière et l'alcôve en blasphèmes fécondes
Nous offrent tour à tour, comme deux bonnes soeurs,
De terribles plaisirs et d'affreuses douceurs.

Quand veux-tu m'enterrer, Débauche aux bras immondes?
Ô Mort, quand viendras-tu, sa rivale en attraits,
Sur ses myrtes infects enter tes noirs cyprès?
---
After you get what you want you don't want it anymore. Fuck.

Femmes damnées

Feelings come and go and while I find myself still completely in love with him I still get these odd moments of sadness when I think to the future. The months have whipped by since we first touched and those remaining will be gone just as quickly. We will both be in the heat, but we will be apart and I don't know how I will handle this. I try to convince myself that it won't matter but at the same time I know that I am no good at fooling myself.

Damned Women
Like pensive cattle lying on the sand,
They turn their eyes toward the horizon of the seas,
And their feet seeking each other and their clasped hands
Feel sweet languor and bitter shudders.

Some, hearts besotted with long confidences,
In the depths of the groves where streams gossip,
Go spelling out the love of timid childhood
And carving the green wood of the young trees;

Others, like sisters, walk slow and solemnly
Through rocks full of apparitions,
Where saint Anthony has seen springing like lava
The naked, crimson breasts of his temptations;

There are those, in the lights of the crumbling resin,
Who in the silent hollow of the old pagan dens
Call you to the relief of their howling fevers,
Oh Bacchus, allay the ancient remorse!

And others, whose throat loves the scapular,
Who, concealing a whip under their long robes,
Mix, in the somber wood and the solitary nights,
The froth of pleasure with the tears of torment.

Oh virgins, demons, monsters, martyrs,
Great spirits, contemptuous of reality,
Seekers of infinity, devotees and satyrs,
Sometimes full of cries, sometimes full of tears,

You who my soul has chased into your hell,
Poor sisters, I love you as much as I pity you,
For your gloomy sorrows, your insatiable thirsts,
And the urns of love of which your great hearts are full.

Femmes damnées
Comme un bétail pensif sur le sable couchées,
Elles tournent leurs yeux vers l'horizon des mers,
Et leurs pieds se cherchent et leurs mains rapprochées
Ont de douces langueurs et des frissons amers.

Les unes, coeurs épris des longues confidences,
Dans le fond des bosquets où jasent les ruisseaux,
Vont épelant l'amour des craintives enfances
Et creusent le bois vert des jeunes arbrisseaux;

D'autres, comme des soeurs, marchent lentes et graves
À travers les rochers pleins d'apparitions,
Où saint Antoine a vu surgir comme des laves
Les seins nus et pourprés de ses tentations;

II en est, aux lueurs des résines croulantes,
Qui dans le creux muet des vieux antres païens
T'appellent au secours de leurs fièvres hurlantes,
Ô Bacchus, endormeur des remords anciens!

Et d'autres, dont la gorge aime les scapulaires,
Qui, recélant un fouet sous leurs longs vêtements,
Mêlent, dans le bois sombre et les nuits solitaires,
L'écume du plaisir aux larmes des tourments.

Ô vierges, ô démons, ô monstres, ô martyres,
De la réalité grands esprits contempteurs,
Chercheuses d'infini dévotes et satyres,
Tantôt pleines de cris, tantôt pleines de pleurs,

Vous que dans votre enfer mon âme a poursuivies,
Pauvres soeurs, je vous aime autant que je vous plains,
Pour vos mornes douleurs, vos soifs inassouvies,
Et les urnes d'amour dont vos grands coeurs sont pleins.
---
And I will forever love him, and the south, and my own life plein de possibilité. In our day it was not so, no. We have everything we ever wanted and more. Why these feelings?

Une Martyre

The past few days we have been too busy and too tired to play nice. The rain falls and I find myself completely devoid of things to say. After a drink or five he gets playful and affectionate and tells me that he will be mine forever. I believe him, despite all of the evidence to the contrary. This project is almost completed: it has been nearly a year since I took my first uncertain step. Things are much better, for now anyway.

A Martyr
Drawing by an unknown Master

In the midst of the bottles, the metallic fabrics
And the voluptuous furnishings,
The marbles, the pictures, the perfumed gowns
That trail in sumptuous folds,

In a warm chamber where, as in a greenhouse,
The air is dangerous and deadly,
Where the dying bouquets in their glass coffins
Exhale their final sighs,

A headless cadaver pours, like a river,
Onto the sated pillow,
A red and living blood, which the cloth drinks
With the eagerness of a field.

Similar to the pale visions that are birthed by shadow
And that enchain the eyes,
The head, with the heap of its dark mane
And with its precious jewels,

On the night table, like a buttercup,
Reposes; and, empty of thoughts,
A vague look white like twilight
Escapes from disgusted eyes.

On the bed, the naked torso unscrupulously spreads
In the most complete abandon
The secret splendor and fatal beauty
Which nature made a gift for it;

A pinkish stocking, trimmed with gold, on the leg,
Remains like a memory;
The garter, like a secret eye that burns,
Hurls a glittering look.

The unusual aspect of this solitude
And of a great languorous portrait,
With eyes provocative as its posture,
Reveals a dark love,

A guilty joy and strange celebrations
Full of infernal kisses,
Which delight the multitude of evil angels
Swimming in the folds of the curtains;

And yet to see the elegant gauntness
Of the shoulder with the stricken curve,
The hip a little pointed and the waist snappy
As an angry reptile,

She is still very young! —Had her exasperated soul
And her senses bitten by ennui
Opened themselves to the spoiled pack
Of lost and wandering desires?

The vindictive man who you could not, living,
Despite so much love, satisfy,
Did he fulfill on your inert and obliging flesh
The immensity of his desire?

Respond, impure cadaver! And by your stiff tresses
Lifting you with a feverish arm,
Tell me, dreadful head, have you on your cold teeth
Glued the supreme farewell?

—Far from a taunting world, far from the dirty mob,
Far from curious magistrates,
Sleep in peace, sleep in peace, strange creature,
In your mysterious tomb;

Your husband roams the world, and your immortal form
Watches over him when he sleeps;
As much as you, he will doubtless be faithful,
And constant until death.

Une Martyre
Dessin d'un Maître inconnu

Au milieu des flacons, des étoffes lamées
Et des meubles voluptueux,
Des marbres, des tableaux, des robes parfumées
Qui traînent à plis somptueux,

Dans une chambre tiède où, comme en une serre,
L'air est dangereux et fatal,
Où des bouquets mourants dans leurs cercueils de verre
Exhalent leur soupir final,

Un cadavre sans tête épanche, comme un fleuve,
Sur l'oreiller désaltéré
Un sang rouge et vivant, dont la toile s'abreuve
Avec l'avidité d'un pré.

Semblable aux visions pâles qu'enfante l'ombre
Et qui nous enchaînent les yeux,
La tête, avec l'amas de sa crinière sombre
Et de ses bijoux précieux,

Sur la table de nuit, comme une renoncule,
Repose; et, vide de pensers,
Un regard vague et blanc comme le crépuscule
S'échappe des yeux révulsés.

Sur le lit, le tronc nu sans scrupules étale
Dans le plus complet abandon
La secrète splendeur et la beauté fatale
Dont la nature lui fit don;

Un bas rosâtre, orné de coins d'or, à la jambe,
Comme un souvenir est resté;
La jarretière, ainsi qu'un oeil secret qui flambe,
Darde un regard diamanté.

Le singulier aspect de cette solitude
Et d'un grand portrait langoureux,
Aux yeux provocateurs comme son attitude,
Révèle un amour ténébreux,

Une coupable joie et des fêtes étranges
Pleines de baisers infernaux,
Dont se réjouissait l'essaim des mauvais anges
Nageant dans les plis des rideaux;

Et cependant, à voir la maigreur élégante
De l'épaule au contour heurté,
La hanche un peu pointue et la taille fringante
Ainsi qu'un reptile irrité,

Elle est bien jeune encor! — Son âme exaspérée
Et ses sens par l'ennui mordus
S'étaient-ils entr'ouverts à la meute altérée
Des désirs errants et perdus?

L'homme vindicatif que tu n'as pu, vivante,
Malgré tant d'amour, assouvir,
Combla-t-il sur ta chair inerte et complaisante
L'immensité de son désir?

Réponds, cadavre impur! et par tes tresses roides
Te soulevant d'un bras fiévreux,
Dis-moi, tête effrayante, a-t-il sur tes dents froides
Collé les suprêmes adieux?

— Loin du monde railleur, loin de la foule impure,
Loin des magistrats curieux,
Dors en paix, dors en paix, étrange créature,
Dans ton tombeau mystérieux;

Ton époux court le monde, et ta forme immortelle
Veille près de lui quand il dort;
Autant que toi sans doute il te sera fidèle,
Et constant jusques à la mort.
---
I miss all of the things that I never had.

La Destruction

It is at times like these when I hope and pray that there is something, anything wrong with me and my body so that the anger and hatred I feel sometimes is not a result of my own weakening resolve. The two month mark has come and gone and as I think about the south I get a little nervous and impatient with him. Boys will be boys even when they are technically men. Too much beer and estrogen, not enough calories in my blood. Warm weather will meet us on Saturday and we will take to the sea. Please, Apollo, let the anger fade. I miss my family, miss my sister, I will miss my love and my home. But for the love of all that is good and fucking holy please let this building implode during the night. Sycophancy and inanity bore into my skull like the sounds of hell, and the indicative noises make me shrivel inside. Fuck fuck fuck.

Destruction
The Demon shakes ceaselessly at my side;
He swims around me like an intangible air;
I swallow him and feel he who burns my lungs
And fills them with an eternal and shameful desire.

Sometimes he takes, knowing my great love of Art,
The form of the most seductive women,
And, under specious pretexts of a hypocrite,
Accustoms my lips to the despicable potions.

Thus he takes me, far from the gaze of God,
Panting and broken with fatigue,
Onto the plains of Ennui, deep and deserted,

And throws into my confusion-filled eyes
Soiled clothing, open wounds,
And the bloody devices of Destruction!

La Destruction
Sans cesse à mes côtés s'agite le Démon;
II nage autour de moi comme un air impalpable;
Je l'avale et le sens qui brûle mon poumon
Et l'emplit d'un désir éternel et coupable.

Parfois il prend, sachant mon grand amour de l'Art,
La forme de la plus séduisante des femmes,
Et, sous de spécieux prétextes de cafard,
Accoutume ma lèvre à des philtres infâmes.

II me conduit ainsi, loin du regard de Dieu,
Haletant et brisé de fatigue, au milieu
Des plaines de l'Ennui, profondes et désertes,

Et jette dans mes yeux pleins de confusion
Des vêtements souillés, des blessures ouvertes,
Et l'appareil sanglant de la Destruction!
---
Enfer is a symphony of creaking stairs, mumbles, and odd whispery little gasps. No! Wait. That's this god-forsaken place.

Épigraphe pour un livre condamné

Residual respect for the risen Savior, Sunday morning. I was not impressed. All these months spent with the chilling imagery of the unfeeling Catholic church had left me with expectations, expectations that the local WASP-y Mass did not meet. But I bear them no ill will. Easter was cold and bright and sad. But seasons change and so do we. Late night visits and grocery store I-love-yous keep me alive and optimistic. Leaving him will be hard but doable. I prepare myself for it every day and then I forget. Moving on and on and on.

Baudelaire opens Fleurs du Mal with a lost poem about a condemned book. I cannot yet gauge the tone of this section, but it seems to be more in the spirit of Spleen than anything else I have seen thus far.

Epigraph for a Condemned Book
Peaceful and pastoral reader,
Sober and naïve good man,
Throw away this saturnine book,
Orgiastic and melancholy.

If you have not done your rhetoric
With Satan, the crafty dean,
Throw it away! You will understand nothing,
Or you will think me hysterical.

But if, without letting itself be charmed,
Your eye knows to plunge into the abyss,
Read me, learn to love me;

Curious soul who suffers
And looks for your paradise,
Pity me! …Or else I curse you!

Épigraphe pour un livre condamné
Lecteur paisible et bucolique,
Sobre et naïf homme de bien,
Jette ce livre saturnien,
Orgiaque et mélancolique.

Si tu n'as fait ta rhétorique
Chez Satan, le rusé doyen,
Jette! tu n'y comprendrais rien,
Ou tu me croirais hysthérique.

Mais si, sans se laisser charmer,
Ton oeil sait plonger dans les gouffres,
Lis-moi, pour apprendre à m'aimer;

Âme curieuse qui souffres
Et vas cherchant ton paradis,
Plains-moi!... Sinon, je te maudis!

---
Tuesday morning rains and grows cold like my body. Weird aversions and plastic buttons, I don't understand. I am the only one. I want to finish this project. But where is all my time?

Le Vin des amants

Tired. Pissy. Last night was love. Today makes me remember why I used to hate everything that moved. Ah so it goes.

The Lovers' Wine
Today space is splendid!
Without bit, without spurs, without bridle,
Let us go astride the wine
To a divine and enchanted sky!

Like two angels tortured
By an unrelenting fever
In the crystal blue of morning
Let us follow the distant mirage!

Idly balanced on the wing
Of the intelligent whirlwind,
In a parallel delirium,

My sister, swimming side by side,
We will flee without rest or respite
Towards the paradise of my dreams!

Le Vin des amants
Aujourd'hui l'espace est splendide!
Sans mors, sans éperons, sans bride,
Partons à cheval sur le vin
Pour un ciel féerique et divin!

Comme deux anges que torture
Une implacable calenture
Dans le bleu cristal du matin
Suivons le mirage lointain!

Mollement balancés sur l'aile
Du tourbillon intelligent,
Dans un délire parallèle,

Ma soeur, côte à côte nageant,
Nous fuirons sans repos ni trêves
Vers le paradis de mes rêves!
---
Things are changing.

Le Vin du solitaire

These things will never cease to surprise me and right now all I fear is his absence. My body is back to the way it was when I was loved and celebrated. We still wait for summer.

The Solitary's Wine
The peculiar look of a courtesan
Which slips towards us like a white ray
That the undulating moon throws on a trembling lake,
When she wants to bathe her nonchalant beauty;

The last bag of coins in the fingers of a gambler;
A libertine kiss from skinny Adeline;
The sounds of music irritating and affectionate,
Like to the distant cry of human sorrow,

All that is not worth, oh deep bottle,
The penetrating balms that your fertile belly
Guards for the faded heart of the pious poet;

You pour hope for him, youth and life,
—And pride, this treasure of all poverty,
Which renders us triumphant and like to Gods!

Le Vin du solitaire
Le regard singulier d'une femme galante
Qui se glisse vers nous comme le rayon blanc
Que la lune onduleuse envoie au lac tremblant,
Quand elle y veut baigner sa beauté nonchalante;

Le dernier sac d'écus dans les doigts d'un joueur;
Un baiser libertin de la maigre Adeline;
Les sons d'une musique énervante et câline,
Semblable au cri lointain de l'humaine douleur,

Tout cela ne vaut pas, ô bouteille profonde,
Les baumes pénétrants que ta panse féconde
Garde au coeur altéré du poète pieux;

Tu lui verses l'espoir, la jeunesse et la vie,
— Et l'orgueil, ce trésor de toute gueuserie,
Qui nous rend triomphants et semblables aux Dieux!
---
Preemptive sorrow. I feel it. Never mind.
Happy birthday, Mon. Baudelaire! Your poetry lives.

Le Vin de l'assassin

Last night I lost touch with my body, despite the hands that cradled me. The world has turned back to ice and we slummed along, wrapped up in too many things. We saw our future home and he spoke of the great adventures we will surely have while I lingered outside and discussed my imminent future with some faceless being. Skin touches skin and I love him more and more each day. Bedtime came and I was interrupted by my past and horrible thoughts of ever having to be without him. He held me close and said:

"Don't think about that. As far as I am concerned I will be here forever."

I cried and cried. Not because I am unhappy but because I have never felt stranger and funnier in my entire existence. Gods.

The Murderer's Wine
My wife is dead, I am free!
Therefore I can drink my fill.
When I returned without any money,
Her cries tore me to fibers.

I am as happy as a king;
The air is clear, the sky admirable…
We had a similar summer
When I fell in love!

The horrible thirst that tears me
I would have needed, in order to satisfy it
As much wine as could be held
In her tomb; —there is not much to say:

I have thrown her into the bottom of a well,
And I have even pushed over her
All the stones of the wall.
—I will forget her if I can!

In the name of the oaths of tenderness,
From which nothing can untie us,
And in order to reconcile us
As in the beautiful time of our intoxication,

I begged her for a rendezvous,
Evening, on an obscure road.
She came — foolish creature!
We are all more or less mad!

She was pretty again,
Though quite fatigued! And me,
I loved her too much! That is why
I said to her: Get out of this life!

No one can understand me. Does any
Among these stupid drunkards
Dream in their morbid nights
Of making a shroud from wine?

That crook unassailable
As the iron machines
Never, neither in summer nor winter,
Has known true love,


With his black enchantments,
His infernal procession of alarms,
His bottles of poison, his tears,
His noises of chain and bones!

—Here I am free and alone!
I will be dead drunk this evening;
Then, without fear and without remorse,
I will lie down on the earth,

And I will sleep like a dog!
Chariot with heavy wheels
Loaded with rocks and mud,
The rabid wagon may well

Crush my shameful head
Or cut me down the middle.
I mock it like I do God,
Or the devil or the Holy Table!

Le Vin de l'assassin
Ma femme est morte, je suis libre!
Je puis donc boire tout mon soûl.
Lorsque je rentrais sans un sou,
Ses cris me déchiraient la fibre.

Autant qu'un roi je suis heureux;
L'air est pur, le ciel admirable...
Nous avions un été semblable
Lorsque j'en devins amoureux!

L'horrible soif qui me déchire
Aurait besoin pour s'assouvir
D'autant de vin qu'en peut tenir
Son tombeau; — ce n'est pas peu dire:

Je l'ai jetée au fond d'un puits,
Et j'ai même poussé sur elle
Tous les pavés de la margelle.
— Je l'oublierai si je le puis!

Au nom des serments de tendresse,
Dont rien ne peut nous délier,
Et pour nous réconcilier
Comme au beau temps de notre ivresse,

J'implorai d'elle un rendez-vous,
Le soir, sur une route obscure.
Elle y vint — folle créature!
Nous sommes tous plus ou moins fous!

Elle était encore jolie,
Quoique bien fatiguée! et moi,
Je l'aimais trop! voilà pourquoi
Je lui dis: Sors de cette vie!

Nul ne peut me comprendre. Un seul
Parmi ces ivrognes stupides
Songea-t-il dans ses nuits morbides
À faire du vin un linceul?

Cette crapule invulnérable
Comme les machines de fer
Jamais, ni l'été ni l'hiver,
N'a connu l'amour véritable,

Avec ses noirs enchantements,
Son cortège infernal d'alarmes,
Ses fioles de poison, ses larmes,
Ses bruits de chaîne et d'ossements!

— Me voilà libre et solitaire!
Je serai ce soir ivre mort;
Alors, sans peur et sans remords,
Je me coucherai sur la terre,

Et je dormirai comme un chien!
Le chariot aux lourdes roues
Chargé de pierres et de boues,
Le wagon enragé peut bien

Ecraser ma tête coupable
Ou me couper par le milieu,
Je m'en moque comme de Dieu,
Du Diable ou de la Sainte Table!
---

For once, it may be high time for me to spend some time alone with myself and the mess I have made.

Le Vin de chiffonniers

This weekend, sick as dogs in a perpetually moving world. Nyquil cocktails and arrogance, we were and are so beautiful. The passion remains and we plan the months together. Soon the sun will shine and the wind will blow just enough to make us happy. But right now I feel dizzy and the congestion kills. God help and protect us. I can't see the world in front of me.

The Ragpicker's Wine
Often in the red light of a street lamp
Whose flame the wind beats and whose glass it torments,
In the heart of an old suburb, miry labyrinth
Where humanity swarms in stormy ferment,

One sees a ragpicker who comes, nodding his head,
Stumbling, knocking into walls like a poet,
And, without having concern for the stool-pigeons, his subjects,
Pours out all his heart in glorious plans.

He takes oaths, issues of sublime laws,
Strikes the malicious down, picks up the victims,
And under the firmament like a suspended canopy
He gets drunk from the splendor of his own virtue.

Yes, these people pestered by household heartbreak
Ground by work and tormented by age
Exhausted and bent under a pile of debris,
Sorry vomiting of enormous Paris,

Come back, perfumed with the odor of casks,
Followed by companions, whitened in battle,
Whose mustaches hang like old flags.
The banners, the flowers and the triumphant arches

Stand before them, solemn magic!
And in the dizzying and luminous debauchery
Of bugles, suns, shouts and drums,
They bring the glory to the people drunk with love!

It is thus that through frivolous Humanity
The wine rolls gold, dazzling Wealth;
By the throat of man he sings his exploits
And reigns by his gifts as the true king.

In order to drown the resentment and cradle the apathy
Of all these old damned who die in silence,
God, touched with remorse, had made sleep;
Man added Wine, sacred son of the Sun!

Le Vin de chiffonniers
Souvent à la clarté rouge d'un réverbère
Dont le vent bat la flamme et tourmente le verre,
Au coeur d'un vieux faubourg, labyrinthe fangeux
Où l'humanité grouille en ferments orageux,

On voit un chiffonnier qui vient, hochant la tête,
Butant, et se cognant aux murs comme un poète,
Et, sans prendre souci des mouchards, ses sujets,
Epanche tout son coeur en glorieux projets.

Il prête des serments, dicte des lois sublimes,
Terrasse les méchants, relève les victimes,
Et sous le firmament comme un dais suspendu
S'enivre des splendeurs de sa propre vertu.

Oui, ces gens harcelés de chagrins de ménage
Moulus par le travail et tourmentés par l'âge
Ereintés et pliant sous un tas de débris,
Vomissement confus de l'énorme Paris,

Reviennent, parfumés d'une odeur de futailles,
Suivis de compagnons, blanchis dans les batailles,
Dont la moustache pend comme les vieux drapeaux.
Les bannières, les fleurs et les arcs triomphaux

Se dressent devant eux, solennelle magie!
Et dans l'étourdissante et lumineuse orgie
Des clairons, du soleil, des cris et du tambour,
Ils apportent la gloire au peuple ivre d'amour!

C'est ainsi qu'à travers l'Humanité frivole
Le vin roule de l'or, éblouissant Pactole;
Par le gosier de l'homme il chante ses exploits
Et règne par ses dons ainsi que les vrais rois.

Pour noyer la rancoeur et bercer l'indolence
De tous ces vieux maudits qui meurent en silence,
Dieu, touché de remords, avait fait le sommeil;
L'Homme ajouta le Vin, fils sacré du Soleil!
---

Oddly enough, these unforseen events are not unwelcome.

L'Ame du Vin

Goodbye Paris, it's been nice to know you. It's hard to gauge Le Vin this early on but it's shaping up to be much less melodramatic than Spleen. I wonder if it is because I don't dwell like I used to. This section only has five poems, and then on to Fleurs du Mal, Révolte, and La Mort. I am starting to wonder if I will finish this project in time, since I have slightly less than two months to work my way through. But I don't grudge anyone this, my free time is spent happily. The wine to me is less about sadness and escape and more about joy and warm kisses on a rainy street. We are madly in love, he says. You are different, he says. I am happy but sometimes I wonder what it will be like to leave him. For once it is I who must go and not the other way around. I try to think about the immediate and I refuse to sully my happiness with thoughts of details. All the big things are okay. That's what matters.

The Wine is introduced as an entity in this poem, and we will soon see how this living thing treats those who choose to consume it. I know what it means to me, that is all.

The Soul of Wine
One evening, the soul of wine sang in the bottles:
“Man, I send to you, oh dear disadvantaged,
From under my prison of glass and my ruby wax,
A song full of light and brotherhood!

I know how much is necessary, on the flaming hill,
Of sorrow, sweat and burning sun
To engender my life and to give me soul;
But I will not be ungrateful or wicked,

Because I feel tremendous joy when I fall
Into the throat of a man worn down by his work,
And his chest is a sweet tomb
Where I please myself much more than in my cold vault.

Do you hear the refrains of Sundays ring out
And the hope that warbles in my palpitating breast?
Elbows on the table and rolling up your sleeves,
You will glorify me and you will be content;

I will light the eyes of your enraptured wife;
To your son I will return his strength and his color
And I will be for this frail athlete of life
The oil that tones the muscles of the wrestlers.

I will fall into you, vegetable ambrosia,
Precious grain thrown by the eternal sower,
So that poetry will be born from our love
That will shoot up towards God like a rare flower!”

L'Ame du Vin
Un soir, l'âme du vin chantait dans les bouteilles:
«Homme, vers toi je pousse, ô cher déshérité,
Sous ma prison de verre et mes cires vermeilles,
Un chant plein de lumière et de fraternité!

Je sais combien il faut, sur la colline en flamme,
De peine, de sueur et de soleil cuisant
Pour engendrer ma vie et pour me donner l'âme;
Mais je ne serai point ingrat ni malfaisant,

Car j'éprouve une joie immense quand je tombe
Dans le gosier d'un homme usé par ses travaux,
Et sa chaude poitrine est une douce tombe
Où je me plais bien mieux que dans mes froids caveaux.

Entends-tu retentir les refrains des dimanches
Et l'espoir qui gazouille en mon sein palpitant?
Les coudes sur la table et retroussant tes manches,
Tu me glorifieras et tu seras content;

J'allumerai les yeux de ta femme ravie;
À ton fils je rendrai sa force et ses couleurs
Et serai pour ce frêle athlète de la vie
L'huile qui raffermit les muscles des lutteurs.

En toi je tomberai, végétale ambroisie,
Grain précieux jeté par l'éternel Semeur,
Pour que de notre amour naisse la poésie
Qui jaillira vers Dieu comme une rare fleur!»

---

My love and my peace, how long I have waited for you! I see you embodied now, yes. But the most important thing is that I know you are possible.