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Friday, December 23, 2011

Rimbaud: Ma Bohème




Ma Bohème

- Fantaisie -

Je m'en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J'allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j'étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là là ! que d'amours splendides j'ai rêvées !

Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
- Petit-Poucet rêveur, j'égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande Ourse.
- Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou

Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;

Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !





My Bohemian Life

- Phantasy -

I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;
My overcoat too was becoming ideal;
I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal;
Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of!

My only pair of breeches had a big whole in them.
– Stargazing Tom Thumb, I sowed rhymes along my way.
My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear.
– My stars in the sky rustled softly.

And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides
On those pleasant September evenings while I felt drops
Of dew on my forehead like vigorous wine;

And while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows,
I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics
Of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart!






Boema

- fantezie -

Umblam cu pumnii-n buzunarile crapate
Si chiar paltonul imi parea ca-i ideal.
Mergeam sub ceruri, Muza, si-ti eram vasal:
Ce de mai dragosti am visat, frumoase toate!

Nadragii mei aveau o gaura cam mare,
Dar insiram la rime, cufundat in vis.
Gaseam in Ursa Mare-un han mereu deschis,
Iar stelele-mi fosneau pe cer, incantatoare.

Le ascultam, pe margine de drum sezand,
In serile acelea de septemvre, cand
Simteam pe frunte roua – vin ametitor,

Si cand, rimand prin intunericul fantastic,
Trageam ca de o lira de-al ghetelor elastic,
Proptindu-mi inima cu un picior!

Sonnet form (Fr) abba cddc eef ggf (En) - (Ro) abba acca dde ffe


(Rimbaud)

(Petre Solomon)

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Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Rimbaud: Sensation



Par les soirs bleus d'été, j'irai dans les sentiers,
Picoté par les blés, fouler l'herbe menue :
Rêveur, j'en sentirai la fraîcheur à mes pieds.
Je laisserai le vent baigner ma tête nue.

Je ne parlerai pas, je ne penserai rien :
Mais l'amour infini me montera dans l'âme,
Et j'irai loin, bien loin, comme un bohémien,
Par la nature, heureux comme avec une femme.



On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass:
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.

I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing:
But endless love will mount in my soul;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gypsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.




In seri de vara-albastre, voi merge pe carari,
Sa ma intepe grane, sa calc pe ierbi marunte;
Prin proaspata racoare voi trece-n dulci visari,
Lasa-voi adierea sa scalde a mea frunte.

Fara a spune-o vorba si fara nici un gand,
Doar dragostea urca-va in suflet infinita;
Ca un nomad voi merge departe, strabatand
Preafericit, Natura, ca langa o iubita.
Romanian translation: Petru Dinca
(http://www.versuri-si-creatii.ro/poezii/r/arthur-rimbaud-6zucchu/senzatie-6zudndh.html)



(Rimbaud)

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Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Rimbaud: Roman





I

On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans.
- Un beau soir, foin des bocks et de la limonade,
Des cafés tapageurs aux lustres éclatants !
- On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade.

Les tilleuls sentent bon dans les bons soirs de juin !
L'air est parfois si doux, qu'on ferme la paupière ;
Le vent chargé de bruits - la ville n'est pas loin -
A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de bière....

II

-Voilà qu'on aperçoit un tout petit chiffon
D'azur sombre, encadré d'une petite branche,
Piqué d'une mauvaise étoile, qui se fond
Avec de doux frissons, petite et toute blanche...

Nuit de juin ! Dix-sept ans ! - On se laisse griser.
La sève est du champagne et vous monte à la tête...
On divague ; on se sent aux lèvres un baiser
Qui palpite là, comme une petite bête....

III

Le coeur fou Robinsonne à travers les romans,
Lorsque, dans la clarté d'un pâle réverbère,
Passe une demoiselle aux petits airs charmants,
Sous l'ombre du faux col effrayant de son père...

Et, comme elle vous trouve immensément naïf,
Tout en faisant trotter ses petites bottines,
Elle se tourne, alerte et d'un mouvement vif....
- Sur vos lèvres alors meurent les cavatines...

IV

Vous êtes amoureux. Loué jusqu'au mois d'août.
Vous êtes amoureux. - Vos sonnets La font rire.
Tous vos amis s'en vont, vous êtes mauvais goût.
- Puis l'adorée, un soir, a daigné vous écrire...!

- Ce soir-là,... - vous rentrez aux cafés éclatants,
Vous demandez des bocks ou de la limonade..
- On n'est pas sérieux, quand on a dix-sept ans
Et qu'on a des tilleuls verts sur la promenade.






I

When you are seventeen you aren't really serious.
- One fine evening, you've had enough of beer and lemonade,
And the rowdy cafes with their dazzling lights!
- You go walking beneath the green lime trees of the promenade.

The lime trees smell good on fine evenings in June!
The air is so soft sometimes, you close your eyelids;
The wind, full of sounds, - the town's not far away -
Carries odours of vines, and odours of beer...

II

- Then you see a very tiny rag
Of dark blue, framed by a small branch,
Pierced by an unlucky star which is melting away
With soft little shivers, small, perfectly white...

June night! Seventeen! - You let yourself get drunk.
The sap is champagne and goes straight to your head...
You are wandering; you feel a kiss on your lips
Which quivers there like something small and alive...

III

Your mad heart goes Crusoeing through all the romances,
- When, under the light of a pale street lamp,
Passes a young girl with charming little airs,
In the shadow of her father's terrifying stiff collar...

And because you strike her as absurdly naif,
As she trots along in her little ankle boots,
She turns, wide awake, with a brisk movement...
And then cavatinas die on your lips...

IV

You're in love. Taken until the month of August.
You're in love - Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends disappear, you are not quite the thing.
- Then your adored one, one evening, condescends to write to you...!

That evening,... - you go back again to the dazzling cafes,
You ask for beer or for lemonade...
- You are not really serious when you are seventeen
And there are green lime trees on the promenade...



La Tronche a Machin (Delahaye vu par Rimbaud, 1875)
(http://slipsure.blogspot.com/)



I

Nu esti profound la numai saptesprezece ani.
- La naiba, intr-o seara, si beri, si limonada,
Si zarva cafenelei cu lampile-n tavan !
- Te-afunzi domol sub teii verzi de pe promenada.

In seri de vara teii de-arome sint satui !
Vazduhu-atit de dulce-i, ca ochi sa-nchizi iti cere;
De zgomote plin vintul – departe-orasul nu-i –
Miroase doar a vita si a bere…

II

Deodata vezi un petec ingust de scumbru-azur
Prins in conturul unei micute crengi si care
E-mpuns cu rautate de-o stea ce din contur
Dispare, mica si-alba, cu dulce-nfiorare.

Saptesprezece numai, la ani! Nopti ! Iunie !
E de sampanii seva : la cap ti se ridica,
Si, ametit, bati cimpii…sub raza lunii e;
Simti un sarut pe buze, ca o jivina mica…

III

Cu inima nebuna, prin carti un Robinson,
- Cind, in lumina pala de felinar, se-arata
Trecind o domnisoara draguta sub un con
De umbra-a unui guler – ingrozitorul tata…

Cit de naiv te crede ! Umblind cu pasi marunti,
In pantofiori, sprintara se-ntoarce catre tine
Cu o miscare vie…- Si cum sa nu renunti,
Cind ti se sting atuncea pe buze cavatine…

IV

Indragostit esti pina in august. Si compui,
Indragostit, sonete, ce-o fac sa rida doara.
Amicii toti te lasa, esti de prost-gust oricui.
- Dar Ea se-nvredniceste sa-ti scrie intr-o seara.

- Atunci… - in cafeneaua cu lampile-n tavan
Te-ntorci si ceri iar bere sau poate limonada…
- Nu esti profound la numai saptesprezece ani,
Cind te imbie-atitia tei verzi pe promenada.

(Rimbaud)

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Sunday, December 18, 2011

Rimbaud: Rêvé pour l’Hiver



L’hiver, nous irons dans un petit wagon rose
Avec des coussins bleus.
Nous serons bien. Un nid de baisers fous repose
Dans chaque coin moelleux.

Tu fermeras l’oeil, pour ne point voir, par la glace,
Grimacer les ombres des soirs,
Ces monstruosités hargneuses, populace
De démons noirs et de loups noirs.

Puis tu te sentiras la joue égratignée…
Un petit baiser, comme une folle araignée,
Te courra par le cou…

Et tu me diras : Cherche ! en inclinant la tête,
- Et nous prendrons du temps à trouver cette bête
- Qui voyage beaucoup…





In the winter, we shall travel in a little pink railway carriage
With blue cushions.
We shall be comfortable. A nest of mad kisses lies in wait
In each soft corner.

You will close your eyes, so as not to see, through the glass,
The evening shadows pulling faces.
Those snarling monsters, a population
Of black devils and black wolves.

Then you'll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazy spider,
Will run round your neck...

And you'll say to me : Find it ! bending your head
- And we'll take a long time to find that creature
- Which travels a lot...






Vom merge iarna, intr-un mic roz vagon, cu perne
Albastre. Pentru noi
Un rai va fi. Sarutari nebune vor asterne
Cuiburi in colturi moi.

Tu vei inchide ochii, ca ale serii umbre
Sa nu le vezi rinjind
La geam, aceste rele slutenii, natii sumbre
De draci si lupi, cu jind.

Apoi ceva simti-vei ca-ti zgiriie obrazul…
Un mic sarut zburdalnic, ca un paianjen, treazul,
Iti va fugi pe git…

Hai, cauta !, vei spune, cu capul dat pe spate,
Si-un timp vom vrea sa prindem aceasta vietate
- Ce umbla, umbla-atit…

Sonnet form: (Fr) abab cdcd eef ggf (En) - (Ro) abab cdcd eef ggf

(Rimbaud)

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Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Rimbaud again: Le Dormeur du Val



Le Dormeur du Val (The Sleeper in the Valley): it's a beautiful video, made by a lover of Rimbaud's verses, though I think anything added to the words overloads the poem. These verses are incredible; it's pure poetry, and they should be left as they are, they contain their images and they contain their music.

C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière,
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.




To translate the verses is dangerous. The simplicity of the poem is illusory; the images, and their rhythm, embedded in the words, keep their full sense only in the original. It is about the subtleties of French lexicon, which are unique to French.

I found an English version, and the author left it as an open source, inviting the readers to come with suggestions:

It is a green hollow where a stream twitters
Wildly hanging on the grasses rags
Of silver; where the sun from the proud mountain
Shines: it is a little valley bubbling with sunlight.

A soldier young, open-mouthed, bare-headed,
The nape of his neck bathing in the cool blue watercress,
Sleeps; he is spread out on the grass, under the skies,
Pale on his bed of green where the light rains down.

His feet in the gladiolas, he lies sleeping. Smiling as
A sick child would smile, he is having a nap:
Nature, cradle him warmly: he is cold.

Fragrances do not make his nostril quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
Peacefully. He has two red holes in his right side.


(Rimbaud)

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Sunday, February 21, 2010

Ma Bohème recited by Bachouma

I will soon try to post some verses of Villon: distanced by hundreds of years, Villon and Rimbaud were (each in his own way) totally free spirits: free from the hypocrisy of morale, free from the hypocrisy of language. As for this poem of Rimbaud, I found on youTube a great rendering by Bachouma. Just enjoy!



Je m’en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ;
Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ;
J’allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j’étais ton féal ;
Oh ! là là ! que d’amours splendides j’ai rêvées !
Mon unique culotte avait un large trou.
- Petit-Poucet rêveur, j’égrenais dans ma course
Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande Ourse.
- Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou

Et je les écoutais, assis au bord des routes,
Ces bons soirs de septembre où je sentais des gouttes
De rosée à mon front, comme un vin de vigueur ;

Où, rimant au milieu des ombres fantastiques,
Comme des lyres, je tirais les élastiques
De mes souliers blessés, un pied près de mon coeur !



par Bachouma ; Terre, France, Paris, Bibliothèque Publique d'Information
(video by VizantOr)


The English rendering of Oliver Bernard (1962):

My Bohemian Life

I went off with my hands in my torn coat pockets;
My overcoat too was becoming ideal;
I travelled beneath the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal;
Oh dear me! what marvellous loves I dreamed of!

My only pair of breeches had a big whole in them.
– Stargazing Tom Thumb, I sowed rhymes along my way.
My tavern was at the Sign of the Great Bear.
– My stars in the sky rustled softly.

And I listened to them, sitting on the road-sides
On those pleasant September evenings while I felt drops
Of dew on my forehead like vigorous wine;

And while, rhyming among the fantastical shadows,
I plucked like the strings of a lyre the elastics
Of my tattered boots, one foot close to my heart!

(Rimbaud)

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Friday, February 19, 2010

Le Bateau Ivre

It was with an immense joy that I worked on this post. Le Bateau Ivre, The Drunken Boat, Corabia Beată, with each stanza such a feeling of liberation, of carelessness, floating on the waves du Poème de la Mer, infusé d'astres.



Comme je descendais des Fleuves impassibles,
Je ne me sentis plus guidé par les haleurs :
Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles,
Les ayant cloués nus aux poteaux de couleurs.
As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers
I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets
Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.
Cum lunecam la vale pe-a apelor oglindă
N-am mai simţit odgonul întins de edecari:
Cu chiote, Piei Rosii-i luaseră drept ţintă
Legându-i, goi, pe maluri, de coloraţii pari.


Gérard Philipe récite Le Bateau Ivre
(video by daniellesoeur)

J'étais insoucieux de tous les équipages,
Porteur de blés flamands ou de cotons anglais.
Quand avec mes haleurs ont fini ces tapages,
Les Fleuves m'ont laissé descendre où je voulais.
I cared nothing for all my crews,
Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.
De echipaje nu-mi mai păsa cum – că poartă
Bumbac din Englitera ori grâu din Flandra. – Când,
Cu edecarii-odată, se stinse orice ceartă,
Am fost lăsat de Fluvii oriunde să m-avânt.



Dans les clapotements furieux des marées,
Moi, l'autre hiver, plus sourd que les cerveaux d'enfants,
Je courus ! Et les Péninsules démarrées
N'ont pas subi tohu-bohus plus triomphants.
Into the ferocious tide-rips
Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,
I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas
Never endured more triumphant clamourings
Eu, ce fusesem, iarna, mai surd decât un creier
De ţânc, am dat năvală prin al mareei val!
Şi nici un promontoriu atins de-al meu cutreier
N-a mai văzut vreun iureş atât de triumfal. 



La tempête a béni mes éveils maritimes.
Plus léger qu'un bouchon j'ai dansé sur les flots
Qu'on appelle rouleurs éternels de victimes,
Dix nuits, sans regretter l'oeil niais des falots !
The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
Which men call eternal rollers of victims,
For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!

Furtunile-mi sfinţiră treziile marine.
Mai slobod decât dopul pe ape-am dănţuit
- Şi zice-se ca ele doar leşuri duc, haine -
Vreo zece nopţi, iar farul neghiob nu mi-a lipsit! 



Plus douce qu'aux enfants la chair des pommes sûres,
L'eau verte pénétra ma coque de sapin
Et des taches de vins bleus et des vomissures
Me lava, dispersant gouvernail et grappin.
Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
The green water penetrated my pinewood hull
And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,
Carring away both rudder and anchor.
Curată, verde unda, mai dulce decât pare
Copiilor chiar mărul cel acru, m-a spălat
De vărsături şi pete de vin; zvârlind în mare
Şi ancora si cârma, în voie m-a lăsat. 



Et dès lors, je me suis baigné dans le Poème
De la Mer, infusé d'astres, et lactescent,
Dévorant les azurs verts ; où, flottaison blême
Et ravie, un noyé pensif parfois descend ;
And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

De-atunci mă scald întruna în Marea lactescentă,
Ca-ntr-un Poem de aştri pătruns si devorând
Azurul verde-n care vreun înecat – absentă
Şi palidă stafie – coboară când şi când; 



Où, teignant tout à coup les bleuités, délires
Et rhythmes lents sous les rutilements du jour,
Plus fortes que l'alcool, plus vastes que nos lyres,
Fermentent les rousseurs amères de l'amour !
Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

Şi-n care, dând culoare sălciilor seninuri -
Deliruri si cadenţe ascunse-n străluciri, -
Mai largi decât ni-e lira, mai tari ca orice vinuri,
Fac sa dospească fierea roşieticei iubiri! 



Je sais les cieux crevant en éclairs, et les trombes
Et les ressacs et les courants : je sais le soir,
L'Aube exaltée ainsi qu'un peuple de colombes,
Et j'ai vu quelquefois ce que l'homme a cru voir !
I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!
Ştiu bolţile ce crapă sub fulgerele dese,
Ştiu trombele, şi Seara, şi Zorii plini de-avânt -
Popor de porumbiţe, – şi am vazut, adese,
Tot ce crezuse Omul că vede pe pământ!
 



J'ai vu le soleil bas, taché d'horreurs mystiques,
Illuminant de longs figements violets,
Pareils à des acteurs de drames très antiques
Les flots roulant au loin leurs frissons de volets !
I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
Lighting up long violet coagulations,
Like the performers in very-antique dramas
Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

Văzut-am cum un soare pătat de-un mistic sânge
Iluminează cheaguri prelungi şi viorii, -
Cum draperia mării, foşnind, sub zări îşi strânge
Talazurile – parcă eroi de tragedii!
 



J'ai rêvé la nuit verte aux neiges éblouies,
Baiser montant aux yeux des mers avec lenteurs,
La circulation des sèves inouïes,
Et l'éveil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs !
I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!

Visat-am noaptea verde cu-omături uluite -
Săruturi care urcă în ochii mării, lent, -
Mişcarea unor seve în veci neauzite,
Fosforuri cântătoare arzând incandescent!
 

http://w
ww.dada.it/


J'ai suivi, des mois pleins, pareille aux vacheries
Hystériques, la houle à l'assaut des récifs,
Sans songer que les pieds lumineux des Maries
Pussent forcer le mufle aux Océans poussifs !
I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells
Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!

Urmat-am, luni de-a rândul, a valurilor turmă -
Ca nişte vaci zălude izbind în stânci, avan -
Făr-a visa că talpa Madonelor, din urmă
E-n stare a împinge puhavul Ocean!
 



J'ai heurté, savez-vous, d'incroyables Florides
Mêlant aux fleurs des yeux de panthères à peaux
D'hommes ! Des arcs-en-ciel tendus comme des brides
Sous l'horizon des mers, à de glauques troupeaux !
I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas
Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers
In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles
Under the seas' horizon, to glaucous herds!

Am dat peste Floride fantastice, în care
Erau ochi de pantere şi piei de om şi flori!
Treceam prin curcubeie întinse pe sub mare
Ca nişte haturi pentru verzuiele vâltori!
 



J'ai vu fermenter les marais énormes, nasses
Où pourrit dans les joncs tout un Léviathan !
Des écroulements d'eaux au milieu des bonaces,
Et les lointains vers les gouffres cataractant !
I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps
Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm
And distances cataracting down into abysses!

Văzut-am bolţi dospinde, cu stufărişuri, unde
Cu-ncetul putrezeşte câte-un Leviatan!
De-asemeni, cataracte care se pot ascunde
Sub calmul plat, când fierbe al apelor noian!
 



Glaciers, soleils d'argent, flots nacreux, cieux de braises !
Échouages hideux au fond des golfes bruns
Où les serpents géants dévorés des punaises
Choient, des arbres tordus, avec de noirs parfums !
Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin
Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!

Gheţari, bolti de jăratec, sori de argint si aur
Şi sidefii talazuri, – epave-n vreun golf brun,
Unde, căzând din arbori scălâmbi, câte-un balaur
Mâncat de pureci, lasă un negricios parfum!
 



J'aurais voulu montrer aux enfants ces dorades
Du flot bleu, ces poissons d'or, ces poissons chantants.
- Des écumes de fleurs ont bercé mes dérades
Et d'ineffables vents m'ont ailé par instants.
I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.
- Foam of flowers rocked my driftings
And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings

Aş fi dorit sa vadă copiii-această lume
A apei, – peştii-aceia de aur, cântători.
- Ieşeam în larg pe-un leagăn de înflorite spume,
Mă-nnaripa o boare de taină, uneori.
 



Parfois, martyr lassé des pôles et des zones,
La mer dont le sanglot faisait mon roulis doux
Montait vers moi ses fleurs d'ombre aux ventouses jaunes
Et je restais, ainsi qu'une femme à genoux...
Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me
And I hung there like a kneeling woman...
Martir sătul de Zone si Poli, purtam pe buze
Suspinul mării – balsam pentru-ostenitu-mi trunchi;
Ea îmi zvârlea flori negre cu galbene ventuze -
Şi-ncremeneam precum o femeie, în genunchi…
 

Le Bateau qui Vibre et se Brise
(Le Monde)


Presque île, ballottant sur mes bords les querelles
Et les fientes d'oiseaux clabaudeurs aux yeux blonds.
Et je voguais, lorsqu'à travers mes liens frêles
Des noyés descendaient dormir, à reculons !
Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,
And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage
Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!

Eram aproape-un ostrov podit cu găinaţuri
De paseri cârcotaşe, cu ochi bălai, – plutind
Până simţeam că-n plasa de-odgoane şi de laturi
Coboara înecaţi, d-a-ndoaselea, dormind!
 

Turner, Le Bateau Négrier
http://samia-the-one.skyrock.com/


Or moi, bateau perdu sous les cheveux des anses,
Jeté par l'ouragan dans l'éther sans oiseau,
Moi dont les Monitors et les voiliers des Hanses
N'auraient pas repêché la carcasse ivre d'eau ;
But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,
I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;

Velier pierdut sub părul atâtor mări pletoase,
Zvârlit de uragane-n eterul pustiit, -
Eu, căruia nici Hansa cu navele-i făloase
Nu mi-ar fi scos din apă scheletul cherchelit;
 



Libre, fumant, monté de brumes violettes,
Moi qui trouais le ciel rougeoyant comme un mur
Qui porte, confiture exquise aux bons poètes,
Des lichens de soleil et des morves d'azur ;
Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky
Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,
Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,

Eu, sloboda odraslă a fumului şi-a ceţii,
Ce sfredeleam chiar cerul, roşcat precum un zid
Ce poartă – hrană dulce, visată de poeţii
Blajini – licheni de soare şi muci de-azur limpid;
 



Qui courais, taché de lunules électriques,
Planche folle, escorté des hippocampes noirs,
Quand les juillets faisaient crouler à coups de triques
Les cieux ultramarins aux ardents entonnoirs ;
Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,
A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,
When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;

Eu, scândura năucă, smălţată cu planete
Electrice, şi trasă de hipocampi, pe când
Se prăvăleau, izbite de Iulie cu sete,
Ultramarine ceruri cu pâlniile-arzând;
 


Moi qui tremblais, sentant geindre à cinquante lieues
Le rut des Béhémots et les Maelstroms épais,
Fileur éternel des immobilités bleues,
Je regrette l'Europe aux anciens parapets !
I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues' distance
The groans of Behemoth's rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms
Eternal spinner of blue immobilities
I long for Europe with it's aged old parapets!

Eu, ce simţeam la cincizeci de leghe depărtare
Maelstroamele şi chiţii gemând în rut, perechi -
Eu, torcătorul veşnic de-albastră nemişcare,
Duc dorul Europei cu parapete vechi!
 



J'ai vu des archipels sidéraux ! et des îles
Dont les cieux délirants sont ouverts au vogueur :
- Est-ce en ces nuits sans fonds que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or, ô future Vigueur ?
I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands
Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:
- Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? -

Văzut-am siderale arhipelaguri, plauri
Al căror cer bezmetic spre nave sta deschis:
- O, Vlaga viitoare, milion de păsări de-aur.
Ţi-s noptile acestea, loc de surghiun si vis?
 


Mais, vrai, j'ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes.
Toute lune est atroce et tout soleil amer :
L'âcre amour m'a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes.
Ô que ma quille éclate ! Ô que j'aille à la mer !
But, truly, I have wept too much!
The Dawns are heartbreaking.
Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

Dar prea am plâns! Ajunge! Sfâşietori sunt zorii.
Cumplită-i orice lună, iar soarele-i amar:
M-a toropit iubirea, căci lâncezi i-s fiorii.
O, sparge-mi-s-ar trunchiul! în mare sa dispar!
 



Si je désire une eau d'Europe, c'est la flache
Noire et froide où vers le crépuscule embaumé
Un enfant accroupi plein de tristesse, lâche
Un bateau frêle comme un papillon de mai.
If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
A child squatting full of sadness, launches
A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.
De mai doresc vreo apă din Europa, iată
E balta neagră, rece, pe care-n asfinţit
Un trist copil împinge, stând în genunchi, o biată
Bărcuţă, ca un flutur de Mai, abia iţit.
 



Je ne puis plus, baigné de vos langueurs, ô lames,
Enlever leur sillage aux porteurs de cotons,
Ni traverser l'orgueil des drapeaux et des flammes,
Ni nager sous les yeux horribles des pontons.
I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,
Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,
Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.
O, nu mai pot să lunec prin vraja voastră, valuri
Menite cărăbuşii bumbacului să fiţi!
Nici să înfrunt trufia drapelelor, pe maluri,
Nici să plutesc sub ochii pontoanelor, cumpliţi!

(Tălmăcirea românească preluată din blogul lui tandresse4)

(Rimbaud)

(Gérard Philipe)

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Rimbaud



(Le Parnasse des Lettres)

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