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.

L'Héautontimorouménos

Beautiful. Now too much pain, right.

The Self-Tormentor

To J.G.F.

I will strike you without anger
And without hatred, like a butcher,
Like Moses the rock
And I will make from your eyelid,

In order to water my Sahara
The water of suffering flow.
My desire, swollen with hope
Floats upon your salty tears

Like a vessel that takes to sea,
And in my heart that they will make drunk,
Your dear sobs will ring
Like a drum that beats the charge!

Am I not a false chord
In the divine symphony,
Thanks to the voracious Irony
That shakes me and bites me?

She is in my voice, the squalling!
That is all my blood, this black poison!
I am the sinister mirror
Where the Megaera looks upon herself.

I am the wound and the blade!
I am the blow and the cheek!
I am the members and the wheel,
And the victim and the hangman!

I am the vampire of my heart,
—One of these great forsaken
Condemned to the eternal laughter
And who can no longer smile!

L'Héautontimorouménos

À J.G.F.

Je te frapperai sans colère
Et sans haine, comme un boucher,
Comme Moïse le rocher
Et je ferai de ta paupière,

Pour abreuver mon Saharah
Jaillir les eaux de la souffrance.
Mon désir gonflé d'espérance
Sur tes pleurs salés nagera

Comme un vaisseau qui prend le large,
Et dans mon coeur qu'ils soûleront
Tes chers sanglots retentiront
Comme un tambour qui bat la charge!

Ne suis-je pas un faux accord
Dans la divine symphonie,
Grâce à la vorace Ironie
Qui me secoue et qui me mord

Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde!
C'est tout mon sang ce poison noir!
Je suis le sinistre miroir
Où la mégère se regarde.

Je suis la plaie et le couteau!
Je suis le soufflet et la joue!
Je suis les membres et la roue,
Et la victime et le bourreau!

Je suis de mon coeur le vampire,
— Un de ces grands abandonnés
Au rire éternel condamnés
Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire!

Recueillement

I am done with Spleen et Ideal, but now I need to get these all up before the end of the year. I am off to the south circa 9 pm this evening. Love, love. It's too cold here. I feel better, right. More relieved. I guess that comes from never having to see certain people ever again.

Contemplation
Be wise, oh my Grief, and have more peace.
You asked for the Evening; it descends; here it is:
A dark atmosphere envelops the city,
Carrying peace to some, to others concern.

While the foul multitude of mortals,
Under the whip of Pleasure, this merciless hangman,
Goes gathering remorse in the slavish celebration,
My Grief, give me your hand; come here,

Far from them. See the lost Years bend,
Over the balconies of heaven, in outdated robes;
Smiling Regret springing from the depths of the waters;

The dying sun sleeps under an arch,
And, trails to the East like a long shroud,
Listen, my beloved, listen to the sweet Night walking.

Recueillement
Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille.
Tu réclamais le Soir; il descend; le voici:
Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville,
Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci.

Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile,
Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci,
Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile,
Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main; viens par ici,

Loin d'eux. Vois se pencher les défuntes Années,
Sur les balcons du ciel, en robes surannées;
Surgir du fond des eaux le Regret souriant;

Le soleil moribond s'endormir sous une arche,
Et, comme un long linceul traînant à l'Orient,
Entends, ma chère, entends la douce Nuit qui marche.

---

The next three poems are longish and signify the end.

Le Gouffre/Les Plaintes d'un Icare

Winter kills but the solstice should bring new life. If the last few months have taught me anything it is that I should not be in the public eye. I told him "tread with a light foot and a quiet look" but somehow I managed to ignore my own advice. The Moon has left me here, taking his nothingness and his translucent eyes back to the North where one would argue that he belongs. And what, and what then? I cried for a long time, a long long time. I told him not to fear aging and to shine like I knew that he could. Someday he will return but I will be no longer. Off to a warm atmosphere where people care about the changes that I want to bring. It's been nearly three weeks since my Hell began and I am praying that it ends before I do. Please, I implore your mercy, you the only one that I love.

The Abyss
Pascal had his abyss, it moved with him.
—Alas! All is abysmal—action, desire, dream,
Speech! And on my hair which stands up straight
I feel the wind of Fear pass many times.

On high, down below, everywhere, the depth, the shore,
The silence, the awful and captivating space…
On the background of my nights God with his skillful finger
Draws a nightmare, multiform and without respite.

I have the fear of sleep like one has fear of a great hole,
All full of vague horror, leads one where he knows not,
I see only infinity through all the windows,

And my spirit, all haunted by vertigo,
Is jealous of the insensitivity of nothingness.
—Ah! Never to take leave of the Numbers and the Beings!

Le Gouffre
Pascal avait son gouffre, avec lui se mouvant.
— Hélas! tout est abîme, — action, désir, rêve,
Parole! Et sur mon poil qui tout droit se relève
Mainte fois de la Peur je sens passer le vent.

En haut, en bas, partout, la profondeur, la grève,
Le silence, l'espace affreux et captivant...
Sur le fond de mes nuits Dieu de son doigt savant
Dessine un cauchemar multiforme et sans trêve.

J'ai peur du sommeil comme on a peur d'un grand trou,
Tout plein de vague horreur, menant on ne sait où;
Je ne vois qu'infini par toutes les fenêtres,

Et mon esprit, toujours du vertige hanté,
Jalouse du néant l'insensibilité.
— Ah! ne jamais sortir des Nombres et des Êtres!

The Complaints of an Icarus
The lovers of prostitutes
Are happy, fresh and satiated,
As for me, my arms are broken
Having embraced the clouds.

It is thanks to the unequaled stars,
Which all blaze in the depths of the sky,
That my burned-up eyes see
Only the memories of suns.

In vain I have desired in the space
To find the end and the middle;
I do not know under what fiery eye
I feel my wings break;

And burned by the love of the beautiful,
I will not have the sublime honor
Of giving my name to the abyss
That will serve me as a tomb.

Les Plaintes d'un Icare
Les amants des prostituées
Sont heureux, dispos et repus;
Quant à moi, mes bras sont rompus
Pour avoir étreint des nuées.

C'est grâce aux astres nonpareils,
Qui tout au fond du ciel flamboient,
Que mes yeux consumés ne voient
Que des souvenirs de soleils.

En vain j'ai voulu de l'espace
Trouver la fin et le milieu;
Sous je ne sais quel oeil de feu
Je sens mon aile qui se casse;

Et brûlé par l'amour du beau,
Je n'aurai pas l'honneur sublime
De donner mon nom à l'abîme
Qui me servira de tombeau.
---

I mourned his loss over cough syrup and humiliation. Now devoid of most of my hearing and more or less all of my hindsight. To M. I said I was sorry and that I felt the crippling feeling of injustice over his departure. Lies, lies. I rejoice in his fall, ha ha. They say that hell hath no fury and by gods, they are right.

Sur Le Tasse en prison d'Eugène Delacroix

Oh moon of my life, sleep in my bed and forget about me. I said I loved you and it may or may not be true depending on how I feel at any given moment. I know that you would love me if you were capable of loving anyone at all. I heard what you said last night and it made sense. It just didn't make me happy. The world has turned. I don't like these feelings. I miss you already and I never wanted to.

Now something almost completely unrelated.

On Tasso in Prison by Eugene Delacroix
The poet in the dungeon, disheveled, sickly,
Nervously rolling a manuscript under his foot,
Measures with a look that terror enflames
The staircase of vertigo where his soul is broken.

The heady laughs that fill the prison
Invite his reason toward the strange and absurd;
Doubt surrounds him, and ludicrous Fear,
Hideous and multiform, circles around him.

This genius locked up in a sick hovel,
These grimaces, these cries, these specters that swarm him
Swirl, assembled behind his ear,

This dreamer who the horror of his dwelling awakens,
So that is your emblem, soul in obscure dreams,
Which the Actual smothered between its four walls.


Sur Le Tasse en prison d'Eugène Delacroix
Le poète au cachot, débraillé, maladif,
Roulant un manuscrit sous son pied convulsif,
Mesure d'un regard que la terreur enflamme
L'escalier de vertige où s'abîme son âme.

Les rires enivrants dont s'emplit la prison
Vers l'étrange et l'absurde invitent sa raison;
Le Doute l'environne, et la Peur ridicule,
Hideuse et multiforme, autour de lui circule.

Ce génie enfermé dans un taudis malsain,
Ces grimaces, ces cris, ces spectres dont l'essaim
Tourbillonne, ameuté derrière son oreille,

Ce rêveur que l'horreur de son logis réveille,
Voilà bien ton emblème, Âme aux songes obscurs,
Que le Réel étouffe entre ses quatre murs!
---

Last afternoon we leaned our hips against the railing on the Great Hall and listened to the warbled cries of the youngest ones. They sang with the optimism that can only come with ignorance and glimpses of the beauty in this world. They were both there and so was I. Nothing to do. It brought a chill to the crowd as we all joined metaphorical hands and longed for streams of water and praised the newly-born Savior. It was the way it should have been.

For once it is love and longing that chokes my throat and not rage.

Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique

Where is your happiness, your joy and your light? Around this time of year everyone breaks and my co-dependent ways spring into action. Suicide, sex and stupidity...we all become one and we then we fall. I don't know what to do or say or think. I want to break down too but I cannot. I wanted to build myself as a symbol of hope and stability. For once I can shake the taste of the past.

I loved you for your emptiness and your fear of aging but now I think that I cannot. Not when you told me to leave you be. Instead I drink and laugh and fall onto the hard dirt of my own bad decisions. I love you, I love you, but this cannot be. You cannot love. That's okay. The sun sets, I rise and you fall down.

The Setting of the Romantic Sun
How the sun is beautiful when it is newly risen,
He throws his greetings to us like an explosion!
—Blessed is that one who can with love
Salute his setting more glorious than a dream!

I remember!…I have seen all, flower, spring, furrow,
Swooning under his eye like a palpitating heart…
—Let us run toward the horizon, it is late, let us run quickly,
To catch at least a slanting ray!

But I vainly pursue the retreating God;
Irresistible Night establishes his empire,
Dark, damp, grievous and full of shivers;

An odor of the tomb swims in the dark,
At my fearful foot crumples, on the edge of the marsh,
Unpredicted toads and chilly snails.


Le Coucher du Soleil Romantique
Que le soleil est beau quand tout frais il se lève,
Comme une explosion nous lançant son bonjour!
— Bienheureux celui-là qui peut avec amour
Saluer son coucher plus glorieux qu'un rêve!

Je me souviens!... J'ai vu tout, fleur, source, sillon,
Se pâmer sous son oeil comme un coeur qui palpite...
— Courons vers l'horizon, il est tard, courons vite,
Pour attraper au moins un oblique rayon!

Mais je poursuis en vain le Dieu qui se retire;
L'irrésistible Nuit établit son empire,
Noire, humide, funeste et pleine de frissons;

Une odeur de tombeau dans les ténèbres nage,
Et mon pied peureux froisse, au bord du marécage,
Des crapauds imprévus et de froids limaçons.
---

Chase the gods, you fools. Their friends are marrying and giving birth. Mine kill themselves and rape one another. What.

La Rançon/Bien loin d'ici

Yesterday we talked like humans...all three of us. Together for the first time since we congregated in the sweltering sympathy of August. Fortune has not smiled upon them, less so on one than the other. For one the anger has passed and is replaced by affectionate apathy. Toward the other the rage rears its head every now and again. We spoke of trials and victories, drunken stupors and a Refusal to Mourn. He understood. Where before he had treated my imposition as agenda, now it just came across as an unfortunate result of circumstance. I wish I had not wasted so much time being angry. One week to go before he disappears probably forever.

I am finding there is a difference between the oppression the world throws at you and the ennui that happens inside. I don't really like either.

The Ransom
Man has, in order to pay his ransom,
Two fields of tuff, deep and rich,
That he must turn over and cultivate
With the iron of reason;

In order to obtain the lesser rose,
In order to extort a few ears of corn,
With the salted tears of his dreary brow
He must water them ceaselessly.

One is Art, and the other is Love.
—To produce a favorable judge,
When of strict justice
The terrible day will appear,

He must show them barns
Full of crops, and flowers
Whose shapes and colors
Win the suffrage of the Angels.

La Rançon
L'homme a, pour payer sa rançon,
Deux champs au tuf profond et riche,
Qu'il faut qu'il remue et défriche
Avec le fer de la raison;

Pour obtenir la moindre rose,
Pour extorquer quelques épis,
Des pleurs salés de son front gris
Sans cesse il faut qu'il les arrose.

L'un est l'Art, et l'autre l'Amour.
— Pour rendre le juge propice,
Lorsque de la stricte justice
Paraîtra le terrible jour,

Il faudra lui montrer des granges
Pleines de moissons, et des fleurs
Dont les formes et les couleurs
Gagnent le suffrage des Anges.


Very Far From Here
This here is the sacred cabin
Where that much arrayed maiden,
Tranquil and ever prepared,

Fanning her breasts with her hand,
Her elbow in the cushions,
Listens to the fountains crying:

This is Dorothy’s bedroom.
—The breeze and the water sing in the distance,
Their song colliding with sobs
In order to cradle that spoiled child.

From top to bottom, with great care
Her delicate skin is scrubbed
With fragrant oil and benzoin.
—From the flowers that swoon in a corner.

Bien loin d'ici
C'est ici la case sacrée
Où cette fille très parée,
Tranquille et toujours préparée,

D'une main éventant ses seins,
Et son coude dans les coussins,
Écoute pleurer les bassins:

C'est la chambre de Dorothée.
— La brise et l'eau chantent au loin
Leur chanson de sanglots heurtée
Pour bercer cette enfant gâtée.

Du haut en bas, avec grand soin.
Sa peau délicate est frottée
D'huile odorante et de benjoin.
— Des fleurs se pâment dans un coin.
---

I need to get out of here too.