GIFT OF A POEM
THE AFTERNOON OF A FAUN
THE TOMB OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
"LACE PASSES INTO NOTHINGNESS ..."
Nothing! this foam
and virgin verse
to designate nought but the cup;
such, far off, there plunges a troop
Of many Sirens upside down.
We are navigating,
Friends! I already on the poop
You the splendid prow which cuts
The main of thunders and of winters;
A fine ebriety calls
Without fear of its rolling
To carry, upright, this toast
Solitude, reef, star
To whatever it was that was worth
Our sail's white solicitude.
your dead wife, her friend)
- 'On the forgotten woods
when sombre winter passes
You complain, lonely threshold's prisoner,
That this double sepulchre which is to be our pride
Alone with the lack of great posies is loaded.
Without hearing Midnight
cast its vain number,
A vigil exalts you to continue awake
Until in the arms of the old armchair
The last fireglow has illumined my Shade.
He who would oft have
the Visitor should not
By too many flowers charge the tomb that my finger
Lifts with the lassitude of a force defunct.
Soul trembling at
the so clear hearth to be seated,
To live again it suffices that I borrow from your lips
The breath of my name murmured the evening long.'
GIFT OF A POEM
I bring you the child
of an Idumaean night!
Black, with wing bleeding, pale and unfeathered,
Through the glass burnt with incense and gold,
Through the panes, frozen, and still gloomy, alas
The dawn burst forth on the lamp angelic,
Palms! and when it had shown this relic
To its father attempting an enemy smile,
The blue and sterile solitude shuddered.
O nursing mother, with your child and the innocence
Of your cold feet, receive this horrible birth
And with your voice recalling viol and clavecin,
With your faded finger, will you press the breast
Whence flows in sibylline whiteness woman
For lips made hungry by the blue virgin air?
THE AFTERNOON OF A
These nymphs I would
Their light carnation, that it floats in the air
Heavy with tufted slumbers.
Was it a dream I loved?
My doubt, a heap of ancient night, is finishing
In many a subtle branch, which, left the true
Wood itself, proves, alas! that all alone I gave
Myself for triumph the ideal sin of roses.
Let me reflect . . .
if the girls of which you tell
Figure a wish of your fabulous senses!
Faun, the illusion escapes from the blue eyes
And cold, like a spring in tears, of the chaster one: But, the
other, all sighs, do you say she contrasts
Like a breeze of hot day in your fleece!
But no! through the still, weary faintness
Choking with heat the fresh morn if it strives,
No water murmurs but what my flute pours
On the chord sprinkled thicket; and the sole wind
Prompt to exhale from my two pipes, before
It scatters the sound in a waterless shower,
Is, on the horizon's unwrinkled space,
The visible serene artificial breath
Of inspiration, which regains the sky.
Oh you, Sicilian shores
of a calm marsh
That more than the suns my vanity havocs,
Silent beneath the flowers of sparks, RELATE
'That here I was cutting the hollow reeds tamed
By talent, when on the dull gold of the distant
Verdures dedicating their vines to the springs,
There waves an animal whiteness at rest:
And that to the prelude where the pipes first stir
This flight of swans, no! Naiads, flies
Or plunges . . .'
Inert, all burns in the fierce hour
Nor marks by what art all at once bolted
Too much hymen desired by who seeks the Ia:
Then shall I awake to the primitive fervour,
Straight and alone, 'neath antique floods of light,
Lilies and one of you all through my ingenuousness.
As well as this sweet
nothing their lips purr,
The kiss, which a hush assures of the perfid ones,
My breast, though proofless, still attests a bite
Mysterious, due to some august tooth;
But enough! for confidant such mystery chose
The great double reed which one plays 'neath the blue:
Which, the cheek's trouble turning to itself
Dreams, in a solo long, we might amuse
Surrounding beauties by confusions false
Between themselves and our credulous song;
And to make, just as high as love modulates,
Die out of the everyday dream of a back
Or a pure flank followed by my curtained eyes,
An empty, sonorous, monotonous line.
Try then, instrument
of flights, oh malign
Syrinx, to reflower by the lakes where you wait for me!
I, proud of my rumour, for long I will talk
Of goddesses; and by picturings idolatrous,
From their shades unloose yet more of their girdles:
So when of grapes the clearness I've sucked,
To banish regret by my ruse disavowed,
Laughing, I lift the empty bunch to the sky,
Blowing into its luminous skins and athirst
To be drunk, till the evening I keep looking through.
Oh nymphs, we diverse
'My eye, piercing the reeds, shot at each immortal
Neck, which drowned its burning in the wave
With a cry of rage to the forest sky;
And the splendid bath of their hair disappears
In the shimmer and shuddering, oh diamonds!
I run, when, there at my feet, enlaced. lie
(hurt by the languor they taste to be two)
Girls sleeping amid their own casual arms;
them I seize, and not disentangling them, fly
To this thicket, hated by the frivilous shade,
Of roses drying up their scent in the sun
Where our delight may be like the day sun-consumed.'
I adore it, the anger of virgins, the wild
Delight of the sacred nude burden which slips
To escape from my hot lips drinking, as lightning
Flashes! the secret terror of the flesh:
From the feet of the cruel one to the heart of the timid
Who together lose an innocence, humid
With wild tears or less sorrowful vapours.
'My crime is that I, gay at conquering the treacherous
Fears, the dishevelled tangle divided
Of kisses, the gods kept so well commingled;
For before I could stifle my fiery laughter
In the happy recesses of one (while I kept
With a finger alone, that her feathery whiteness
Should be dyed by her sister's kindling desire,
The younger one, naive and without a blush)
When from my arms, undone by vague failing,
This pities the sob wherewith I was still drunk.'
Ah well, towards happiness
others will lead me
With their tresses knotted to the horns of my brow:
You know, my passion, that purple and just ripe,
The pomegranates burst and murmur with bees;
And our blood, aflame for her who will take it,
Flows for all the eternal swarm of desire.
At the hour when this wood's dyed with gold and with ashes
A festival glows in the leafage extinguished:
Etna! 'tis amid you, visited by Venus
On your lava fields placing her candid feet,
When a sad stillness thunders wherein the flame dies.
I hold the queen!
O penalty sure . . .
No, but the soul
Void of word and my body weighed down
Succumb in the end to midday's proud silence:
No more, I must sleep, forgetting the outrage,
On the thirsty sand lying, and as I delight
Open my mouth to wine's potent star!
Adieu, both! I shall
see the shade you became.
by Roger Fry
THE TOMB OF CHARLES
The buried temple
through the sewer's dark
Sepulchral mouth that drools out mud and rubies
Reveals abominably some god Anubis
His whole snout blazing with a savage bark
Or should the new
gas twist the filthy wick
Assuager so well known of shame long brooded
It kindles haggard
an immortal pubis
Whose flight along the street lamps loiters awake
What dried leaves
in the towns without the prayer
Of night can bless as it again must cling
In vain against the marble of Baudelaire
In veils that wreathe
its absence with shimmering His own Shade this a guardian poison
To breathe in always even though it kill.
by Herbert Creekmore
"LACE PASSES INTO
Lace passes into nothingness,
With the ultimate Gamble in doubt,
In blasphemy revealing just
Eternal absence of any bed.
This concordant enmity
Of a white garland and the same,
In flight against the pallid glass,
Hovers and does not enshroud.
But where, limned
gold, the dreamer dwells,
There sleeps a mournful mandola,
Its deep lacuna source of song,
Of a kind that toward
Formed by that belly or none at all,
Filial, one might have been born.
by Patricia Terry and Maurice Z. Shroder
* From mallarmé:
poems ©1951 by New Directions translated
by Roger Fry.
Stéphane Mallarmé: Selected Poetry and Prose,
ed. ©Mary Ann Caws, ©1982 by New Directions Publishing