Sherry Chandler » Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
Langueur
Je suis l’Empire à la fin de la décadence,
Qui regarde passer les grands Barbares blancs
En composant des acrostiches indolents
D’un style d’or où la langueur du soleil danse.L’âme seulette a mal au cœur d’un ennui dense,
Là-bas on dit qu’il est de longs combats sanglants.
Ô n’y pouvoir, étant si faible aux vœux si lents,
Ô n’y vouloir fleurir un peu cette existence!Ô n’y vouloir, ô n’y pouvoir mourir un peu!
Ah! tout est bu ! Bathylle, as-tu fini de rire?
Ah! tout est bu, tout est mangé ! Plus rien à dire!Seul, un poème un peu niais qu’on jette au feu,
Seul, un esclave un peu coureur qui vous néglige,
Seul, un ennui d’on ne sait quoi qui vous afflige!—Paul Verlaine
I read a little bit of French. Not enough to read Proust, but enough to find this famous Verlaine sonnet delightful, it is at once so grandiose and so self-mocking. So very French.
I ran across it reading Richard Moore and thought I’d share it here.
It seems, somehow, a poem for the George W. Bush years.
You’ll find a translation by Gertrude Hall here at Project Gutenberg. It’s not a wonderful translation: too literal. French just doesn’t treat a sentence the way English does. Anyway, I think it may be a poem that defies translation.
French can say: Seul, un poème un peu niais qu’on jette au feu,
To say: Alone, a vapid verse one tosses in the fire; sounds as silly as the silly (vapid) poem.
Moore himself renders the line Only a poem, a little dull, dropped in the fire;, less literal but more true to the original I think.
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2 Comments
1. Joanie DiMartino replies at 25th July 2007, 9:09 am :
Can you give the whole Moore translation? I agree, the Moore is much closer to the original. I’d like to see the whole poem text by him.
Thanks!
Joanie
2. sherry replies at 25th July 2007, 10:49 am :
Yes, Joanie. I’d be glad of your further comments. This is from “Classicism in Poetry,” The Rule That Liberates (Univ South Dakota, 1994), page 58:
Lassitude
I am the Empire in its final decadence;
It watches the magnificent blond Teutons pass,
And it composes still its indolent acrostics,
Style of pure gold, where the sun’s lassitudes dance.
The solitary soul sickens with weariness.
Down there, one hears rumors of long and bloody battles.
No, one cannot—So weak, so empty of desire;
No, one will not let flower a little this existence.
No, one will not, and, no, one cannot die a little!
Ah! Drink’s all gone! Bathyllus, have you finished laughing?
Ah! Drink’s all gone; no more to eat, no more to say.
One a poem, a little dull, dropped in the fire;
Only a slave, a little wayward, who neglects you;
Only a weariness—Of what, what? that afflicts you.
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