Un Fantome: Le Cadre, Le Portrait

I suppose we could call it paranoia, or just a strange coincidence. I don't believe in coincidences. What I do believe in is the power of one's own fist against the skull of their co-worker.
Please kill me now. Too many drinks, not enough sleep, and an unsettling dream which somehow combined elements of The Other Boleyn Girl, Sin City, and my past life.

Here is the rest of the poem.

A Phantom

III. The Frame

Like a beautiful frame adds to the painting,
Even though she is from a much-vaunted brush,
A strange and enchanted something
In the isolation of immense nature,

Thus jewels, furnishings, metals, gildings,
Adapted rightly to her rare beauty,
Nothing offended her perfect clarity
And all seemed to serve as a frame for her.

One even would have said at times she believed
That all wanted to love her; she drowned
Her nudity voluptuously

In the kisses of satin and linens,
And, slow or sudden, to every moment
Showed the infantile grace of an ape.

IV. The Portrait

Sickness and Death make ashes
Of all the fire that flared up for us.
Of these great eyes so fervent and so tender,
Of that mouth where my heart drowned itself,

Of these kisses strong like dittany,
Of these transports more vivid than light rays,
What remains? It is dreadful, oh my soul!
Nothing but a strongly pale design, in three colors,

Which, like me, dies in the solitude,
And which Time, abusive elder,
Rubs every day with his rough wing…

Black assassin of Life and of Art,
You will never kill in my memory
That which was my pleasure and my glory!

Un Fantome

III. Le Cadre

Comme un beau cadre ajoute à la peinture,
Bien qu'elle soit d'un pinceau très-vanté,
Je ne sais quoi d'étrange et d'enchanté
En l'isolant de l'immense nature,

Ainsi bijoux, meubles, métaux, dorure,
S'adaptaient juste à sa rare beauté;
Rien n'offusquait sa parfaite clarté,
Et tout semblait lui servir de bordure.

Même on eût dit parfois qu'elle croyait
Que tout voulait l'aimer; elle noyait
Sa nudité voluptueusement

Dans les baisers du satin et du linge,
Et, lente ou brusque, à chaque mouvement
Montrait la grâce enfantine du singe.

IV. Le Portrait

La Maladie et la Mort font des cendres
De tout le feu qui pour nous flamboya.
De ces grands yeux si fervents et si tendres,
De cette bouche où mon coeur se noya,

De ces baisers puissants comme un dictame,
De ces transports plus vifs que des rayons,
Que reste-t-il? C'est affreux, ô mon âme!
Rien qu'un dessin fort pâle, aux trois crayons,

Qui, comme moi, meurt dans la solitude,
Et que le Temps, injurieux vieillard,
Chaque jour frotte avec son aile rude...

Noir assassin de la Vie et de l'Art,
Tu ne tueras jamais dans ma mémoire
Celle qui fut mon plaisir et ma gloire!

Un Fantôme: Les Ténèbres, Le Parfum

I found it quite funny that she too started a blog, just in time for me to stop caring about the one thing that we had in common. This also came right on the heels of a rather unsettling piece of news from one G. who said that someone was reading this site and making comments about it on porches. I find this more amusing than anything else, mostly because this blog was originally for the sake of indulging my own rather stupid melodrama in the hopes that I could purge it from my soul. It's done the trick more or less, and since I never really intended for any of the interested parties to see it then I daresay that this turn of events is probably not in my favor. But I think it shouldn't matter to me. I have no reputation to shatter. If G. knows then so does P. and then W. and then probably A. Oh, we are all connected to each other. Ha ha ha.

The next poem I split up since it is effectively four poems in one.

A Phantom

I. The Darkness
In the cave of unfathomable sadness
Where Destiny has already relegated me;
Where never enters a rose and happy ray;
Where, alone with the Night, sullen hostess,

I am like a painter that a scoffing God
Condemns to paint, alas! On the darkness;
Where, cooking for the ghastly appetites
I boil and eat my own heart,

For moments that shone, that lengthened, that spread
A ghost made of grace and splendor.
By its dreamy, oriental appearance,
When it reaches its absolute grandeur,
I recognize my beautiful visitor:

It is She! Black and yet luminous.

II. The Perfume
Reader, have you sometimes breathed
With exhilaration and slow-moving greed
That grain of incense that refills a church,
Or from a sachet the inveterate musk?

Deep charm, magic, by which we grow tipsy,
In the present the past restored!
So the lover on a worshipped body
Picks from memory the exquisite bloom.

From her weighty and elastic hair,
Living sachet, censer of the alcove,
A scent went up, savage and brown,

And from her clothes, muslin or velvet,
Completely imbued with her flawless youth,
She released a perfume of fur.

Un Fantôme

I. Les Ténèbres

Dans les caveaux d'insondable tristesse
Où le Destin m'a déjà relégué;
Où jamais n'entre un rayon rose et gai;
Où, seul avec la Nuit, maussade hôtesse,

Je suis comme un peintre qu'un Dieu moqueur
Condamne à peindre, hélas! sur les ténèbres;
Où, cuisinier aux appétits funèbres,
Je fais bouillir et je mange mon coeur,

Par instants brille, et s'allonge, et s'étale
Un spectre fait de grâce et de splendeur.
À sa rêveuse allure orientale,
Quand il atteint sa totale grandeur,
Je reconnais ma belle visiteuse:

C'est Elle! noire et pourtant lumineuse.

II. Le Parfum
Lecteur, as-tu quelquefois respiré
Avec ivresse et lente gourmandise
Ce grain d'encens qui remplit une église,
Ou d'un sachet le musc invétéré?

Charme profond, magique, dont nous grise
Dans le présent le passé restauré!
Ainsi l'amant sur un corps adoré
Du souvenir cueille la fleur exquise.

De ses cheveux élastiques et lourds,
Vivant sachet, encensoir de l'alcôve,
Une senteur montait, sauvage et fauve,

Et des habits, mousseline ou velours,
Tout imprégnés de sa jeunesse pure,
Se dégageait un parfum de fourrure.