À Théodore de Banville

Sure, I haven't been posting much but that's mostly because I simply don't care. Days are passing. Things are happening. I now have a star of David henna-ed into my back. Please don't ask me why. I could never tell you.

This is a poem that Baudelaire wrote to the poet and writer Théodore de Banville.

To Théodore de Banville
You have grasped the hair of the Goddess
With such a wrist, that one has taken you, seeing
That manner of mastery and that beautiful nonchalance,
For a young ruffian striking his mistress down.

Eye clear and fraught with the fire of precocity,
You have bathed your pride of architecture
In the construction whose accurate audacity
Makes one see what will be your ripeness.

Poet, your blood flees from you by every pore;
Is it by chance that the Centaur’s robe
That changed every vein into a ghastly stream

Was colored three times in the subtle drool
Of these vengeful and monstrous reptiles
Which little Hercules strangled to a cradle?

À Théodore de Banville
Vous avez empoigné les cries de la Déesse
Avec un tel poignet, qu'on vous eût pris, à voir
Et cet air de maîtrise et ce beau nonchaloir,
Pour un jeune ruffian terrassant sa maîtresse.

L'oeil clair et plein du feu de la précocité,
Vous avez prélassé votre orgueil d'architecte
Dans des constructions dont l'audace correcte
Fait voir quelle sera votre maturité.

Poète, notre sang nous fuit par chaque pore;
Est-ce que par hasard la robe du Centaure
Qui changeait toute veine en funèbre ruisseau

Était teinte trois fois dans les baves subtiles
De ces vindicatifs et monstrueux reptiles
Que le petit Hercule étranglait au berceau?

Châtiment de l'Orgueil

I have begun to realize that I have associated the glassy memories of early summer, ie drinking way too much, translating for hours on end, and languishing in the sunshine with the feelings I had when first we collided. I have almost completely changed my routine since that night about two weeks ago. I do a lot of staring, a lot of avoiding. Things are hard. All my brothers in arms have lost their glow and have been moping around as well. But things will get better, better.

The next poem is about pride, and is one of the least rhythmic translations I have done as of yet. I may fix it in the future but I am not quite feeling it at the moment.

Punishment of Pride
In these marvelous times where Theology
With the best of sap and energy,
One said that one day a doctor of greatest greatness,
—After having compelled indifferent hearts;
Having stirred in their dark depths;
After having cleared to celestial splendors
Curious paths unknown to himself,
Which perhaps pure Spirits alone had come to,—
Like a man who had climbed too high, taken with panic,
He cried, transported with a satanic pride:
“Jesus, little Jesus! I have pushed you very high!
But if I had wanted to attack you through the defect
In the armor, your shame would equal your glory,
And you would be no more than a hollow fetus!”

Immediately his reason went from him.
The shard of the sun veiled itself with crepe
All chaos rolled into that intellect,
Temple once living, full of order and opulence,
Under the ceiling where so much pomp had gleamed.
Silence and night installed themselves in it,
Like in a cave whose clef is lost.
From then on he was like the beasts of the street,
And, when he went along seeing nothing, to traverse
The fields without distinguishing the summers from the winters,
Filthy, useless and ugly like a used-up thing,
He was made by the children the joke and the laughing-stock.

Châtiment de l'Orgueil
En ces temps merveilleux où la Théologie
Fleurit avec le plus de sève et d'énergie,
On raconte qu'un jour un docteur des plus grands,
— Après avoir forcé les coeurs indifférents;
Les avoir remués dans leurs profondeurs noires;
Après avoir franchi vers les célestes gloires
Des chemins singuliers à lui-même inconnus,
Où les purs Esprits seuls peut-être étaient venus, —
Comme un homme monté trop haut, pris de panique,
S'écria, transporté d'un orgueil satanique:
«Jésus, petit Jésus! je t'ai poussé bien haut!
Mais, si j'avais voulu t'attaquer au défaut
De l'armure, ta honte égalerait ta gloire,
Et tu ne serais plus qu'un foetus dérisoire!»

Immédiatement sa raison s'en alla.
L'éclat de ce soleil d'un crêpe se voila
Tout le chaos roula dans cette intelligence,
Temple autrefois vivant, plein d'ordre et d'opulence,
Sous les plafonds duquel tant de pompe avait lui.
Le silence et la nuit s'installèrent en lui,
Comme dans un caveau dont la clef est perdue.
Dès lors il fut semblable aux bêtes de la rue,
Et, quand il s'en allait sans rien voir, à travers
Les champs, sans distinguer les étés des hivers,
Sale, inutile et laid comme une chose usée,
Il faisait des enfants la joie et la risée.

I don't miss him. I just miss the feeling. Emo emo emo.

Don Juan Aux Enfers

Some day I will somehow summon the energy to post some of my own thoughts about the poems themselves. God knows I don't have much else to think about. I have cramps. That's all I can stay. I've started conceptually illustrating this whole she-bang. AND A. STILL DOESN'T LOVE ME!!!!! Boo hoo. Can't say we didn't see it coming.

This is a poem about Don Juan in hell. On one level it's nice to know that the philanderers in this world will get their comeuppance, although it is far less comforting to see how Don Juan reacts to all this.

Don Juan in Hell
When Don Juan descended toward the underground sea
And when he has given his offering to Charon,
A sullen beggar, his eye proud like Antisthenes,
With strong and vengeful arms he seized each oar.

Showing their hanging breasts and their open gowns
The women bent themselves under the black sky,
And, like a great herd of sacrificial victims,
A long moaning trailed behind them.

Laughing, Sganarelle demanded his wages,
While Don Luis with a trembling finger
Showed to all the rambling dead along the shore
The audacious son who scoffed at his white brow.

Shivering under her grief, the chaste and meager Elvira,
Close to her treacherous spouse who was her lover,
She seemed to ask for a final smile,
That would gleam with the sweetness of his first oath.

Altogether upright in his armor, a grand man of stone
Held himself to the bar and cut off the black tide;
But the cool-headed hero, leaning on his sword,
Regarded the slipstream and deigned to see nothing.

Don Juan aux enfers
Quand Don Juan descendit vers l'onde souterraine
Et lorsqu'il eut donné son obole à Charon,
Un sombre mendiant, l'oeil fier comme Antisthène,
D'un bras vengeur et fort saisit chaque aviron.

Montrant leurs seins pendants et leurs robes ouvertes,
Des femmes se tordaient sous le noir firmament,
Et, comme un grand troupeau de victimes offertes,
Derrière lui traînaient un long mugissement.

Sganarelle en riant lui réclamait ses gages,
Tandis que Don Luis avec un doigt tremblant
Montrait à tous les morts errant sur les rivages
Le fils audacieux qui railla son front blanc.

Frissonnant sous son deuil, la chaste et maigre Elvire,
Près de l'époux perfide et qui fut son amant,
Semblait lui réclamer un suprême sourire
Où brillât la douceur de son premier serment.

Tout droit dans son armure, un grand homme de pierre
Se tenait à la barre et coupait le flot noir;
Mais le calme héros, courbé sur sa rapière,
Regardait le sillage et ne daignait rien voir.

Bohémiens en voyage/L'Homme et La Mer

It's kind of an uphill battle at this point, though I am very much trying to push it out of my mind. I faced my demons and went to his house the other night, albeit not for him. He was there, of course. With her. And with the other her. I'm kind of the last in line at this point. But who cares? I do. But I can't. It's not right, it's not fair. For him or for me. So I have been brooding and eating cause it's almost Shark Week. Not drinking though. Smoking too much. It's been the rainiest summer in Naptown for as long as I have been here. Love sings, but not to me.

Traveling Bohemians
The prophetic tribe with the burning pupils
Yesterday taking to the road, carrying their young
On their backs, or delivering to their fiery appetites
The never ceasing treasure of hanging breasts.

The men go on foot beneath their glistening weapons
Along the wagons where those of theirs are huddled,
Walking along the sky with eyes weighed down
By doleful regret for absent illusions.

From the bottom of his sandy reduction, the cricket,
Watches them pass, redoubling his music;
Cybele, who loves them, increasing her greenness,

Makes the rock flow and the desert blossom
Before these voyagers, for whom is open
The familiar empire of the future's uncertainty.

Bohémiens en voyage
La tribu prophétique aux prunelles ardentes
Hier s'est mise en route, emportant ses petits
Sur son dos, ou livrant à leurs fiers appétits
Le trésor toujours prêt des mamelles pendantes.

Les hommes vont à pied sous leurs armes luisantes
Le long des chariots où les leurs sont blottis,
Promenant sur le ciel des yeux appesantis
Par le morne regret des chimères absentes.

Du fond de son réduit sablonneux, le grillon,
Les regardant passer, redouble sa chanson;
Cybèle, qui les aime, augmente ses verdures,

Fait couler le rocher et fleurir le désert
Devant ces voyageurs, pour lesquels est ouvert
L'empire familier des ténèbres futures.

The Man and the Sea
Free man, always will you cherish the sea!
The sea is your mirror; you contemplate your soul
In the infinite unwinding of its billows,
And your spirit is no abyss less bitter.

You please to plunge yourself into the bosom of your image;
You embrace it with the eyes and the arms, and your heart
Is sometimes distracted from the proper hearsay
To the noise to that indomitable and savage complaint.

You are both all dark and discreet:
Man, none have sounded in the depths of your abyss;
Oh sea, none know your intimate riches,
You are so jealous in guarding your secrets!

And yet there are countless ages
Where you have fought each other without pity or remorse,
So much do you love the carnage and the death,
Oh eternal wrestlers, oh remorseless brothers!

L'Homme et la mer
Homme libre, toujours tu chériras la mer!
La mer est ton miroir; tu contemples ton âme
Dans le déroulement infini de sa lame,
Et ton esprit n'est pas un gouffre moins amer.

Tu te plais à plonger au sein de ton image;
Tu l'embrasses des yeux et des bras, et ton coeur
Se distrait quelquefois de sa propre rumeur
Au bruit de cette plainte indomptable et sauvage.

Vous êtes tous les deux ténébreux et discrets:
Homme, nul n'a sondé le fond de tes abîmes;
Ô mer, nul ne connaît tes richesses intimes,
Tant vous êtes jaloux de garder vos secrets!

Et cependant voilà des siècles innombrables
Que vous vous combattez sans pitié ni remords,
Tellement vous aimez le carnage et la mort,
Ô lutteurs éternels, ô frères implacables!

Le Guignon/La Vie anterieure

I am not terribly thrilled about squishing poems together, as I firmly believe that each should stand on its own and be admired. However, I am translating at a fairly rapid rate and I want to make sure that everything gets posted. I blame this on my job and the fact that I have heinous amounts of free time during the workday to spend with Baudelaire. But the poems are short, and any poems of particular significance either to myself or to anyone else will be given the proper attention.

I saw him yesterday, the first time since I heard the bad news. He was just sitting, smoking probably. His back turned toward me, he was talking with one of his friends and one of my friends. I could not bring myself to speak to him. I just walked by. Then I hid for awhile. Soon after that it rained.

I have no doubt that he thinks of me when it pours. I find the titles of these poems bitterly appropriate.

Bad Luck
In order to lift a weight that heavy,
Sisyphus, it requires your courage!
Good that one has his heart to the work,
Art is long and Time is short!

Far from celebrated sepulcher
Towards an isolated cemetery,
My heart, like a muffled drum,
Goes beating funeral marches.

—Many a jewel sleeps buried
In the darkness and oblivion,
Quite far from picks and probes;

Many a flower exhales with regret
His perfume sweet like a secret
In the deep solitudes.

Le Guignon
Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu'on ait du coeur à l'ouvrage,
L'Art est long et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon coeur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.

— Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l'oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;

Mainte fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.

The Past Life
I have long lived under vast porticos
That the seaward suns dyed with a thousand lights,
And that their great pillars, upright and majestic,
Rendered such, in the evening, like basaltic grottos.

The billows, in rolling the images of the skies,
Mingled in a solemn and mystique manner
All-powerful chords of their full-bodied music
With the color of the sunset reflected in my eyes.

It is there that I have lived in the voluptuous calms
In the middle of the blue, the waves, the splendors
And naked slaves, pervaded with odor,

That cooled my brow with palms
And whose only care was to fathom
The painful secret that made me languish.

La Vie antérieure
J'ai longtemps habité sous de vastes portiques
Que les soleils marins teignaient de mille feux,
Et que leurs grands piliers, droits et majestueux,
Rendaient pareils, le soir, aux grottes basaltiques.

Les houles, en roulant les images des cieux,
Mêlaient d'une façon solennelle et mystique
Les tout-puissants accords de leur riche musique
Aux couleurs du couchant reflété par mes yeux.

C'est là que j'ai vécu dans les voluptés calmes,
Au milieu de l'azur, des vagues, des splendeurs
Et des esclaves nus, tout imprégnés d'odeurs,

Qui me rafraîchissaient le front avec des palmes,
Et dont l'unique soin était d'approfondir
Le secret douloureux qui me faisait languir.

Le Mauvais Moine/L'Ennemi

It's 9:30 on a Wednesday morning and I am effing exhausted. So much house drama last night, I couldn't take it. I need to buckle down and give myself some time to do what I want to do instead of spending all my time thinking I will be alone forever. My room is turning into a comparative cesspool and I have forgotten how to spell. Life, living it, never giving it back---huh!

The Bad Monk
The old monasteries on their prominent walls
Flaunted the holy Truth in pictures,
Whose impressions light up the pious insides,
Tempered the cold of their austerity.

In these times where the sowing of Christ flourished,
More than one celebrated monk, cited little today,
Taking a funeral field for his workshop,
He praised Death with simplicity.

—My soul is a tomb where, wicked cenobite,
Since eternity I travel and inhabit,
Nothing beautifies the walls of this execrable cloister.

Oh lazy monk! When will I know then to form
From the living spectacle of my sad destitution
The labor of my hands and the love of my eyes?

Le Mauvais Moine
Les cloîtres anciens sur leurs grandes murailles
Etalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,
Dont l'effet réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,
Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.

En ces temps où du Christ florissaient les semailles,
Plus d'un illustre moine, aujourd'hui peu cité,
Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles,
Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.

— Mon âme est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite,
Depuis l'éternité je parcours et j'habite;
Rien n'embellit les murs de ce cloître odieux.

Ô moine fainéant! quand saurai-je donc faire
Du spectacle vivant de ma triste misère
Le travail de mes mains et l'amour de mes yeux?

The Enemy
My youth has only been a dark thunderstorm,
Crossed here and there by brilliant sunshine;
Thunder and rain have made such a devastation,
That few ruby fruits stay well in my garden.

There I have touched the autumn of ideas,
And must employ the spade and the rakes,
In order to gather fresh flooded earth,
Where water hollows out holes great like tombs.

And who knows if the new flowers that I dream
Will find in this soil washed like the beach
The mystic food that would make their vigor?

—Sorrow! Sorrow! Time eats life,
And the hidden Enemy that gnaws the heart,
Grows and strengthens itself from the blood we lose!

L'Ennemi
Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage,
Traversé çà et là par de brillants soleils;
Le tonnerre et la pluie ont fait un tel ravage,
Qu'il reste en mon jardin bien peu de fruits vermeils.

Voilà que j'ai touché l'automne des idées,
Et qu'il faut employer la pelle et les râteaux
Pour rassembler à neuf les terres inondées,
Où l'eau creuse des trous grands comme des tombeaux.

Et qui sait si les fleurs nouvelles que je rêve
Trouveront dans ce sol lavé comme une grève
Le mystique aliment qui ferait leur vigueur?

— Ô douleur! ô douleur! Le Temps mange la vie,
Et l'obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur
Du sang que nous perdons croît et se fortifie!

La Muse malade/La Muse vénale

Yesterday afternoon it rained and it poured. I sat out on the front porch of our main building at school and just wrote. I used to tell him that I loved the rain. I take off my shoes and walk through the puddles, feeling the warm water splash my ankles and seep into my eyes. I want to think that he thinks of me every time it rains, and as of late it has been doing so often and somewhat unexpectedly. I want to say that's how we were: sudden, unexpected, and brief like those torrential downpours that wash away what's past and submerge the ashes of your camels under their forgiving sheen. But fuck that. I want to believe it's not over. Maybe I'm blind. Maybe I'm stupid.

And since we are on the subject of muses, here are two from M. Baudelaire himself.

The Unhealthy Muse
My poor muse, alas! What have you then this morning?
Your hollow eyes are peopled with nocturnal visions,
And I see turn to turn reflected on your face,
Madness and horror, chilly and taciturn.

The green succubae and the rose-colored elf,
Have they poured for you fear and love from their urns?
The nightmare, from a despotic and mischievous fist
Has it drowned you in the depths of the legendary Minturnae?

I would wish exhaling the odor of health
Your breast always to be frequented by strong thoughts,
And your Christian blood to run in rhythmic streams.

Like the many sounds of the old syllables,
Where they reign turn to turn the father of songs,
Phoebus, and great Pan, the lord of the harvests.

La Muse malade
Ma pauvre muse, hélas! qu'as-tu donc ce matin?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes.

Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin
T'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes?
Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin
T'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes?

Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé
Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,
Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques,

Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,
Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,
Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.

The Venal Muse
Oh muse of my heart, lover of palaces,
Will you have, when January releases his North Winds,
During the black ennuis of the snowy nights,
A firebrand to warm your two blue feet?

Will you reanimate then your marbled shoulders
In the nocturne rays that pierce the shutters?
Knowing your purse is as dry as your palate
Will you harvest the gold of the vaulted blue?

You must, in order to win your bread every night,
Like a chorus boy, move the censer,
And sing the hymns that you scarcely believe,

Or, acrobat on an empty stomach, spread your charms
And your laughter soaked with tears which one does not see,
To make the vulgar spleen blossom.

La Muse vénale
Ô muse de mon coeur, amante des palais,
Auras-tu, quand Janvier lâchera ses Borées,
Durant les noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirées,
Un tison pour chauffer tes deux pieds violets?

Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées
Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets?
Sentant ta bourse à sec autant que ton palais
Récolteras-tu l'or des voûtes azurées?

II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir,
Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l'encensoir,
Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guère,

Ou, saltimbanque à jeun, étaler tes appas
Et ton rire trempé de pleurs qu'on ne voit pas,
Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.