Abel et Caïn

The earth has made a full revolution and now things have changed. N. and I talked about how our lives have evolved since summer past, the summer full of drunken languor and hot smoke. This year it will be different they say, since I will be celebrating life instead of mourning loss. My beautiful one has the aches and pains and watching him suffer makes me sad. Soon he will be better, soon we will be together. My happiness is warm but my closet and basement need to be exorcised. There will be space, time, opportunity. I think it will all work out.

Baudelaire has focused Révolte on Biblical imagery, I suppose it's obvious. The last one made me think a lot about what it was like to be young and strangled with those kinds of heavy thoughts when the mind is not mature enough to handle them. This reminded me of many discussions in Sophomore Seminar where we determined that all denials and betrayals were necessary to bring about a prophesied event. God. Maybe my attempts at profundity are better left alone.

Abel and Cain
I.
Race of Abel, sleep, drink and eat;
God smiles on you complacently.

Race of Cain, in the muck
Crawls and dies miserably.

Race of Abel, your sacrifice
Flatters the nose of the Seraphim!

Race of Cain, your torment
Will it never have an end?

Race of Abel, see your seeds
And your cattle flourish;

Race of Cain, your entrails
Howl with hunger like an old dog.

Race of Abel, warm your belly
At your patriarchal hearth;

Race of Cain, in your den
Tremble with cold, poor jackal!

Race of Abel, love and multiply!
Even your gold has children.

Race of Cain, heart that burns,
Watch out for these great appetites.

Race of Abel, you think and grow
Like the bugs in the woods!

Race of Cain, along the roads
Drag your desperate family.

II.
Ah! Race of Abel, your carcass
Will fertilize the smoking soil!

Race of Cain, your labor
Has not been completed sufficiently;

Race of Abel, here is your disgrace:
The sword is vanquished by the spear!

Race of Cain, climb to the sky,
And hurl God to earth!

Abel et Caïn
I.
Race d'Abel, dors, bois et mange;
Dieu te sourit complaisamment.

Race de Caïn, dans la fange
Rampe et meurs misérablement.

Race d'Abel, ton sacrifice
Flatte le nez du Séraphin!

Race de Caïn, ton supplice
Aura-t-il jamais une fin?

Race d'Abel, vois tes semailles
Et ton bétail venir à bien;

Race de Caïn, tes entrailles
Hurlent la faim comme un vieux chien.

Race d'Abel, chauffe ton ventre
À ton foyer patriarcal;

Race de Caïn, dans ton antre
Tremble de froid, pauvre chacal!

Race d'Abel, aime et pullule!
Ton or fait aussi des petits.

Race de Caïn, coeur qui brûle,
Prends garde à ces grands appétits.

Race d'Abel, tu croîs et broutes
Comme les punaises des bois!

Race de Caïn, sur les routes
Traîne ta famille aux abois.

II.
Ah! race d'Abel, ta charogne
Engraissera le sol fumant!

Race de Caïn, ta besogne
N'est pas faite suffisamment;

Race d'Abel, voici ta honte:
Le fer est vaincu par l'épieu!

Race de Caïn, au ciel monte,
Et sur la terre jette Dieu!
---
I want to say that I have worked long and hard and that I deserve to let it all go and do a bunch of stupid things. But none of that is true. I value my semi-mature existence. Maybe?

Le Reniement de Saint Pierre

I am tired and I don't care about anything. Right.

The Denial of Saint Peter
What is it that God does with this wave of curses
That rise every day towards his dear Seraphim?
Like a tyrant gorged with meat and wine,
He falls asleep to the sweet murmur of our hideous blasphemies.

The sobs of the martyrs and the tortured
Are without doubt an intoxicating symphony,
Since, despite the blood that their pleasure costs,
The skies have not yet had their fill!

—Ah! Jesus, remember the Garden of Olives!
In your simplicity you prayed on your knees
To he who in his sky laughs at the noise of the nails
That the vile hangman planted in your living flesh,

When you saw spitting on your divinity
The villainous body of guards and cooks,
And when you felt the thorns sink
Into your skull where great Humanity lived;

When the horrible heaviness of your broken body
Extended your two outstretched arms, when your blood
And your sweat poured from your fading brow,
When you were put before everyone like a target,

Did you dream of these days so brilliant and beautiful
When you cam to fulfill the eternal promise,
When you treaded, mounted on a sweet donkey,
The roads all strewn with flowers and branches,

When, heart all swollen with hope and courage,
You whipped all these vile traders with all your strength,
When you were finally master? Has the remorse not
Penetrated into your side further than the spear?

—Certainly, I would leave, as for me, satisfied
With a world where action is not the sister of a dream;
That I would use the sword and perish by the sword!
Saint Peter has renounced Jesus…he has done well!

Le Reniement de Saint Pierre
Qu'est-ce que Dieu fait donc de ce flot d'anathèmes
Qui monte tous les jours vers ses chers Séraphins?
Comme un tyran gorgé de viande et de vins,
II s'endort au doux bruit de nos affreux blasphèmes.

Les sanglots des martyrs et des suppliciés
Sont une symphonie enivrante sans doute,
Puisque, malgré le sang que leur volupté coûte,
Les cieux ne s'en sont point encore rassasiés!

— Ah! Jésus, souviens-toi du Jardin des Olives!
Dans ta simplicité tu priais à genoux
Celui qui dans son ciel riait au bruit des clous
Que d'ignobles bourreaux plantaient dans tes chairs vives,

Lorsque tu vis cracher sur ta divinité
La crapule du corps de garde et des cuisines,
Et lorsque tu sentis s'enfoncer les épines
Dans ton crâne où vivait l'immense Humanité;

Quand de ton corps brisé la pesanteur horrible
Allongeait tes deux bras distendus, que ton sang
Et ta sueur coulaient de ton front pâlissant,
Quand tu fus devant tous posé comme une cible,

Rêvais-tu de ces jours si brillants et si beaux
Où tu vins pour remplir l'éternelle promesse,
Où tu foulais, monté sur une douce ânesse,
Des chemins tout jonchés de fleurs et de rameaux,

Où, le coeur tout gonflé d'espoir et de vaillance,
Tu fouettais tous ces vils marchands à tour de bras,
Où tu fus maître enfin? Le remords n'a-t-il pas
Pénétré dans ton flanc plus avant que la lance?

— Certes, je sortirai, quant à moi, satisfait
D'un monde où l'action n'est pas la soeur du rêve;
Puissé-je user du glaive et périr par le glaive!
Saint Pierre a renié Jésus... il a bien fait!
---
Angst. Angst. Angst.

L'Amour et le Crâne

Father, we have given you our spirits, will you not leave us our dignity? Troubling domestic situations hit home hard and my little one is taking it badly. All is not lost, no destitution...just a chance for new beginnings. I wish for their peace and happiness above all else. For everyone who shares my love and my blood. He sat up with me last night while I cried from sheer exhaustion. I won't be phased, but I have to carry my weaker half. I love him and he is perfect. I will be his forever.

The Love and the Skull
Old lamp-base

Love is seated on the skull
Of Humanity,
And on this defiled throne,
With a shameless laugh,

Cheerfully blows round bubbles
That rise in the air,
As if meeting the worlds
At the bottom of the ether.

The frail and luminous globe
Takes a great flight,
Punctures and spits out its skinny soul
Like a golden dream.

I hear the skull in every bubble
Praying and wailing:
—“This savage and ridiculous game,
When will it be finished?

Because that which your cruel mouth
Scatters in the air,
Monstrous assassin, this is my brain,
My blood and my flesh!”

L'Amour et le Crâne
Vieux cul-de-lampe

L'Amour est assis sur le crâne
De l'Humanité,
Et sur ce trône le profane,
Au rire effronté,

Souffle gaiement des bulles rondes
Qui montent dans l'air,
Comme pour rejoindre les mondes
Au fond de l'éther.

Le globe lumineux et frêle
Prend un grand essor,
Crève et crache son âme grêle
Comme un songe d'or.

J'entends le crâne à chaque bulle
Prier et gémir:
— «Ce jeu féroce et ridicule,
Quand doit-il finir?

Car ce que ta bouche cruelle
Eparpille en l'air,
Monstre assassin, c'est ma cervelle,
Mon sang et ma chair!»
---
It is wrong to be so stupidly selfish about such stupidly silly things while the nation crumbles and my own life is pierced. But I do. He will always help and protect me, and I will kiss his forehead while he sleeps and hold his hand forever and ever. We are good together. That is all.

Un Voyage à Cythère

Tired and helpless, Tuesday morning. I want to be back in bed. The rain comes down and down and drowns our thoughts while I try to sort through this muddled mess. Next week they say the sun will shine again and all I want is to get my brown skin back. But right now I sit in this little box while I nurse last night's pains and they search for my replacement. Evil flowers are being gathered and presented for my own amusement. Ten a.m. I just want to be asleep.

A Voyage to Cythera
My heart, like a bird, flutters completely joyous
And glides freely around the ropes;
The ship rolled under a cloudless sky;
Like an angel drunk on a radiant sun.

What is that sad and gloomy island? —It is Cythera,
One tells us, a country famous in the songs
Banal Eldorado of all the old boys.
Look, after all, it a poor land.

—Island of sweet secrets and feasts of the heart!
The superb phantom of old Venus
Glides above your seas like an aroma
And charges the spirits with love and languor.

Beautiful island of green myrtle, full of blooming flowers,
Forever revered by all nations,
Where the sighs of hearts in adoration
Roll like incense over a garden of roses

Or the eternal cooing of a woodpigeon!
—Cythera was not more than a sparse land,
A stony desert troubled by bitter cries.
Yet I glimpsed a peculiar object!

This was not a temple in the shadows of a grove,
Where the young priestess, in love with flowers,
Went, body burning with secret heat,
Half-opening her robe to the passing breeze;

But there shaving the coast close enough
To trouble the birds with our white sails,
We saw that this was a gallows with three branches,
Standing out of the sky in black, like a cypress tree.

Ferocious birds perched on their food
Destroying with rage an already ripe hanged man,
Each driving, like a tool, his dirty beak
Into all the bleeding corners of that decay;

The eyes were two holes, and from the shattered stomach
The heavy intestines poured over the thighs,
And his executioner, gorged on hideous delights,
They had absolutely castrated him with rapping beaks.

Under the feet, a troop of jealous quadrupeds,
The muzzles turned up, swirling and prowling;
In the middle a greater beast moved
Like an enforcer around his aids.

Resident of Cythera, child of a sky so beautiful,
Silently you suffered these insults
In atonement for your infamous services
And the sins that have banned you from the tomb.

Ridiculous hanged man, your sorrows are mine!
I feel, at the sight of your swinging members,
Like vomit, rising through my teeth
The long venom river of these old pains;

Before you, poor devil with memory so dear,
I have felt all the beaks and all the jaws
Of the gnawing crows and the dark panthers
That once much loved to pummel my flesh.

—The sky was charming, the sea was even;
For me all was black and bloody from then on,
Alas! And I will have, like a thick shroud,
Heart buried in that allegory.

On your island, oh Venus! I have found nothing standing
But a symbolic gallows where my image hangs…
—Ah! Lord! Give me the strength and the courage
To contemplate my heart and my body without disgust!

Un Voyage à Cythère
Mon coeur, comme un oiseau, voltigeait tout joyeux
Et planait librement à l'entour des cordages;
Le navire roulait sous un ciel sans nuages;
Comme un ange enivré d'un soleil radieux.

Quelle est cette île triste et noire? — C'est Cythère,
Nous dit-on, un pays fameux dans les chansons
Eldorado banal de tous les vieux garçons.
Regardez, après tout, c'est une pauvre terre.

— Île des doux secrets et des fêtes du coeur!
De l'antique Vénus le superbe fantôme
Au-dessus de tes mers plane comme un arôme
Et charge les esprits d'amour et de langueur.

Belle île aux myrtes verts, pleine de fleurs écloses,
Vénérée à jamais par toute nation,
Où les soupirs des coeurs en adoration
Roulent comme l'encens sur un jardin de roses

Ou le roucoulement éternel d'un ramier!
— Cythère n'était plus qu'un terrain des plus maigres,
Un désert rocailleux troublé par des cris aigres.
J'entrevoyais pourtant un objet singulier!

Ce n'était pas un temple aux ombres bocagères,
Où la jeune prêtresse, amoureuse des fleurs,
Allait, le corps brûlé de secrètes chaleurs,
Entrebâillant sa robe aux brises passagères;

Mais voilà qu'en rasant la côte d'assez près
Pour troubler les oiseaux avec nos voiles blanches,
Nous vîmes que c'était un gibet à trois branches,
Du ciel se détachant en noir, comme un cyprès.

De féroces oiseaux perchés sur leur pâture
Détruisaient avec rage un pendu déjà mûr,
Chacun plantant, comme un outil, son bec impur
Dans tous les coins saignants de cette pourriture;

Les yeux étaient deux trous, et du ventre effondré
Les intestins pesants lui coulaient sur les cuisses,
Et ses bourreaux, gorgés de hideuses délices,
L'avaient à coups de bec absolument châtré.

Sous les pieds, un troupeau de jaloux quadrupèdes,
Le museau relevé, tournoyait et rôdait;
Une plus grande bête au milieu s'agitait
Comme un exécuteur entouré de ses aides.

Habitant de Cythère, enfant d'un ciel si beau,
Silencieusement tu souffrais ces insultes
En expiation de tes infâmes cultes
Et des péchés qui t'ont interdit le tombeau.

Ridicule pendu, tes douleurs sont les miennes!
Je sentis, à l'aspect de tes membres flottants,
Comme un vomissement, remonter vers mes dents
Le long fleuve de fiel des douleurs anciennes;

Devant toi, pauvre diable au souvenir si cher,
J'ai senti tous les becs et toutes les mâchoires
Des corbeaux lancinants et des panthères noires
Qui jadis aimaient tant à triturer ma chair.

— Le ciel était charmant, la mer était unie;
Pour moi tout était noir et sanglant désormais,
Hélas! et j'avais, comme en un suaire épais,
Le coeur enseveli dans cette allégorie.

Dans ton île, ô Vénus! je n'ai trouvé debout
Qu'un gibet symbolique où pendait mon image...
— Ah! Seigneur! donnez-moi la force et le courage
De contempler mon coeur et mon corps sans dégoût!
---
No real jobs to do here anymore, I am just biding my time and looking stupid. Soon he will just be another pebble on the beach. But the best-looking and brightest pebble of them all I guess.

La Béatrice

I will continue to chug along until I have translated and posted every single poem. I am about six inches from the end and I am more determined than ever. The world floats on. No time for drama. Beatrice!

Beatrice
On the ashen ground, charred, without green,
As I complained one day to nature,
And in my thoughts, wandering by chance,
I slowly sharpened the dagger on my heart,
I see in full noon descending on my head
A gloomy cloud heavy with storm,
That carried a troop of lecherous demons,
Similar to the cruel and curious dwarves.
They put themselves to considering me coldly,
And, like passersby at a fool who they admire,
I listen to them laugh and whisper amongst themselves,
Exchanging many signs and many winks of the eye:

—“Let us contemplate at leisure that caricature
And that shadow of Hamlet imitating
The indecisive look and the hair in the wind.
Is it not a great pity to see this bon viveur,
This beggar, that vacationing minstrel, this rascal,
Because he knows how to play his role artistically,
Wants to interest in the song of his pains
The eagles, crickets, the streams and flowers,
And even to us, authors of these old rubrics
To recite by howling his public tirades?”

I could have (my pride as high as the mountains
Dominates the clouds and the cry of demons)
To simply divert my sovereign head,
If I had not seen among their obscene troop,
Crime that had not made the sun stagger!
The queen of my heart with the unparalleled look
Who laughed with them at my somber distress
And sometimes poured them some dirty caress.

La Béatrice
Dans des terrains cendreux, calcinés, sans verdure,
Comme je me plaignais un jour à la nature,
Et que de ma pensée, en vaguant au hasard,
J'aiguisais lentement sur mon coeur le poignard,
Je vis en plein midi descendre sur ma tête
Un nuage funèbre et gros d'une tempête,
Qui portait un troupeau de démons vicieux,
Semblables à des nains cruels et curieux.
À me considérer froidement ils se mirent,
Et, comme des passants sur un fou qu'ils admirent,
Je les entendis rire et chuchoter entre eux,
En échangeant maint signe et maint clignement d'yeux:

— «Contemplons à loisir cette caricature
Et cette ombre d'Hamlet imitant sa posture,
Le regard indécis et les cheveux au vent.
N'est-ce pas grand'pitié de voir ce bon vivant,
Ce gueux, cet histrion en vacances, ce drôle,
Parce qu'il sait jouer artistement son rôle,
Vouloir intéresser au chant de ses douleurs
Les aigles, les grillons, les ruisseaux et les fleurs,
Et même à nous, auteurs de ces vieilles rubriques,
Réciter en hurlant ses tirades publiques?»

J'aurais pu (mon orgueil aussi haut que les monts
Domine la nuée et le cri des démons)
Détourner simplement ma tête souveraine,
Si je n'eusse pas vu parmi leur troupe obscène,
Crime qui n'a pas fait chanceler le soleil!
La reine de mon coeur au regard nonpareil
Qui riait avec eux de ma sombre détresse
Et leur versait parfois quelque sale caresse.
---
I am riding high on something today.

Allégorie

The month of May is upon us and now I watch this year's class undergo the same rites that I myself endured. It's strange. It's almost as if time has stood still for this past year and that only now am I actually thinking that I can move forward. I have been out of every loop I can possibly think of and I refuse to believe that this is a bad thing. I have focus, I have my love, I have a comfortable existence. Nine poems left to translate before this project is completed. Maybe I will contemplate it all in retrospect; maybe I won't think of it again after I post my very last. Who knows, who cares. I have no audience and that's fine.

Allegory
She is a beautiful woman with a rich neckline,
Who lets her hair drag in her wine,
The claws of love, the poisons of dives,
All slide and become dull on the granite of her skin,
She laughs at Death and taunts Debauchery,
These monsters whose hands, which always scratch and cut,
In their destructive games have yet respected
The rude majesty of this firm and upright body.
She walks like a goddess and reposes like a sultan;
She has the Muslim’s faith in pleasure,
And into her open arms, that her breasts fill,
She calls the race of humans with her eyes.
She believes, she knows, that virgin infertile
And yet necessary to the tread of the world,
That the beauty of body is a sublime gift
Which extracts pardon of all infamy.
She knows not of Hell or Purgatory
And when the hour comes to enter into the black Night
She will look at the face of Death
Like a newborn, —without hatred and without remorse.

Allégorie
C'est une femme belle et de riche encolure,
Qui laisse dans son vin traîner sa chevelure.
Les griffes de l'amour, les poisons du tripot,
Tout glisse et tout s'émousse au granit de sa peau.
Elle rit à la Mort et nargue la Débauche,
Ces monstres dont la main, qui toujours gratte et fauche,
Dans ses jeux destructeurs a pourtant respecté
De ce corps ferme et droit la rude majesté.
Elle marche en déesse et repose en sultane;
Elle a dans le plaisir la foi mahométane,
Et dans ses bras ouverts, que remplissent ses seins,
Elle appelle des yeux la race des humains.
Elle croit, elle sait, cette vierge inféconde
Et pourtant nécessaire à la marche du monde,
Que la beauté du corps est un sublime don
Qui de toute infamie arrache le pardon.
Elle ignore l'Enfer comme le Purgatoire,
Et quand l'heure viendra d'entrer dans la Nuit noire
Elle regardera la face de la Mort,
Ainsi qu'un nouveau-né, — sans haine et sans remords.
---
What?

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.