CI LES PETITES VIEILLES / CI THE LITTLE OLD BIDDIES ( TOUJOURS BAUDELAIRE)

                                           My paternal grandmother, Nancy, with my grandfather, Sean,

                                           in Free State uniform having just been released from gaol.  

                                                    

                       

 

CI

LES PETITES VIELLES

A Victor Hugo

 

Dans les plis sinueux des vielles capitals,

Où tout, même l’horreur, tourne aux enchantements,

Je guette, obeisant à mes humeurs fatales,

Des êtres singuliers, décrépits et charmants.

 

Ces monstres disloqués furent jadis des femmes,

Éponine ou Lais ! Monstres brisés, bossus,

Ou tordu, aimons-les! ce sont encore des âmes.

Sous des joupons troués et sous de froids tissus

 

Ils rampant, flagellés par les bises iniques,

Frémissant au fracas roulant des omnibus,

Et serrant sur leur flane, ainsi que des reliques,

Un petit sac brodé de fleurs ou de rebus;

 

Ils trottent, tout pareils à des marionnettes;

Se traînent, comme font les animaux blessés,

Ou dansent, sans vouloir danser, pauvre sonnettes

Ou se prendre un Démon sans pitié! Tout cassés.

 

 

 

Qu’ils sont, ils ont des yeux perçants comme un vrille,

Luisants comme ces trous où l’eau dort dans la nuit;

Ils ont les yeux divins de la petite fille

Qui s’étonne et qui rit à tout ce qui reluit.

 

Avez vous observé que maints cercueils des vieilles

Sont presque aussi petits que celui d’un enfant?

La Mort savante met dans ces bières pareilles

Un symbole d’un goût bizarre et captivant,

 

Et lorsque j’entrevois un fantôme débile

Traversant de Paris le fourmillant tableau,

Il me semble toujours que cet être fragile

S’en va tout doucement vers un nouveau berceau;

 

À moins que, méditant sur la géométrie,

Je ne cherche, à l’aspect de ces members discords,

Combien de fois il faut que l’ouvrier varie

La forme de la boîte où l’on met tous ces corps.

 

Ces yeuxs sont des puits faits d’un million de larmes,

Des creusets qu’un metal refroidi pailleta…

Ces yeux mystérieux ont d’invincibles charmes

Pour celui que l’austére Infortune allaita!

 

 

 

II

 

 

De l’ancien Frascati Vestale anamourée;

Prêtresse de Thalie, hélas ! dont le souffleur

Défunt, seul, sait le nom; célèbre évaporée

Que Tivoli jadis ombragea dans sa fleur,

 

Toutes m’enivrent! mais parm ices êtres frêles

Il en est qui, faisant, de la douleur un miel,

Ont dit au Dévouement qui leur prêtait ses ailes,

“Hippogriffe puissant, mène-moi jusqu’au ciel!”

 

L’une, par sa patrie au Malheur exercée,

L’autre, que son époux surchargea de douleurs,

L’autre, par son enfant Madone transpercée,

Toutes auraient pu faire un fleuve avec leurs pleurs!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

III

 

Telles vous cheminez, stoïques et sans plaints,

A travers le chaos de vivantes cités,

Mères au cœur saignant, courtisanes ou saintes,

Don’t autrefois les noms par tous étaient cites.

 

Vous qui fûtes la grâce ou qui fûtes la gloire,

Nul ne vous reconnaît! Un ivrogne incivil

Vous insulte en passent d’un amour dérisoire;

Sur vos talons gambade un enfant lâche et vil.

 

Honteuses d’exister, ombres ratatinée,

Peureuses, le dos bas, vous côtoyer les murs;

Et nul ne vous salue, étranges destinées!

Débris d’Humanité pour l’éternité mûrs!

 

Mais moi, moi qui de loin tendrement vous surveil

L’oeil inquiet, fixé sur vos pas incertains,

Tout comme si j’étais votre père, ô merveille !

Je goute à votre insu des plaisirs clandestins :

 

Je vois s’épanouir vos passions novices;

Sombres ou lumineux, je vis vos jours perdus;

Mon cœur multiplié jouit de tous vos vices!

Mon âme resplendit de toutes vos vertues!

 

Ruines! ma famille ! ô cerveaux congénères !

Je vous fais chaque soir un solennel adieu !

Où serez – vous demain, Èves octogénaires,

Sur qui pèse la griffe efforyable de Dieu?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CI

 

THE LITTLE OLD BIDDIES[i]

 

A Victor Hugo

 

I

 

In the sinuous folds of the old capitals,

Where everything, even horror, becomes an enchantment,

Obeying my fatal moods, I appreciate the vision of

Some singular beings, decrepit and charming.

 

These dislocated monsters who were at one time women,

Grace or Marlene, both now are broken hunch-backed monsters,

Or twisted; let us love them! as they are still souls.

Underneath the torn dresses and the skimpy material 

 

They crawl flagellated by the unjust kisses,

Shivering with the fracas of the passing busses,

Tightening their flanks just like old relics,

An old braided bag handstitched with flowers or some such;

 

Just like marionettes, they trot about,

Trailing like wounded beasts,

Or dancing, without really wanting to dance, poor little

Bells, which a pitiless demon has under his spell!

 

All broken as they are, they have piercing eyes like screws,

Glistening like those wells which sleep at night;

They have divine eyes like little girls,

Which stun and which laugh and which glimmer.

 

Death the savant knows how to put into small beer

A symbol of the captivating taste for the bizarre;

Have you ever observed the squirrel like hands

Of elderly women that are as small as those of children?

 

 When I catch a glimpse of a silly old phantom

Traversing Paris, the teeming backdrop,

It always seems to me that these fragile creatures

Are going about their journey towards a new cradle;

 

Then Meditating on the geometry, unless

I do not look, at the aspect of the discordant limbs;

I must ask, How many times must the labourer vary

The form of the coffin, so as to accommodate the corpse?

 

Their eyes are the wells of a million tears

The crucible of the metal cools the flakes…

These mysterious eyes have invisible charms,

For those whom austere misfortune has blessed.

 

 

II

 

 

From the ancient vestals of enamoured Frascati;

Priestess of Thalia, alas! whose defunct prompter,

Alone, knows the name; all celebrity having evaporated

Into the shade of Tivoli with its flowers.

 

  Everything annoys me! But among these frail beings

There are some who distil an ambrosia from pain;

We say to the Devotion which lends them wings

“Powerful Hippogriffe, lift me to the sky!” 

 

One, because of her country, her sorrow is exerted,

Another, her husband supercharges her with pain,

Another, through her child has become an inflicted Madonna;

All could make rivers from their tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

III

 

 

Whatever stoic path you take without grievance,

Through the chaos of  living cities,

Mothers with bleeding hearts, courtesan or saint,

In past times the names of all were cited, 

 

You who once embodied grace and glory,

Now none recognise you; an uncouth drunk

Insults you passing a derisory love;

At your heels trails a lazy, vile child.

 

Shameful existence, withered shades,

Fearful, backs stooped low, you hug the walls;

And nobody greets you, strange destinies,

Debris of humanity, for eternity alone…ripe! 

 

But I, I who watch you tenderly from afar

With an uneasy eye fixed on your uncertain steps,

Almost with a paternal eye, o marvel !

Unbeknownst to you, I feed upon these clandestine pleasures:

 

I see your novice passions fading;

Sombre and luminous, I live your lost days;

My heart multiplies playing to all your vices!

My resplendent soul to all your virtues! 

 

Ruin! my family! O mind of my peers!

Every night, I bid you a solemn adieu!

Who will you be tomorrow, octogenarian Eves,

On whom press the terrible claws of God?

---

[i]

 

This Mortal Coil

 

It is a sign of Baudelaire’s genius that a poem such as this can still halt one in one’s tracks, as the meditation on mortality is so profound, and after all, is not this singular quality all we ask for, really, from a poet? In an age when we bander about words like ‘inclusivity’ and ‘equity’ on a daily basis, taken from some masthead of an NGO, so often so that the ideas that they are supposed to embody just appear meaningless platitudes. Ideology, after all, is just that. Mere slogans do not poetry make, no matter how hard our trusted public servants try to make us believe.

 

When I was working on translating this poem over a number of days, I found myself thinking about my paternal grandmother who survived my grandfather, whose middle name I took, by quite a few years. I had the very good fortune of living with this old woman who could remember the fighting going on in the city during the civil war. She was working as a waitress in a popular café at the time and witnessed Free State soldiers setting up a machine gun in the place where she worked.

 

I spent over a year living with her in the quite neighbourhood of Sandymount where she spent most of her life with her beloved husband Sean, a great reader of Robert Service. I can still see the old PYE radio in the corner by his old leather armchair, and the old volume of verse evoking the Klondike. Those were some of the happiest memories of my childhood, sitting up, usually, late at night smoking a Sweet Afton and sipping from an old bottle of Guinness taken from the cool pantry at the bottom of the stairs.

 

Gran had chronic arthritis and rheumatism, so the images and descriptions of the ‘old biddies’ described above in the poet’s poem really resonated for me, as I could see my own grandmother in the verse. Baudelaire was a great observer of humanity, and in all of its many diverse forms. There is no ageism on show here, the poet is as inclusive as one can possibly be. I can’t remember reading a poem about the plight of the elderly which has rested with me as this poem by Baudelaire. As very rarely do the elderly figure in any discourse today. This poem, it seems to me, is a veritable antidote to the meaningless platitudes that we see and hear and read about us on every website, newspaper or magazine article or social media post. As it is not just promoting some vapid ideology which will be forgotten in twenty or so years, but rather is tapping deep into the core of who we truly are, or, will inevitably be if we live to even see it!  

 

 

XCV PAYSAGE / CITYSCAPE AND DEREK MAHON'S ADAPTATION THE YELLOW BOOK

 

XCV

 PAYSAGE

 

Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues ,

Coucher auprès du ciel , comme les astrologues,

Et, voisin des clocher, écouter en révant

Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.

Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,

Je verrai l’atelier qui chante et qui bavarde ;

Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mats de la cité ,

Et les grands ciel qui font réver d’éternité.

 

Il est doux, à travers les brumes, de voir naitre

L’étoile dans l’azur, la lampe à la fenêtre,

Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament

Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.

Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes ;

Et quand viendra l’hiver aux neiges monotones,

Je fermerai partout  portières et volets

Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.

Alors je rêverai des horizons bleuâtres,

Des jardins, des jets d’eaux pleurant dans les albâtres,

Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,

Et tout ce que l’Idylle a de plus enfantin.

L’Emeute, tempêtant vainement à ma vitre,

Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre ;

Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté

D’évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,

De tirer un soleil de mon cœur, et de faire

De mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère.

 

XCV 

CITYSCAPE[i]

 

In order to compose more chastely my eclogues, I wish

To sleep under the sky like the cosmologists,

And listen while dreaming under the bells

Upon their solemn hymns transported on the winds.

Up in the attic, with both hands under my chin,

Where I’d see in the atelier those who’d talk and sing ;

The pipes, the bells, those staples of the city,

And the great skies which make you dream of eternity.

 

Among the fog, it is only natural, to see come alive

The stars in the azure, the lamp at a window,

The streams of coal smoke rising to greet the firmament

And the moon then versing its enchantment.

I’ll see the spring, summers and autumns ;

And when the winters come with their monotonous snow,

Everywhere I’ll close up the doors and the shutters

In order to construct my dreamy palace.

And then I will be able to see bluer horizons,

Gardens, jets of water spurting from the alabaster,

 Kisses, the birds singing night and day,

And all that is idyllic and most infantile.

Mutely, storms raving at my window

Will not force me to lift my head from my desk;

For I will be lost in that voluptuousness

Evoking the spring at my bidding,

Taking the sun from my heart, and making

My burning thoughts gently acclimatise.

 

---

[i]

 

 

 

What I love about this poem by Baudelaire is the completely unexpected innocence of it, situated particularly after the tumult of splenetic poems which completes the first section of Les Fleurs Du Mal, this poem, as the instigator of a completely new section of the book – Tableaux Parisiens – it allows us the readers, and no doubt the poet or author too, time to recalibrate and start anew. Remember, section II Tableaux Parisiens unlike section I, Spleen et Idéal, will be grounded in the real world, as it were, as opposed to the ideal projections which we encountered in the first section, and this is an aspect of Les Fleurs Du Mal which must really be taken into account. Baudelaire really is ahead of his time, predating phenomenology by over half a century, and yet what is the book but a complete phenomenological exploration of the human soul, in all its many diverse aspects. This is why Baudelaire needs to be continuously assessed as a poet, particularly today, as the almost two-dimensional image of him as the eternal poète maudit  simply does not stand up to scrutiny. Again, the ‘lazy’ reading which has become endemic of our times is all too easy and futile. Rather, when you engage with the book, over a series of readings, which often take place a numerous times during your life ( typically youth, middle-age, and old age ), what one in fact finds, as with all canonical works, is that the truth of a work of art of the calibre of Les Fleurs Du Mal, rather like the author who composed it, is far more complex than one might have ever expected and which is why Re-readings are so important. And of course, one could add to that, as are Re-translations – or transversions. 

 Another thing I wish to point out here is Derek Mahon’s treatment of the same poem, which he curiously translates as The Yellow Book. The reference can only be to the famous literary periodical that came out in Britain during the late nineteenth century after Baudelaire had died and whose influence thanks to writers and artists like Verlaine, Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley would, the two latter were both published in The Yellow Book and whose aesthetic was very much French decadence, which I found a rather interesting device by Mahon to evoke the old demi-monde of Victorian Britain in the context of the poem by Baudelaire. But once again, rather like Ciaran Carson and Ulick O’Conor, Mahon insists on trying to maintain the rhyming scheme in English which again I find so utterly pointless.

French is a vowel based language where all the vowel sounds need to be accentuated when you are speaking it, indeed as with all Romance languages such as Italian and Spanish. However, English, being a Germanic language, is stress based. So the emphasis is no longer placed on the vowels but on the content words, and this is a profound change on the emphasis and of course music and cadence and rhythm of the particular languages. It is all important. So, that when you read a stanza or even a couplet in a poem by Baudelaire , you simply can never expect to retain the same serpentine melody which is so hypnotic in the French original, which is why I made the very conscious decision not to try and retain the rhyme, unless of course it happened naturally, and sometimes it does, but never to force it. This is what I find so disagreeable with rhyming Baudelaire in English. Let me show you what I mean. Here is the first verse of the poem again in French.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues ,

Coucher auprès du ciel , comme les astrologues,

Et, voisin des clocher, écouter en révant

Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.

Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,

Je verrai l’atelier qui chante et qui bavarde ;

Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mats de la cité ,

Et les grands ciel qui font rêver d’éternité.

 

Now, here is Derek Mahon’s adaptation taken from his Collected Poems ( Gallery Press, 1999.)

 

Chastely to write these eclogues I need to lie,

like the astrologers, in an attic next the sky

where, high among church spires, I can dream and hear

their grave hymns wind-blown to my ivory tower.

Chin in hand, up here in my apartment block,

I can see workshops full of noise and talk,

cranes and masts of the ocean-going city,

vast cloud-packed photographs of eternity.

 

Okay, so if you read the French first, paying attention to the punctuation, Baudelaire uses non-defining relative clauses, like most poets, to great effect, and these break up the cantering rhythm which the English just seems to run off with. However, there is something else going on here and that is in the actual content itself, now Mahon in all fairness does reject outrightly Ted Hughe’s claim to remain literal rather than depart; Mahon never called his versions translations, but ‘adaptations’ rather. And that is fine with me, unless you are going to alter a perfectly good line in French which translates rather perfectly literally, which is the case with the last line, I believe, of the sonnet above and which is actually one of my favourite lines in French by Baudelaire.

 

Et les grands ciel qui font rêver d’éternité. ( Baudelaire)

vast cloud-packed photographs of eternity. ( Mahon)

And the great skies which make you dream of eternity. ( O’Neill)  

 

 

 

Life's a Beach - a new summer poem !

                                                                        

                                                                       Life’s a Beach

 Bukowski meets Eliot

 

 

 And the thought dawned upon me;

What if God takes the same delight in people watching?

On the beach in Italy, of course.

And then suddenly that thought made me truly see.

 

After all, I could sit there on a deck chair watching all day,

People watching under the ombrellone,

With perhaps the odd beer and cigarette

Watching the people passing by;

 

The middle- aged man with a sad gut sucking on a fag

And beside him the three middle-aged women

Bronzed like old leather statue,

 

In turn looking enviously at the young

Girls and women all of whom are out to sea,

Their whole lives lost out there out upon the open  horizon.