Diana

 

                                                                                      

Diana

 

 

 

Sunday, walking along the woodland path,

With your dog following dutifully,

The great wedge of sunlight pouring in

From the sea, breaking through the trees.

 

Everything good comes from the East;

All of the gods, but the most wonderful to see

Is Diane illuminated by the sun,

Bow in hand, deftly running with the hunt.

 

And at this, I think of you!

I had never made the connection before.

But, how apt to think of you and Artemis.

 

Goddess of feminine independence,

Protection and strength, wildness and freedom;

All trace of who illuminates the branches.

 

 

 

 

Variations on a Sublime Line

 

                                                                                        

 

 

Variations on a Sublime Line

 

 

Baudelaire has written some of the most beautiful lines in the French language, and here is one of them.

 

Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d’éternité.

 

It’s the last line taken from the first verse of LXXXVI PAYASAGE which is the opening poem of section two TABLEAUX PARISIENS of Les Fleurs du Mal, and it is also the first line that comes into my head when I look up at the sky and see a beautiful sun set, whether it is in the depths of November or in the middle of the month of May.  

The first thing about it is without a doubt the twelve syllable count which just trips over the tongue in the most enjoyable way, and this is the famous heroic metre that exists and which is called the alexandrine. The alexandrine is made up of six syllables followed by a pause or what is known as a caesura, which is then followed by another six syllables.

 

Et les grands ciels qui font – rêver d’éternité.

 

So, the six words at the beginning are each marked by a vowel each, the ie counting as one as it is a diphthong, so is pronounced as a single vowel sound, and this is a good rule of thumbas the syllables are counted as they are pronounced, not by the amount of vowels that there are. This is the first thing to note about the line, the absolute pleasure that it brings both to recite and to hear it being recited; le plaisir de dire et de l’entendre…!

 

One should of course be aware that the alexandrine is a heroic metre and so it is used in epic poems and brings with it a register that creates a rather sombre majesty, and which Baudelaire uses quite often in his poetry. This is important to understand, particularly when one is trying to translate him properly. I only say this as I have seen poets absolutely butcher his poetry by translating such lines in a kind of whimsically British/ English or even American way.

 

Okay, so much for the metrics, what about the actually words themselves! Well, this is where it gets very interesting. What follows now are some variations of how you might try to render this sublime line in an English translation.

 

 

Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d’éternité.

 

And the great skies which make dream eternity.

And the great skies which make dreams of eternity.

 

What is really interesting I find is the lack of an object in the second clause, it is rather curious in its formality, and is much more closer to the original French than say the following when you introduce an object proper, which sounds so much more natural today.

 

And the great skies which make you dream of eternity.

 

But then, when you play around with the verb form and switch it to an adjective or a noun you can come up with some interesting variations too.  

 

And the great skies which make dream eternal.

And the great skies which make dreams eternal.

And the great skies which make eternal dreams.

And the great skies which make eternity dream.

Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d’éternité.

And the great skies which make you dream of eternity.

 

I always seem to come back to this line above, even though it breaks the metrical run of the line in English, I still think it is the most natural sounding.

 

I often recite this line in the original French to myself when I see a stunning sunset, and it always sounds so fresh and so eternal, and I think that this is the sign of a true poet one who can compose lines like this and which are eternally memorable and so bring eternal pleasure to generation after generation rather like the skies themselves which help to feed our dreams and our sense of the eternal. As long as we have skies that we can look to and which can inspire us, we will have poetry. It is that simple, and as long as we do not, we will not. A nuclear winter would blot out the sun, worth thinking about in the current climate.   

Here's another thing to think about, can you think of a similarly sublime line written by a contemporary poet and which makes you recite every time you see a day to day phenonmenon such as the line above? 

No? I didn't think so! That's why Baudelaire is considered a classic.  

FEMMES DAMNÉES - DELPHINE ET HIPPOLYTE PAR BAUDELAIRE

                                                Two figures Francis Bacon, 1953. 

                                                                                      III

 

FEMMES DAMNÉES

 

DELPHINE ET HIPPOLYTE

 

 

A la pâle claret des lampes languissantes,

Sur de profonds cousins tout imprégnés d’odeur,

Hippolyte rêvait aux caresses puissantes

Qui levaient le rideau de sa jeune candeur.

 

Elle cherchait, d’un œil trouble par la tempête,

De sa naïevté le ciel déja lointain,

Ainsi qu’un voyager qui retourne la tête

Vers les horizons bleus dépassés le matin.

 

De ses yeux amortis les paresseuses larmes,

L’air brisé, la stupeur, la morne volupté,

Ses bras vaincus, jetés comme de vaines armes,

Tout servait, tout parait sa fragile beauté.

 

Étendu à ses pieds, calme et pleine de joie,

Delphine la couvert avec des yeux ardents,

Comme un animal fort qui surveille une proie,

Après l’avoir d’abord marquée avec les dents.

 

Beauté forte à genoux devant la beauté frêle,

Superbe, elle humait voluptueusement

Le vin de son triomphe, et s’allongeait vers elle,

Comme pour recueiller un doux remercîment.

 

Elle cherchait dans l’œil de sa pâle victim

Le cantique muet que chante le plaisir,

Et cette gratitude infinite et sublime

Qui sort de la paupière ainsi qu’un long soupir.

 

“Hippolyte, cher cœur, que dis-tu de ces choses?

Comprends-tu maitenant qu’il ne faut pas offrir

L’holocauste sacré de tes premiers roses

Aux souffles violents qui pourraient les flétris?

 

Mes baisers sont légers comme ces éphéméres

Oui caressent le soir les grands lacs transparents,

Et ceux de ton amant creuseront leurs ornières

Comme des chariots ou des socs déchirants;

 

Ils passeront sur toi comme un lourd attelage

De chevaux et des boeufs aux sabots sans pitié…

Hippolyte, ô ma sœur! Tourney donc ta visage,

Toi, mon âme et mon cœur, mon tout et ma moitié.

 

Tourne vers moi tes yeux pleins d’azur et d’étoiles!

Pour un de ces regards charmants, baume divin,

Des plaisirs plus obscurs je lèverais les voiles

Et je t’endormirai dans un rêve sans fin!”

 

Mais Hippolyte alors, levant sa jeune tête:

“Je ne suis point ingrate et ne me repens pas,

Ma Delphine, je souffre et je suis inquiète,

Comme après un nocturne et terrible repas.

 

Je sens fondre sur moi des lourdes épouvants

Et des noirs battalions de fantômes épars,

Oui veulent me conduire en des routes mouvantes

Qu’un horizon sanglant ferme de toutes parts.

 

Avons-nous donc commis une action étrange?

Explique, sit u peux, mon trouble et mon effroi;

Je frissonne de peur quand tu me dit: “Mon ange!”

Et cependent je sens ma bouche aller vers toi.

 

Ne me regarde pas ainsi, toi, ma pensée!

Toi qui j’aime à jamais, ma sœur d’élection,

Quand même tu serais une embûche dressée

Et le commencement de ma perdition.”

 

Delphine secouant sa criniere tragique,

Et comme trépignant sur le trépied de fer,

L’œil fatal, répondit d’une voix despotique:

“Oui donc devant l’amour ose parler d’enfer?

Maudit soi à jamais le rêveur inutile

Oui voulait le premier, dans sa stupidité,

S’éprenant d’un probléme insoluble et stérile,

Aux choses de l’amour mêler l’honnêteté !

 

Celui qui unir dans un accord mystique

L’ombre avec la chaleur, la nuit avec le jour,

Ne chauffera jamais son corps paralytique

A ce rouge soleil que l’on nomme l’amour!

 

Vá, sit u veux, chercher un fiancé stupide;

Cours offrir un cœur vierge à ces cruels baisers;

Et, pleine de remords et horreur, et livide,

Tu me rapporteras tes seins stimatisés…

 

On ne peut ici bas contenter qu’un seul maître!”

Mais l’enfant, épanchant une immense douleur,

Cria soudain: “Je sens s’élargir dans mon être

Un abime béant; cet abîme est mon cœur!

 

Brûlant comme un volcan, profond comme le vide!

Rien ne rassasiera se monster gémissant

Et ne refraîchira la soif de l’Euménide

Qui, la torche à la main, le brûle jusqu’au sang.

 

Que nos rideaux fermés nous séparent du monde,

Et que la lassitude amène le repos!

Je veux m’anéantir dans ta gorge profonde,

Et trouver sur ton sein la fraîcheur des tombeaux!”

 

Descendez, descendez, lamentables victimes,

Descendez le chemin de l’enfer éternel!

Plongez au plus profond du gouffre, où tous les crimes,

Flagellés par un vent qui ne vient pas du ciel,

 

Bouillonnent pêle-mêle avec un bruit d’orage.

Ombres folles, courez au but de vos désirs;

Jamais vous ne pourrez assouvir votre rage,

Et votre châtiment naîtra de vos plaisirs.

 

Jamais un rayon frais n’éclaira vos cavernes;

Par le fentes des murs des miasmes fiévreux

Filtrent en s’enflammant ainsi que des lanternes

Et pénètrent vos corps de leurs parfums affreux.

 

L’âpre stérilité de votre jouissance

Altère votre soif et rodit votre peau,

Et le vent furibund de la concupiscence

Fait claquer votre chair ainsi qu’un vieux drapeau.

 

Loin des peoples vivants, errantes, condamnées,

A travers les deserts courez comme les loups;

Faites votre destin, âmes désordonées,

Et fuyez l’infini que vous portez en vous.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

III

 

THE DAMNED WOMEN

 

HIPPOLYTE AND DELPHINE

 

By the pale clarity of the languishing lamps

Upon deep cushions impregnated with scents,

Hippolyte dreams of powerful caresses

Which raise the curtain on her young candour.

 

With an eye troubled by the storm, she searches

Through her naivety the sky already afar,

Just like a traveller who turns her head

Towards the blue horizons beyond the morning.

 

Through her subdued eyes the lazy tears,

The broken look, the stupor, the mournful voluptuousness,

Her vanquished arms, discarded like useless weapons,

Everything serves, her fragile beauty in everything appears.

 

Spread at her feet, calm and full of joy,

Delphine looks her over with ardent eyes,

Like a strong animal surveying its prey,

After having already marked her with her teeth.

 

Strong beauty on her knees before frail beauty,

Superb, she inhales voluptuously

The wine of her triumph, and leans towards her,

As if to receive a gentle thanks.

 

She searches in the eye of her pale victim

The mute song which pleasure sings,

And that infinite and sublime gratitude

Which the pupils release after a long sigh.

 

“Hippolyte, dear heart, what say you to these things?

Do you understand now that you must not offer

The sacred holocaust of your first roses

To the violent winds which could wither you?

 

My kisses are as light as the ephemeral winds

Which caress at night the great transparent lakes,

And those of your lover dig up tracks

Like ploughs furrowing the earth.

 

They pass over you like a team of heavy horses

Or team of oxen with pitiless hooves and shoes…

Hippolyte, o my sister! Turn your face to me,

You, my heart and my soul, my other half and my all.

 

Turn your eyes to me full of azure and stars!

For one of those charming looks, a divine balm,

For pleasures more obscure I’d lift the sails

And make you sleep in a dream without end!”

 

But Hippolyte so, lifting her young head:

“ I am not so ungrateful as to not rethink again,

But Delphine, I am uneasy and I suffer

As if after a nocturn and a terrible meal.

 

I feel melting upon me these heavy terrors

And the black battalions of scattered phantoms,

Which want to steer me onto shifting routes and

Whose bloody horizon closes in upon me on all sides.

 

Have we not committed a strange act?

Explain, if you can, my troubles and my fears;

I tremble with fear when you say to me: “My angel!”

And yet my mouth veers towards you.

 

Delphine shaking her mane tragically,

Putting her foot down on the tripod of iron,

With a fatal eye replied with a despotic voice:

“Who then before love wishes to speak of Hell?

 

Cursed forever be the useless dreamer

Who would firstly, in their stupidity,

Mix into an insoluble and sterile problem

The things of love to do with honesty!

 

He who would unite into a mystical accord

Shade with heat, night with day,

Will never heat their paralytic body

Against the red sun we call love!

 

Go, if you want, find yourself a stupid fiancé;

Run, offer your virgin heart to his cruel kisses;

And, full of remorse and livid horror,

You will return to show me your stigmatised breasts…

 

On this earth, we cannot serve two masters!”

But the child, let out an immense pain,

Suddenly cried out: “I feel unfolding within my Being

A beatific void; this void that is my heart!

 

Burning like a volcano, profound like the void!

Nothing can satiate the moaning monster

Nor can anything appease the thirst of the Eumenides

Who, torch in hand, burn to the core.

 

May our closed curtains separate us from the world

And may our lassitude then bring sweet repose!

I wish to annihilate myself in your deep gorge,

And find upon your breasts the freshness of the tomb

 

Descend, descend, lamentable victims,

Descend along the way to eternal hell!

Plunge into the most profound gulf where all the crimes

Are flagellated by a storm that comes not from the sky,

 

Seethe pell-mell with the sound of the storm.

Crazed shades, chase after your desires;

Never will you be able to fulfil your rage,

And your punishment will merely birth further pleasures!

 

Never did a fresh ray illuminate your caverns;

By the cracks in the walls did the feverish miasmas

Filtering like so inflame the lanterns

 And penetrate your bodies with their awful perfumes.

 

The sterile asp of your jouissance

Alters your thirst and preys upon your skin,

And the raging winds of desire

Make your flesh flap about like an old flag.

 

Far from living people, straying, condemned,

Across the deserts run like the wolves;

Make your own destiny, chaotic souls,

And run from the infinity which you harbour in you. 

 

ALLEGORY BY BAUDELAIRE

 

 

CXIV

ALLÉGORIE

 

C’est une femme belle et de riche encolure,

Oui laisse dans son vin trainer sa chevelure.

Les griffes de l’amour, les poisons du tripot,

Tout glisses et toute 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 ces 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 necessaire 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 remord.

 

 

CXIV

ALLEGORY

 

She’s a beautiful woman with a rich neckline,

Who leaves trailing a strand of her hair in her wine.

The claws of love, the poison of the den,

Everything slides and gets blunt upon the granite of her skin.

She laughs at Death and mocks Debauchery,

Those two monsters which her hand always scratches and withers,

In her destructive games though always respecting

Her firm and straight body and its rough majesty.

She walks as a Goddess and reposes like a sultan;

She finds in pleasure the faith of a devout Muslim,

And in her outstretched arms, which cover her breasts,

She signals with her eyes the whole human race.

She believes, she knows, that infertile virgin

All that is necessary in the ways of the world;

That the beauty of the body is the greatest prize,

And with every disgrace it can find forgiveness.

She ignores Hell just like she ignores Purgatory,

And when the hour comes in the black of Night,

She’ll look on Death just as she would a newborn;

And without hate, or even remorse.