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!»

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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.